Masters & Lovers Box Set Three

Mitch - Twenty-Six Years Ago

Has she been hasty?

Over-reacted?

Mitch wanders the lovely apartment. Light and airy. Just what she would have chosen for herself once she’d earned the money.

He's taken notice of her tastes.

In the one bedroom, the double, clean white linen. In the other, the same but on the twin beds.

He volunteered to sleep alone…

He gave her choices…

She makes herself tea, sits on the window seat looking out over the marina…

That wonderful Christmas…

That beautiful ship…

Another harbour…

His love-making…

She sets down the teacup, placing it carefully on the saucer. A finger stroking the line of her jaw, she watches as a rowing eight makes its way between pleasure-boats, the hull slicing through the water with surprising speed. Sailing yachts and motor cruisers line this side of the harbour wall, some with proud owners waxing decks or touching up paintwork.

To the far side, fishing boats bob in their moorings beside stacks of nets, coiled ropes, hydrants and hoses.

Tall masts reach for the sky, mirrored down into shimmering water, their pennants and flags rippling. Gulls screech and as one of the small day-ferries pulls between the harbour walls, its horn blasts.

She's been foolish…

… Panicked.

This man isn’t her brother. He isn’t Stephen. He doesn’t want to cage her. He wants to set her free.

He loves her?

Really?

Really.

Can she catch him before he leaves? Talk with him?

Maybe…

Spinning, Mitch snatches up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder, and heads out.

*****

The frontage is bright with new paint and freshly cleaned brick and stonework. A small lawn area is neatly clipped, scented of fresh hay. A tall billboard stands by the entrance, painted in cheerful colours; cartoon cows and sheep frolicking in a bright green meadow under a daffodil sun. “Blessingmoors…”

Mitch stands on the doorstep, raps the well-polished brass knocker, smart against its dark green background. There is no reply. After a few moments, she knocks again.

Still no answer.

nearby window where clean white paint frames polished glass. The sashes on the inside are new, replacements probably for older cords. The latch and sneck

her face she peers inside; a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low settees, a coffee table and a stack of

But no people.

the door and knocks again. Still with no reply, she tries the handle, but

This time, she can't see in. A blind conceals

away from the eyes of the world. Crossing tidily mown grass she

Crudely sprayed graffiti; sexually unlikely suggestions, racial slurs and the political comment of the unthinking and the unknowing, sits by crude images; coarse, badly drawn. At the top, sunlight glints from jagged edges that poke from moss and ancient

building is still being

heavily built but old and rotted. When she tries the latch, something resists from the other side. But as she tries again, pushing harder, screws suck out from sockets in ancient timbers and,

passes through then

old mattress

clean thing to be seen is a car, a top-end model, new and freshly waxed but with the tyres splashed green by the filthy

base, glistening green above, and dark-glazed windows are barred on the outside. There is only one door, solidly constructed in steel although rusted in

Mitch hovers. This isn’t what she

What did she expect?

With the smallest of whines, the door swings slightly ajar. A

drumming, tentatively, she reaches, pulls the door

back of the door: Emergency Exit: Lift Bar. Stone steps lead up and forward to some brighter light,

right and left, more steps, narrow and winding, leading both up and down; a

… upwards…

abandonment, rats and hopelessness. Ragged holes gape through

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

the stairs. A

clang. The sound of metal on

violent. “Shut the fuck up or you'll know

the metallic clang

Boots stamping away

… and silence.

the cold reek of sweat on her skin, Mitch takes a step up, then another. Her heels click on peeling linoleum and she pauses to slip them off. Then, shoes

with the silhouette of bars cast over the paint. A single bulb dangles on a cord, casting a sparse light. Ancient radiators set against one wall give no heat. Stale cigarette smoke competes

length of the corridor, doors; steel, set in heavy metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts at top and bottom partner

the corridor comes the sound of laughter and cursing; crude language; the kind that cheapens speaker and listener. But it comes no

movement, but the rat isn’t interested in her. It goes about

passage and she freezes, but the noise is no closer than it was. Slowly, carefully, she slides the peephole. Well-greased, it opens with barely a sound, but nonetheless, faces

Some pretty. Some not so much so. But all

painted out and barred. Lined along either side are metal-framed beds. Even from here, Mitch can

with each bed, an occupant, shackled at the ankle. Some lie on the thin mattresses, others sit on the bed, a scanty blanket tugged

Mitch peers into the gloom, one of the girls opens her mouth

It’s alright. I’m a

some

hopelessness. Some bear bruises to limbs or face. Many stand, reaching out

Don’t let them

something to the others, waving down

coming. I’ll

matter. A black hush now from beyond the door, Mitch eases the top bolt which slides smoothly and silently open. The bottom bolt too. But she struggles with the bar which grates a protest as she first lifts,

Nothing…

a taut

The door opens.