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.

paint frames polished glass. The sashes on the inside are new, replacements probably for older

inside; a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low settees, a coffee table and a stack

But no people.

with no reply, she tries the handle, but the door doesn't

the other side. This time, she can't see

following the wall around a corner and to the rear, away from the eyes of the world. Crossing tidily mown grass she comes to a concreted area ending

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

is still

tries the latch, something resists from the other side. But as she tries again, pushing harder, screws suck out from sockets in ancient

through then

with litter: Fast-food cartons and drinks bottles compete with cigarette butts, used condoms and broken glass. An old mattress lies soaked and stinking, surrounded by

wide enough to take vehicles, are barred on the inside. The only clean thing to be seen is a car, a

dark-glazed windows are barred on the outside. There is only one door, solidly constructed in steel although rusted in places. There is no

This isn’t

What did she expect?

the smallest of whines, the door swings slightly

she reaches, pulls the door

up and forward to some brighter

to right and left, more steps, narrow and winding, leading both

… upwards…

dank. It smells of mildew and abandonment, rats and

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

stygian well of the stairs. A voice screams, pleads and ends in

clang. The sound of metal

voice; loud, violent. “Shut the fuck up or you'll know about it.” Another

the metallic clang

stamping away to…

… and silence.

skin, Mitch takes a step up, then another. Her heels click on peeling linoleum and she pauses to slip them off. Then, shoes in hand, stepping carefully on timbers

To one end, darkness, perhaps another stairway. To the other, a window; small, the glass whited over and with the silhouette of bars cast over the paint. A single bulb dangles on a cord, casting

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

laughter and cursing; crude language; the kind that cheapens speaker and listener. But

startles, pushing a fist to her mouth to suppress the shriek. Eyes darting, she follows the movement, but the rat isn’t interested

as ancient carpet sucks at her soles. Laughter rebounds once more down the 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,

Some not so much so. But all frame eyes

a window, painted out and barred. Lined along either side are metal-framed beds. Even from

with each bed, an occupant, shackled at the ankle. Some lie on the thin mattresses, others

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

Shhh... It’s alright. I’m

women, some

bear bruises to limbs or face. Many stand, reaching

let

others, waving down with

“I’m coming. I’ll help.

But she struggles with the bar which grates a protest

Nothing…

but a

The door opens.