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.

a 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 are again of

waiting area perhaps, with low settees, a coffee

But no people.

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

the window on the other side. This time, she can't see in. A blind conceals the

and to the rear, away from the eyes of the world. Crossing tidily mown grass she comes to a concreted area ending in a tall brick wall. And she

suggestions, racial slurs and the political comment of the unthinking and the unknowing, sits by crude images; coarse, badly drawn. At

building is

the other side. But as she tries

passes 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 foil and hypos. In one corner, a drain blocked by rotted newspaper and plastic bags centres a

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

the building itself are black at the 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 places. There is no handle, just

This isn’t

What did she expect?

With the smallest of whines, the

tentatively, she reaches, pulls

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

forward, inside; to right and left, more steps, narrow and winding, leading both up and down; a landing on some spiralling stairwell

… upwards…

mildew and abandonment, rats and hopelessness. Ragged holes gape through the plaster, bleeding wires that

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

echoes down the stygian well of the stairs. A voice

clang. The sound of

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

the metallic clang

stamping

… and silence.

then another. Her heels click on peeling linoleum and she pauses to slip them off. Then, shoes in hand, stepping carefully on

left. 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

metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts

cursing; crude language; the kind that cheapens speaker and listener. But it comes no closer. Mitch tries to suck

fist to her mouth to suppress the shriek. Eyes darting, she follows the movement, but the

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, but

Some not so much so. But all frame

a window, painted out and barred. Lined along either side are

the ankle. Some lie on the thin mattresses, others

one of the girls opens her

Shhh... It’s alright.

women, some barely children. All

bruises to limbs or face. Many stand, reaching out hands; imploring, weeping, a rising babble of words

Don’t let

the fore turns, yammering something to the others, waving down with her palms and the

the draw-hole. “I’m coming. I’ll help.

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, then yanks it from tight sockets. She stiffens at the slight noise, air

Nothing…

but a

The door opens.