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.

sashes on the

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

But no people.

with no

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

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

slurs and the political comment of the unthinking and the unknowing, sits by

the building is still

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

passes through then

and crumbling, covers a yard strewn 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

vehicles, are barred on the inside. The only clean thing to be seen is a car, a top-end model, new and freshly waxed but with the tyres splashed green

on the outside. There is only one door, solidly constructed in steel although rusted in places. There is

This isn’t what she

What did she expect?

whines, the door swings slightly ajar. A black slot beckons

drumming, tentatively, she reaches, pulls the door

peeling notice on the back of the door: Emergency Exit: Lift Bar. Stone steps lead up and forward to some brighter light, perhaps a hallway. What might be sunshine spills from the front of the

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

… upwards…

of mildew and abandonment, rats and

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

of the stairs.

The sound of metal on

fuck up or you'll know

the metallic

Boots stamping away

… and silence.

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 in hand, stepping carefully on timbers which creak and give, she continues

glass whited over and 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

the corridor, doors; steel, set in heavy metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts at top and bottom partner a drop-bar

the end of the corridor comes the sound of laughter and cursing; crude language; the kind that cheapens speaker and listener. But it comes no closer. Mitch tries to suck a little saliva into her

her mouth to suppress the shriek. Eyes darting, she follows the movement, but the rat isn’t interested in her. It goes about its business, vanishing into a crevice in worm-infested floorboards while

revulsion 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

faces. Some pretty. Some not so much so. But all frame eyes wide

narrow room. To the far end, a window, painted out and barred. Lined along either side are metal-framed beds. Even from

the ankle. Some lie on the thin mattresses,

one of the girls opens her mouth

It’s alright. I’m a

many: some barely women, some barely children. All so

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

Don’t let them

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

draw-hole. “I’m coming. I’ll

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 juddering from her

Nothing…

a

The door opens.