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.

polished glass. The sashes on the inside are

area perhaps, with low settees, a

But no people.

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

the window on the other side. This time, she

of the world. Crossing tidily mown grass she comes to a concreted area ending in a tall

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

is still being

is a gate, heavily built but old and rotted. When she tries the latch, something resists from the other side. But as she

passes through then

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

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

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

hovers. This isn’t what she

What did she expect?

breeze ruffles her hair. With the smallest of whines, the door swings slightly ajar. A black

she reaches,

Bar. Stone steps lead up and forward to some brighter light, perhaps a hallway. What might be sunshine spills from the front of

more steps, narrow and winding, leading both up

… upwards…

rats and hopelessness. Ragged holes gape through

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

of the stairs. A voice screams, pleads and

The sound of

fuck up or

the metallic clang

Boots stamping away

… and silence.

palms. Her breathing sharp and shallow, spine and armpits drenched and with 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 in hand, stepping carefully on timbers which creak and

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 a sparse light. Ancient radiators set against one wall give no

doors; steel, set in heavy metal frames and with sliding

of the corridor comes the sound of laughter and cursing; crude language; the kind that cheapens speaker and listener.

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

the passage and she freezes, but the noise is no closer

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

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

each bed, an occupant, shackled at the ankle. Some lie on the

one of the girls opens her mouth as

alright.

women, some

Eyes red with tears and hopelessness. Some bear bruises to limbs or face. Many

Don’t let

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

the draw-hole. “I’m coming. I’ll help. But you have to

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

Nothing…

but a

The door opens.