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.

where clean white paint frames polished glass. The sashes on the inside

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

But no people.

with no reply,

window on 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.

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

building is

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, screeching protest, the gate

passes through

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

wall and wide enough to take 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

and dark-glazed windows are barred on the outside. There

Mitch hovers. This

What did she expect?

smallest of whines, the door swings slightly ajar.

drumming, tentatively, she reaches, pulls the door

Emergency Exit: Lift Bar. Stone steps lead up and forward

narrow and winding, leading both up and down; a landing on

… upwards…

and hopelessness. Ragged holes

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

the stygian well of the stairs. A voice screams, pleads

clang. The sound of metal

violent. “Shut the fuck up or

the metallic clang

stamping away

… and silence.

Mitch takes a step up, then another. Her heels click on peeling linoleum and she pauses to slip them

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 heat. Stale cigarette smoke

metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts

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

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 about its business,

her soles. Laughter rebounds once more down the passage and she freezes, but the noise is no closer than it

Female faces. Some pretty. Some not so much so.

barred. Lined along either side are metal-framed beds. Even from here,

shackled at the ankle. Some lie on the thin mattresses, others sit on the bed, a

one of the girls opens her mouth as though to

It’s alright. I’m

barely women, some barely

Eyes red with tears and hopelessness. Some bear bruises to limbs or face. Many stand, reaching out hands; imploring, weeping, a

let them

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

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, then yanks it

Nothing…

but a

The door opens.