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.

passes to a nearby window where clean white paint frames polished glass. The sashes on the inside are new, replacements probably for older cords.

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

But no people.

door and knocks again. Still with no reply, she tries the handle, but the door doesn't

the window on the other side. This time, she can't

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

Crudely sprayed graffiti; sexually unlikely suggestions, racial slurs and the political comment of the unthinking and the unknowing, sits by crude

is

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

through then

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

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

at the base, glistening green above, and dark-glazed windows are barred on the outside. There is only one door, solidly

Mitch hovers. This

What did she expect?

her hair. With the smallest of whines, the door swings

heart drumming, tentatively, she reaches,

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

steps, narrow and winding,

… upwards…

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

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

of the stairs. A voice screams,

The sound of

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

the metallic clang

Boots stamping away to…

… and silence.

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

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 a sparse light. Ancient radiators set against one wall

heavy metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts at top and

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 mouth, swallowing against

skitters by her, and she startles, pushing a fist to her mouth to suppress the shriek. Eyes darting, she follows the movement, but the

but the noise is no closer than it was. Slowly,

Some pretty. Some not so much so.

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

occupant, shackled at the ankle. Some lie on the thin mattresses, others sit on the bed, a scanty blanket tugged around

the girls opens her mouth as though to

It’s alright.

barely women, some barely children.

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

let them

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

coming. I’ll help. But you have to

bolt too. But she struggles with the bar which grates a protest as she first lifts,

Nothing…

but a

The door opens.