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 inside

inside; a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with

But no people.

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

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

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

and the unknowing, sits by crude images; coarse, badly drawn. At

the building is

a gate, heavily built 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,

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,

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

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 a lock; large, heavy-duty, intended to

Mitch hovers. This

What did she expect?

With the smallest of whines, the

heart drumming, tentatively, she reaches, pulls

Emergency Exit: Lift Bar. Stone steps lead up and forward to some brighter light, perhaps a hallway. What might

inside; to right and left, more steps, narrow and winding,

… upwards…

rats and hopelessness. Ragged holes

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

echoes down the stygian well of the stairs.

sound of metal on

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

the metallic

stamping away to…

… and silence.

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

another stairway. To the other, a window; small, the glass whited over and with the silhouette of bars cast over the paint. A single

length of the corridor, doors; steel, set in heavy metal frames and

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

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 Mitch, panting, stares

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 a sound, but nonetheless, faces swing her way at the slight scrape of

pretty. Some not so much

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

each bed, an occupant, shackled at the ankle. Some lie on the thin mattresses, others sit on the bed, a scanty

into the gloom, one of the girls opens her mouth as though to

alright. I’m

some barely women, some barely children. All so

and hopelessness. Some bear bruises to limbs or face. Many stand,

Don’t let

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

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

understand her words? It doesn’t 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.