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.

frames polished glass. The sashes on the inside are new, replacements probably for older cords. The latch and

she peers inside; a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low

But no people.

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

other side. This time,

keeps moving, following the wall around a corner and to the rear, away from the eyes of the world. Crossing tidily mown grass she comes to a

brickwork here is unwashed. Crudely sprayed graffiti; sexually unlikely suggestions, racial slurs and the political comment of the unthinking and the unknowing, sits by

the building is

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

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, a drain blocked

The only clean thing to

barred on the outside. There is only one door, solidly

Mitch hovers. This isn’t

What did she expect?

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

heart drumming, tentatively, she reaches,

dimness; a 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

forward, inside; to right and left, more steps, narrow and winding, leading both up and down; a landing on

… upwards…

mildew and abandonment, rats and

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

the stairs. A voice screams, pleads and ends in

clang. The sound of metal on

violent. “Shut the fuck up or

the metallic

Boots stamping away

… and silence.

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

with the silhouette of bars cast over the paint.

steel, set in heavy metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts

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

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 about its business,

down the passage and she freezes, but the noise is no closer than it was. Slowly, carefully, she

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

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

shackled at the ankle. Some lie on the thin mattresses,

the girls opens her mouth as though to

Shhh... It’s alright.

some barely children. All

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

Don’t let

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

“I’m coming. I’ll help. But you

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 from tight sockets. She stiffens at the slight noise, air juddering

Nothing…

a taut

The door opens.