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

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

But no people.

with no reply, she tries

window on the other side. This

world. Crossing tidily mown grass she comes to a concreted

suggestions, racial slurs and the political comment of the unthinking and the unknowing, sits

the building is still being

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 then

old mattress lies soaked

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 tyres splashed green by the

and dark-glazed windows are barred on the outside. There is only one door, solidly constructed in steel although rusted in

Mitch hovers. This isn’t

What did she expect?

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

tentatively, she

grey 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

inside; to right and left, more steps, narrow and winding, leading both up and

… upwards…

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

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

the stairs. A voice screams, pleads and

The sound of

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

metallic

Boots stamping away to…

… and silence.

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

silhouette of bars cast over the paint. A single bulb dangles on a cord, casting a sparse

of the corridor, doors; steel, set in heavy metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy

language; the kind that cheapens speaker and

the rat isn’t interested in her. It goes about its business, vanishing into a crevice in worm-infested floorboards while Mitch,

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

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

the far end, a window, painted out and barred. Lined along either side are

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

into the gloom, one of the

Shhh... It’s alright. I’m a

barely women, some barely

hopelessness. Some bear bruises to limbs or face. Many stand, reaching out hands; imploring, weeping, a rising babble of words that Mitch doesn’t

Don’t let them

something to the others, waving down with her

coming. I’ll help.

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 taut

The door opens.