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.

window where clean white paint frames polished glass. The sashes on the inside are new, replacements probably

area perhaps, with low settees, a coffee table and a stack of magazines and

But no people.

again. Still with

the other side. This time, she can't

from the eyes of the world. Crossing

and the political comment of the unthinking and the unknowing, sits by crude images; coarse, badly drawn. At the top, sunlight glints from jagged edges that poke from moss and ancient

the building is

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, screeching protest,

passes through then

strewn 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 by rotted

inside. The only clean thing to be seen

the outside. There is only one

This isn’t what

What did she expect?

the smallest of whines, the door swings slightly ajar. A

heart drumming, 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

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

… upwards…

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

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

stygian well of the stairs. A voice screams, pleads and ends in

The sound of

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

the metallic clang

Boots stamping

… and silence.

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

To one end, darkness, 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

of the corridor, doors; steel, set in heavy metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts at top and bottom partner

cheapens speaker and listener. But it comes no closer. Mitch tries to suck

the shriek. Eyes darting, she follows the movement, but the rat isn’t interested

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

so much so. But

Lined along either side are

bed, an occupant, shackled at the ankle. Some lie on the thin mattresses,

gloom, one of the girls opens her mouth as though

Shhh... It’s alright. I’m

some barely women, some barely

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

let them

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

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

smoothly and silently open. The bottom bolt too. But she

Nothing…

but a

The door opens.