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.

clean white paint frames polished glass. The sashes on the inside

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

But no people.

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

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

a corner and to the rear, away from the eyes of the world. Crossing tidily mown grass she comes to a concreted area ending in a tall

brickwork here is unwashed. Crudely sprayed graffiti; sexually unlikely suggestions, racial slurs 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

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

glass. An old mattress lies soaked and stinking, surrounded by foil and hypos. In one corner, a drain blocked by rotted newspaper and plastic bags centres a

high as the wall 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

on the outside. There is only one door, solidly constructed in steel although rusted in places. There is no handle, just

This isn’t what she

What did she expect?

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

heart drumming, tentatively, she reaches,

a 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

winding, leading

… upwards…

mildew and abandonment, rats and hopelessness. Ragged holes gape through the plaster,

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

stygian well of the stairs. A voice screams, pleads

clang. The sound

loud, violent. “Shut the fuck up or you'll

the metallic

stamping

… and silence.

sharp 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 click on peeling linoleum and she pauses to slip them off. Then, shoes in hand, stepping

cast over the paint. A single bulb dangles on a cord, casting a sparse light. Ancient radiators set against one wall give no heat. Stale cigarette smoke competes

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

at the end of the corridor comes 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

movement, but the rat isn’t interested in her. It goes about its business, vanishing into

against revulsion as ancient carpet sucks 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

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

end, a window, painted out and barred. Lined along either side are metal-framed beds. Even

on the thin mattresses, others sit on the bed, a

of the girls opens her mouth

It’s alright.

women, some barely children. All

and drawn. Eyes red with tears and hopelessness. Some bear bruises to limbs or face. Many stand, reaching

let them

something to the others, waving down with her

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

The bottom bolt too. But she struggles

Nothing…

a

The door opens.