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 for older cords. The latch and

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

But no people.

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

on the other side. This time, she

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

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

is still being

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

passes through then

yard 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

gates, as 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

the building itself are 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,

Mitch hovers. This

What did she expect?

of whines,

drumming, tentatively, she reaches,

Lift Bar. Stone steps lead up and forward to some brighter

more steps, narrow and winding, leading

… upwards…

dark, dank. It smells of mildew and abandonment, rats and hopelessness. Ragged holes

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

the stairs. A voice screams, pleads and ends

sound of metal on

up or you'll

the metallic

Boots stamping away to…

… and silence.

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 carefully on timbers which creak and give, she continues

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

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

crude language; the kind that cheapens speaker and listener. But it comes no closer. Mitch tries

follows the movement, but the

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

so much so. But all frame eyes

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

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

Mitch peers into the gloom, one of the

Shhh... It’s alright. I’m a

women, some barely children. All

limbs or face. Many

let them

others,

I’ll help. But

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…

but a

The door opens.