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.

a nearby window where clean white paint frames polished glass. The sashes on the inside are

inside; a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low

But no people.

again. Still with no reply, she tries the handle, but

on the other side. This time,

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 concreted area ending in

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

the building is still being

resists from the other side. But as

through then

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 newspaper and plastic bags centres a fetid

barred on the inside. The only clean thing to be seen is a car, a top-end model, new and freshly

green above, and dark-glazed windows are barred on the outside. There

Mitch hovers. This isn’t

What did she expect?

whines, the door swings

she reaches, pulls the door

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

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

… upwards…

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

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

the stygian well of the stairs. A voice screams,

clang. The sound

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

the metallic

stamping

… and silence.

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 carefully on timbers which creak

bars cast over the paint. A single bulb

set in heavy metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts at top and bottom partner

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 mouth, swallowing against

she startles, pushing a fist to her mouth to suppress the shriek. Eyes darting, she follows the movement, but the rat isn’t

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

so much so. But all frame eyes

room. To 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 are bolted to the

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

Mitch peers into the gloom, one of the

It’s alright.

many: some barely women, some barely children. All

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

let

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

coming. I’ll help. But

words? It doesn’t 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

Nothing…

a

The door opens.