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.

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

hands around her face she peers inside; a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with

But no people.

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

moves to the window on the other side. This time, she can't see in. A blind

eyes of the world. Crossing tidily mown grass she comes to a concreted area ending in a tall brick wall. And

and the political comment of the unthinking and the unknowing, sits by crude images;

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

through

covers a 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 drain blocked by rotted

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

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

This isn’t

What did she expect?

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

tentatively, she reaches, pulls

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 sunshine spills from the front of

winding, leading both up and down; a landing on some spiralling

… upwards…

abandonment, rats and hopelessness. Ragged holes gape through

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

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

sound of metal on

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

metallic

Boots stamping away

… and silence.

rubs slick palms. Her breathing 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,

whited over and with the silhouette of bars cast over the paint. A single bulb dangles on a cord, casting a sparse light. Ancient radiators set against one wall give no

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

the end of the corridor comes the sound of laughter and cursing; crude language; the kind that cheapens speaker and listener.

pushing a fist to her mouth to suppress the shriek. Eyes darting, she follows the movement, but the rat isn’t interested in her. It goes about its business, vanishing into a crevice in worm-infested floorboards while Mitch, panting, stares at

she freezes, but the noise is no closer than it was. Slowly, carefully, she slides the peephole. Well-greased, it opens with barely

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

Lined along either side

the ankle. Some lie on the thin

into the gloom, one of the girls

Shhh... It’s alright.

many: some barely women, some barely children.

to limbs or face. Many stand, reaching out hands; imploring, weeping, a rising babble of words that

let

the fore turns, yammering something to the others, waving down

I’ll

The bottom bolt too. But she struggles with the bar which grates a protest as she first lifts, then yanks it

Nothing…

a taut

The door opens.