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.

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

lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low settees, a coffee table and a

But no people.

back to the door and knocks again. Still with no

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

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

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

is

latch, something resists from the other side.

passes through

cartons and drinks bottles compete with cigarette butts, used condoms and broken glass. An old mattress lies soaked and stinking, surrounded

inside. The only clean thing to

the outside. There is only one door, solidly constructed in steel although rusted in places.

Mitch hovers. This isn’t what she

What did she expect?

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

drumming, tentatively, she reaches, pulls the door

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

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

… upwards…

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

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

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

clang. The sound of metal

“Shut the fuck up or you'll know about

the metallic

Boots stamping away

… and silence.

and with the cold reek of sweat on her skin, Mitch takes a step up, then another. Her

stairway. To the other, a window; small, the glass whited over and with the silhouette of bars cast over

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

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 mouth, swallowing

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

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 the slight scrape of

not so much so. But all frame eyes wide

long narrow room. To the far end, a window, painted out and barred. Lined along either side are metal-framed beds. Even from here,

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

peers into the gloom, one of the

alright. I’m

women, some barely children. All

pale and drawn. Eyes red with tears and hopelessness. Some bear bruises to limbs or face. Many stand, reaching out hands; imploring, weeping, a rising babble of words that Mitch doesn’t

let

the others, waving down with her palms and the

coming. I’ll help. But

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 she first lifts, then yanks it from tight sockets. She stiffens at the slight noise, air juddering from her lungs

Nothing…

a

The door opens.