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.

white paint frames polished glass. The sashes on the inside are new, replacements probably for older cords. The latch and

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

But no people.

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

to the window on the other side. This time,

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

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

building is still

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, screeching protest,

passes through then

broken glass. An old mattress lies soaked and stinking, surrounded by foil and hypos. In one

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

building itself are black at the base, glistening green above, and dark-glazed windows are barred on the outside. There is

hovers. This isn’t what

What did she expect?

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

tentatively, she reaches, pulls

the door: Emergency Exit: Lift Bar. Stone steps lead up and forward to some brighter light, perhaps a hallway. What might be sunshine

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

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

down the stygian well of the stairs. A

sound of metal on

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

the metallic

Boots stamping away

… and silence.

skin, Mitch takes a step up, then another. Her heels click on peeling linoleum and

and left. To one end, darkness, perhaps another 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 a cord, casting a sparse light.

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

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 mouth, swallowing against

mouth to suppress the shriek. Eyes darting, she follows the movement, but the rat isn’t interested in her. It goes about its business,

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,

Female faces. Some pretty. Some not so much

along either side are metal-framed beds. Even from

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

peers into the gloom, one of the girls opens her mouth as though

It’s alright.

women, some barely

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

let them

the others, waving down with her palms and the others

“I’m coming. I’ll help.

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

Nothing…

a taut

The door opens.