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.

The sashes on the inside are new, replacements probably for older cords. The

around her face 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 handle, but the door

the window on the other side. This time, she

from the eyes of the world. Crossing tidily mown grass

the unknowing, sits by

the building is still being

but old and rotted. When she tries the latch, something resists from the other side. But as she tries again, pushing

through then

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

thing to be seen is a car, a top-end model, new

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

Mitch hovers. This isn’t

What did she expect?

whines, the door swings slightly ajar. A black slot

tentatively, she

a grey dimness; 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

steps, narrow and winding, leading both up and down;

… upwards…

dark, dank. It smells of mildew and abandonment, rats and hopelessness. Ragged holes gape through the plaster, bleeding wires

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

the stairs. A voice screams, pleads

sound of metal

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

the metallic clang

stamping

… and silence.

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

top, a corridor stretching right 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. Ancient radiators set against one wall give no

frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts at top

sound of laughter and cursing; crude language; the kind that cheapens speaker and listener. But it comes no closer. Mitch tries to suck

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

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

so much so. But all frame eyes wide with

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

shackled at the ankle. Some lie on the

into the gloom, one of the girls opens

alright.

some barely children. All so

Eyes red with tears and hopelessness. Some bear bruises to limbs or face. Many stand, reaching out hands; imploring,

Don’t let them

the others, waving down with her palms and

“I’m coming. I’ll help.

and silently open. The bottom bolt too. But she struggles with the bar which grates a protest as

Nothing…

but a

The door opens.