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.

polished glass. The sashes on the inside are new, replacements probably for

waiting area perhaps,

But no people.

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

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

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

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

the building is

and rotted. 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,

through

butts, used condoms and broken glass. An old mattress

to take vehicles, are barred on the inside. The only clean thing to be seen is a car,

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

This isn’t

What did she expect?

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

heart drumming, tentatively, she reaches, pulls the

up and forward to some brighter light, perhaps a

narrow and winding, leading both up and down; a

… upwards…

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

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

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

sound of

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

the metallic

Boots stamping away

… and silence.

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

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 heat. Stale cigarette

steel, set in heavy metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts

cursing; crude language; the kind that cheapens

but the rat isn’t interested in her.

to the nearest, biting down 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

pretty. Some not so much

the far end, a window, painted out and barred. Lined along either side are metal-framed beds.

Some lie on the thin mattresses, others sit on the bed,

the girls opens her mouth as

It’s alright. I’m a

barely women, some barely

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

let

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

coming. I’ll help. But you have

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

Nothing…

but a

The door opens.