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.

where clean white paint frames polished glass. The sashes on the inside are new,

waiting area perhaps,

But no people.

back to the door and knocks again. Still with no reply,

This time, she can't see in. A blind conceals

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

Crudely sprayed graffiti; sexually unlikely suggestions, racial slurs and the political comment of the unthinking and the unknowing, sits by crude images; coarse, badly drawn. At the

building is still

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, screeching protest, the gate

through

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

only clean thing to be seen is a car, a top-end model, new and freshly waxed but with

are barred on the outside. There is only one door, solidly constructed in steel although rusted in places. There is no handle, just a

This isn’t

What did she expect?

her hair. With the smallest of whines, the door swings slightly ajar. A black slot beckons

heart drumming, tentatively, she reaches, pulls the door

Stone steps lead up and forward to some brighter light, perhaps a hallway. What might be sunshine spills from the front of

and left, more steps, narrow and winding, leading both up and down; a landing on

… upwards…

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

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

stairs.

The sound of

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

the metallic clang

Boots stamping

… and silence.

her skin, Mitch takes a step up, then another. Her heels click on peeling linoleum and she pauses to slip them off. Then,

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

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

crude language; the kind that cheapens speaker and listener. But it comes

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 the

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

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

window, painted out and barred. Lined along either

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

the girls opens

It’s alright.

barely women, some

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

Don’t let them

others, waving down with her palms

hisses through the draw-hole. “I’m coming. I’ll help.

bolt too. But she struggles with the bar which grates a protest as she first lifts, then yanks it from tight sockets. She

Nothing…

but a taut

The door opens.