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.

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

a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low settees, a coffee table and a stack of magazines and children's

But no people.

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

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

the world. Crossing tidily mown grass she

brickwork here is unwashed. 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 top, sunlight glints from jagged edges that poke from

the building is

a gate, heavily built but old and rotted. When she tries the latch, something resists from the other side. But as she

passes through then

cigarette butts, used condoms and broken glass. An old mattress lies soaked and stinking, surrounded by foil and

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 but with the

above, and dark-glazed windows are barred on the outside. There is only one door, solidly constructed in steel although rusted in places. There is no handle, just a lock; large,

Mitch hovers. This isn’t

What did she expect?

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

heart drumming, tentatively, she reaches, pulls the

lead up and forward to some brighter light, perhaps

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

… upwards…

and hopelessness. Ragged holes gape through the plaster, bleeding wires that

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

the stairs. A voice screams, pleads

sound of

fuck up or

the metallic clang

Boots stamping away

… and silence.

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

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,

frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts at top

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

mouth to suppress the shriek. Eyes darting, she follows the movement, but the rat isn’t interested in

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

so much so. But all frame

Lined along either side are metal-framed beds. Even from here, Mitch

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

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

It’s alright.

barely women, some

or face. Many stand, reaching out hands; imploring, weeping, a rising babble of words that Mitch

let them

to the others, waving down with her palms and the others

“I’m coming. I’ll help. But you have

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…

but a

The door opens.