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, replacements probably for older cords. The latch

hands around her face she peers inside; a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low settees, a coffee table and a

But no people.

to the door and knocks again. Still with no reply, she tries the handle, but the door doesn't

moves to the window on the other side. This time, she can't see

and to the rear, away from the eyes of the world. Crossing tidily mown

of the unthinking and the unknowing, sits by crude images; coarse,

the building is still being

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

passes through then

yard strewn with 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 by rotted newspaper and plastic bags centres a

wall and wide enough to take vehicles, are barred on the inside. The only clean thing to be

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;

hovers. This isn’t what she

What did she expect?

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

tentatively, she

steps lead up and forward to some brighter light, perhaps a hallway. What might

and winding, leading both up and down; a landing on some

… upwards…

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

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

echoes down the stygian well of the stairs.

sound of metal

fuck up or you'll know about it.”

metallic

stamping away

… and silence.

sweat on her skin, Mitch takes a step up, then another.

perhaps another stairway. To the other, a window; small, the glass whited over and with the silhouette of bars cast

the corridor, doors; steel, set in heavy metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts at top and bottom

cheapens speaker and listener. But it

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

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,

not so much so.

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

lie on the thin mattresses, others sit on the bed, a scanty blanket

the

It’s alright.

women, some barely

bruises to limbs or face. Many stand, reaching out hands; imploring, weeping, a rising babble of

Don’t let

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

the draw-hole. “I’m coming. I’ll help. But you have to

the door, Mitch eases the top bolt which slides smoothly and silently open. The bottom bolt too. But she struggles with the

Nothing…

a taut

The door opens.