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

face she peers inside; a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low settees, a coffee table and a stack of magazines

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 eyes of the world. Crossing tidily mown

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

is still

the other side. But as she tries again, pushing harder,

through

broken and crumbling, covers a 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

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

dark-glazed windows are barred on the outside. There is only one door, solidly constructed in steel although rusted in places. There is no

This isn’t

What did she expect?

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

drumming, tentatively, she

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

right and left, more steps, narrow and winding, leading both up and

… upwards…

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

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

stygian well of the stairs. A voice screams,

sound of metal on

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

the metallic

stamping away

… and silence.

armpits drenched and with the cold reek of sweat on her 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 carefully on timbers which creak and give, she continues

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

and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts at top and bottom partner a

the kind that cheapens speaker

by her, and she startles, pushing a fist to her mouth to suppress the shriek. Eyes darting, she follows 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

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.

Some pretty. Some not so much so. But all frame

along either side are metal-framed beds. Even from here, Mitch can see that the frames are bolted

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

gloom, one of the girls opens her

It’s alright. I’m

women, some barely children.

bear bruises to limbs or face. Many stand, reaching out hands;

let

others, waving down with her palms and the others

coming. I’ll help. But you have to

It doesn’t matter. A 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

Nothing…

but a

The door opens.