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.

then passes to a nearby window where clean white paint frames polished glass. The sashes on the inside are new, replacements probably for older cords. The latch and sneck are again of

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

But no people.

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

on the other side. This

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

comment of the unthinking and the unknowing, sits by

building is still being

side. But as she tries again, pushing harder, screws suck out from sockets in ancient timbers and,

passes through

An old mattress lies soaked and stinking, surrounded by foil and hypos. In one corner, a drain blocked

on the inside. The only clean thing to be seen is a car, a top-end model, new and freshly waxed but with the tyres splashed green by the

the building itself are black at the base, glistening green above, and dark-glazed windows are barred on the outside. There is only one door, solidly constructed in steel although rusted

hovers. This isn’t what

What did she expect?

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

drumming, tentatively, she reaches, pulls the door

Emergency Exit: Lift Bar. Stone steps lead up and forward to some brighter light, perhaps a hallway.

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

… upwards…

It smells of mildew and abandonment, rats and hopelessness. Ragged holes gape through

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

down the stygian well of the stairs. A voice screams,

sound

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

the metallic clang

Boots stamping

… and silence.

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

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

along the length of the corridor, doors; steel, set in heavy metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts at

the dark hollow at the end of the corridor comes the sound of laughter and cursing; crude language; the kind that cheapens speaker and listener. But it comes no closer. Mitch tries

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

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

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

the far end, a window, painted out and barred. Lined along either

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

into the gloom, one of the

alright. I’m a

barely women, some barely children. All

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

let them

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

“I’m coming. I’ll

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

Nothing…

but a

The door opens.