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.

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

face she peers inside; a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low settees,

But no people.

Still with no

window on the other side. This time, she

away from the eyes of the world. Crossing tidily mown grass she comes to

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

building is still being

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

through

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 foil and hypos. In one corner, a drain blocked

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

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,

hovers. This isn’t what

What did she expect?

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

tentatively, she reaches, pulls the

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

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

… upwards…

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

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

the stairs. A voice screams, pleads

The sound of

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

metallic

stamping away to…

… and silence.

and 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

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 heat. Stale cigarette smoke competes with the raw stench

length of the corridor, doors; steel, set in heavy metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts at top and bottom partner a drop-bar in

sound of laughter and cursing; crude language; the kind that cheapens speaker and listener. But it comes

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 the

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 the slight

so much so. But all frame eyes wide with

either side are metal-framed

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

Mitch peers into the gloom, one of the girls opens her mouth

alright. I’m

barely women, some barely children. All so

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

let them

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

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

too. But she struggles with the bar which grates a

Nothing…

but a taut

The door opens.