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

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

But no people.

with no reply, she tries the handle, but the

side. This time, she can't see

away from the eyes of the world. Crossing tidily mown grass she comes to a concreted area ending in a tall brick wall. And she

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 moss and ancient

the building is still being

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

passes through then

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

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

the outside. There is only one door, solidly constructed in steel although rusted in places. There is no handle, just a lock; large, heavy-duty,

This isn’t what she

What did she expect?

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

she reaches, pulls the

peeling notice on the back of the door: Emergency Exit: Lift Bar. Stone steps lead up and forward to some brighter light, perhaps a hallway. What might be sunshine spills from the front of

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

… upwards…

rats and hopelessness. Ragged holes gape through the

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

stygian well of the stairs. A voice screams, pleads and ends in

sound of metal

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

the metallic

stamping

… and silence.

armpits drenched and with the cold reek of sweat on her skin, Mitch takes a step up, then another. Her

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

set in heavy metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts at top

of laughter and cursing; crude language; the kind that cheapens speaker and listener. But it comes no closer. Mitch tries to suck a little saliva into her mouth, swallowing against

startles, pushing a fist to her mouth to suppress the shriek. Eyes darting, she follows the movement, but the rat isn’t

freezes, but the noise is no closer than it

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

a window, painted out and barred. Lined along either side are metal-framed beds. Even from

the

gloom, one of the girls opens her mouth

alright. I’m

barely women, some barely

Eyes red with tears and hopelessness. Some bear bruises to limbs or face. Many stand, reaching out hands; imploring, weeping, a rising

Don’t let

yammering something to the others, waving down with her palms and the others fall

I’ll help. But you

they understand her words? 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

Nothing…

but a

The door opens.