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.

sashes on the inside are new, replacements probably for

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

But no people.

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

This time, she can't

a corner and to the rear, 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

brickwork here 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

building is

is a 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, screws suck out from sockets in

through

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

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

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 in places. There is no handle, just

hovers. This isn’t what

What did she expect?

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

heart drumming, tentatively, she reaches,

of the door: Emergency Exit: Lift Bar. Stone steps lead up and forward to

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

… upwards…

It smells of mildew and abandonment, rats and hopelessness. Ragged

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

the stairs. A

sound of metal

fuck up or you'll know about

metallic clang

Boots stamping away

… and silence.

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

the silhouette of bars cast over the paint. A single bulb dangles on a cord, casting a sparse light.

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

that cheapens speaker and listener. But it comes no closer. Mitch tries to suck a little saliva

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

at 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,

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

painted out and barred. Lined along either side are metal-framed beds.

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

into the gloom, one of the girls opens her mouth

alright.

barely women, some barely children. All

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

let

something to the others, waving down

draw-hole. “I’m coming. I’ll

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 as she first lifts, then yanks it

Nothing…

a taut

The door opens.