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.

passes to a nearby window where clean white paint frames polished glass. The sashes on the inside

a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low settees, a coffee table and a stack

But no people.

knocks again. Still with no reply, she tries the handle,

side. This time,

moving, following the wall around a corner and to the rear, away from the eyes of the world. Crossing tidily mown grass she comes

political comment of the unthinking and the unknowing, sits by crude images; coarse, badly drawn. At

is still being

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 ancient timbers and, screeching protest,

through

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 by rotted newspaper and plastic bags centres a fetid

The only clean thing to be seen is a car, a top-end model,

red-brick walls of 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,

This isn’t what

What did she expect?

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

drumming, tentatively, she reaches, pulls the

Stone steps lead up and forward to some brighter light, perhaps a hallway. What might be sunshine spills from the front of the

steps, narrow and winding, leading both up and down; a landing on some spiralling

… upwards…

mildew and abandonment, rats and hopelessness. Ragged holes gape through the plaster,

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

of the stairs. A

sound

voice; loud, violent. “Shut the fuck up or you'll know

the metallic clang

stamping

… and silence.

up, then

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

metal frames and with sliding

the corridor comes the sound of laughter and cursing; crude language; the kind that cheapens speaker

but the rat isn’t interested in her. It goes about its business, vanishing

carpet sucks at her soles. Laughter rebounds once more down the passage and she freezes, but the noise is no closer than it was. Slowly, carefully,

so much so. But

room. To the far end, a window, painted out and barred. Lined along either side are metal-framed beds. Even from here, Mitch can see that the frames are bolted to

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

peers into the gloom, one of the girls opens

alright. I’m a

barely women, some barely children.

face. Many stand, reaching out hands; imploring, weeping, a rising babble of words that Mitch doesn’t

let them

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

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

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 from tight sockets.

Nothing…

a

The door opens.