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.

polished glass. The sashes on the inside are new, replacements

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

But no people.

again. Still with no reply, she tries the handle, but the door

the other side. This time, she can't see in.

around 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

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

is still being

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

through

broken 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,

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

on the outside. There is only one door, solidly constructed in steel although rusted

Mitch hovers. This isn’t

What did she expect?

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

she reaches, pulls

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

steps forward, inside; to right and left, more steps, narrow and winding, leading both up and down; a landing on

… upwards…

mildew and abandonment, rats and hopelessness. Ragged holes gape through the plaster, bleeding wires that anchor ancient

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

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

The sound of

“Shut the fuck up or you'll know about

the metallic clang

Boots stamping

… and silence.

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

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 one wall give no heat. Stale

metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy

the kind that cheapens speaker and listener. But it comes no closer.

the rat isn’t interested in her. It goes about

nearest, biting down against revulsion as ancient 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, she slides the peephole. Well-greased, it opens with barely a sound,

pretty. Some not so much so. But all frame eyes wide with

To the far end, a window, painted out and barred. Lined along either side are metal-framed beds.

ankle. Some lie on the thin

the gloom, one of the girls opens her mouth as though to

It’s alright. I’m a

some

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

Don’t let

to the others, waving down with her palms and the others

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

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 from tight sockets. She stiffens at the slight noise, air juddering from her lungs

Nothing…

a taut

The door opens.