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.

white paint frames polished glass. The sashes on the inside are new, replacements probably for older cords. The latch and sneck are again of mirror-polished

peers inside; a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low settees, a coffee table and a stack of

But no people.

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

other side. This time, she can't see

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

graffiti; sexually unlikely suggestions, racial slurs and the political comment of the unthinking and the unknowing, sits by crude

the building is still

something resists from the other side. But as she tries again, pushing harder, screws

passes through

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

as the wall and wide enough to take vehicles, are barred on the inside. The only clean thing to be seen is a car, a top-end model, new and freshly waxed but with the

dark-glazed windows are barred on the outside. There is only one door, solidly constructed in

Mitch hovers. This isn’t what she

What did she expect?

of whines, the door swings slightly ajar.

drumming, tentatively, she reaches, pulls 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

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

… upwards…

rats and hopelessness. Ragged holes gape through the plaster, bleeding

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

well of the stairs. A voice screams, pleads

sound of

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

metallic

stamping away

… and silence.

slick palms. Her breathing sharp and shallow, spine 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

corridor stretching right and left. 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

the length of the corridor, doors; steel, set in heavy metal frames and

the corridor comes the sound 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

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

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, but nonetheless,

so much so.

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

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

into the gloom, one of the girls opens her

Shhh... It’s alright.

barely women, some

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

let

something to the others,

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

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 from tight sockets. She stiffens at the

Nothing…

but a

The door opens.