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.

nearby window where clean white paint frames polished glass. The sashes on the inside are new, replacements probably for older

perhaps, with low settees, a coffee table

But no people.

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

other side. This time, she can't see

the wall 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

here is unwashed. Crudely sprayed graffiti; sexually unlikely suggestions, racial slurs and the political comment of the unthinking and the unknowing,

the building is still

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

passes through then

compete with cigarette butts, used condoms and broken glass. An old mattress lies soaked and stinking, surrounded by foil and hypos. In one corner, a drain

The only clean thing to be seen is a car,

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, solidly constructed in steel although rusted in places. There is no handle, just

Mitch hovers. This isn’t what she

What did she expect?

of whines,

she reaches, pulls the door

door: Emergency Exit: Lift Bar. Stone steps lead up and forward to some brighter light, perhaps a hallway. What

steps, narrow and winding, leading both

… upwards…

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

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

stygian well of the stairs. A voice screams,

clang. The sound of

the fuck up or you'll know

the metallic clang

stamping away to…

… and silence.

on her skin, Mitch takes a step up, then another. Her heels click on peeling linoleum and she pauses to slip them off. Then, shoes in hand, stepping carefully on

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 cigarette smoke

in heavy metal frames and with sliding peepholes. Heavy bolts at top and bottom partner a drop-bar in

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

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

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, but nonetheless, faces swing her way at the slight scrape

not so much so. But all frame eyes

long narrow 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 the

bed, an occupant, shackled at the ankle. Some lie on the thin

the gloom, one of the girls opens her

alright. I’m a

some barely women, some barely children. All

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

let them

yammering something to the others, waving down with

coming. I’ll help. But you have to be

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.