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.

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

inside; a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low

But no people.

Still with no reply, she tries the

side. This time, she can't see in. A blind conceals the

of the world. Crossing tidily mown grass

and the unknowing, sits by crude images;

building is still

side. But

passes through

old mattress lies soaked and stinking, surrounded by foil and

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

outside. There is

Mitch hovers. This isn’t

What did she expect?

smallest of whines, the

drumming, tentatively, she

notice on the back of the door: Emergency Exit: Lift Bar. Stone steps lead up and forward to some brighter

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

… upwards…

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

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

down the stygian well of the stairs. A voice screams, pleads

clang. The sound of

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

the metallic clang

Boots stamping away

… and silence.

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 linoleum and she pauses to slip them off. Then, shoes in hand, stepping carefully on

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 cord, casting a sparse light. Ancient radiators set against one wall give no

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

the end of 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 against a

shriek. Eyes darting, she follows the movement, but the rat isn’t interested in

her soles. Laughter rebounds once more down the passage and she freezes, but the noise is no closer than

Some pretty. Some not so much so. But

the far end, a window, painted out and barred. Lined along either side are metal-framed beds. Even from here, Mitch can

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

into the gloom, one of the girls opens her mouth

It’s alright. I’m a

many: some barely women, some barely children. All

bruises to limbs or face. Many stand, reaching out hands;

Don’t let

yammering something to the others, waving down with her palms

I’ll help. But you have

smoothly and silently open. The bottom bolt too. But she struggles with the bar which grates a protest

Nothing…

but a taut

The door opens.