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.

The sashes on the inside are new, replacements probably for

or waiting area perhaps, with low

But no people.

knocks again. Still with no reply, she tries the handle, but the door doesn't

This time, she can't see in. A

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

brickwork here is unwashed. Crudely sprayed graffiti; sexually 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 that poke

the building is

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

passes through

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 blocked by rotted newspaper and plastic bags centres a fetid

on the inside. The only clean thing to be seen is a car, a top-end model, new and freshly waxed but

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,

This isn’t

What did she expect?

smallest of whines, the

tentatively, she reaches, pulls the

a grey dimness; a peeling notice on the back of the door: Emergency Exit: Lift Bar. Stone steps lead up and forward to some

and winding, leading both up and down; a landing

… upwards…

mildew and abandonment, rats and hopelessness.

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

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

clang. The sound of metal

or you'll

the metallic clang

stamping away

… and silence.

then another. Her heels click on peeling linoleum and she pauses to slip them off. Then, shoes in hand,

silhouette of bars cast over

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

dark hollow at 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

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 into a

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

Female faces. Some pretty. Some not so much so. But all frame eyes

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

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

one of the girls opens her mouth as though

It’s alright. I’m

barely women, some barely children. All

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

Don’t let them

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

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

silently open. The bottom bolt too. But she struggles with

Nothing…

but a taut

The door opens.