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.

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

she peers inside; a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low

But no people.

with no reply, she tries the handle,

side. This time, she

the rear, away from the eyes of the world. Crossing tidily mown grass

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 from moss and ancient

is still being

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

passes through

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, surrounded by foil and hypos. In

to be seen is a car, a top-end model, new and freshly waxed but

glistening green above, and dark-glazed windows are barred on the outside. There is only one door, solidly constructed in steel

Mitch hovers. This

What did she expect?

ruffles her hair. With the smallest of whines,

heart drumming, tentatively, she reaches,

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

and winding,

… upwards…

dark, dank. It smells of mildew and abandonment, rats and hopelessness. Ragged holes gape through

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

the stairs. A voice screams, pleads and ends in

sound of metal on

or you'll

the metallic clang

stamping away

… and silence.

the cold reek of sweat on her skin, Mitch takes a step up, then another. Her heels click on peeling

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

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

kind that cheapens speaker and listener.

fist to her mouth to suppress the shriek. Eyes darting, she follows the movement, but the rat

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

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

far end, a window, painted out and barred. Lined along either

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

peers into the gloom, one of the

It’s alright.

many: some barely women, some barely

face. Many stand, reaching out hands; imploring, weeping, a rising babble of words that Mitch

let

to the fore turns, yammering something to the others,

through the draw-hole. “I’m coming. I’ll help.

understand her words? It doesn’t matter. A black 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

Nothing…

but a

The door opens.