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

lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low settees, a coffee table and a stack

But no people.

with no reply, she tries the handle,

the window on the other side. This

of the world. Crossing tidily mown grass she comes to a concreted area ending in a tall brick wall.

and the political comment of the unthinking and the unknowing, sits by crude images; coarse, badly drawn. At the top, sunlight glints from jagged

the building is still being

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,

passes through then

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 one corner, a drain

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

There is only one door, solidly constructed in steel although

Mitch hovers. This isn’t

What did she expect?

whines, the door swings slightly ajar.

drumming, tentatively, she reaches, pulls

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

winding, leading

… upwards…

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

What's that sound?

Sobbing?

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

sound of metal

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

the metallic

stamping

… and silence.

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

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.

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

language; the kind that cheapens speaker and listener. But it comes no closer. Mitch tries

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 into a crevice in worm-infested floorboards while

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

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

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

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

peers into the gloom, one of the

alright. I’m

some barely women, some barely

Some bear bruises to limbs or face. Many stand, reaching out hands; imploring, weeping, a rising babble of words that Mitch doesn’t

Don’t let

to the fore turns, yammering something to the others, waving down with her

I’ll help. But

The bottom bolt too. But she struggles with the bar which grates a protest as she first lifts, then

Nothing…

a taut

The door opens.