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.
She frowns then passes to a nearby window where clean white paint frames polished glass. The
sashes on the inside are new, replacements probably for older cords. The latch and sneck are again of
mirror-polished brass.
Cupping her hands around her face she peers inside; a lounge or waiting area perhaps, with low
settees, a coffee table and a stack of magazines and children's comics.
But no people.
She moves back to the door and knocks again. Still with no reply, she tries the handle, but the door
doesn't move.
Mitch moves to the window on the other side. This time, she can't see in. A blind conceals the interior.
She keeps moving, following 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 brick wall. And she
hesitates.
The 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 from moss and ancient concrete.
Perhaps the building is still being renovated...
There 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 out from sockets in ancient timbers and,
screeching protest, the gate opens.
She passes through then stops.
Tarmac, broken and crumbling, covers a 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 one corner, a drain blocked by rotted newspaper and plastic
bags centres a fetid pool.
Double gates, as high as the wall and wide enough to take vehicles, are barred on the inside. The only
clean thing to be seen is a car, a top-end model, new and freshly waxed but with the tyres splashed
green by the filthy water.
The red-brick walls 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 a lock; large, heavy-duty, intended to deter.
Unsure, Mitch hovers. This isn’t what she expected.
What did she expect?
A breeze ruffles her hair. With the smallest of whines, the door swings slightly ajar. A black slot
beckons inside.
Her heart drumming, tentatively, she reaches, pulls the door wider…
Inside: a grey 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 a hallway. What might be sunshine spills from the
front of the building.
But as she steps forward, inside; to right and left, more steps, narrow and winding, leading both up and
down; a landing on some spiralling stairwell from basement to…
… upwards…
The stairwell is dark, dank. It smells of mildew and abandonment, rats and hopelessness. Ragged
holes gape through the plaster, bleeding wires that anchor ancient cobwebs.
What's that sound?
Sobbing?
It echoes down the stygian well of the stairs. A voice screams, pleads and ends in a whimper.
A clang. The sound of metal on metal…
A voice; loud, violent. “Shut the fuck up or you'll know about it.” Another scream. A female scream.
Then the metallic clang again…
… Boots stamping away to… somewhere…
… and silence.
She rubs slick 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 heels click on peeling linoleum and
she pauses to slip them off. Then, shoes in hand, stepping carefully on timbers which creak and give,
she continues upwards.
At the top, a corridor stretching right and 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
heat. Stale cigarette smoke competes with the raw stench of urine.
And along the length of the corridor, doors; steel, set in heavy metal frames and with sliding peepholes.
Heavy bolts at top and bottom partner a drop-bar in the centre.
From the 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 mouth, swallowing against a tight throat.
Something skitters by her, and 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. It goes about its business,
vanishing into a crevice in worm-infested floorboards while Mitch, panting, stares at the doors.
She creeps to the nearest, biting down against 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 of metal.
Young faces. Female faces. Some pretty. Some not so much so. But all frame eyes wide with terror.
Inside; a 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 floor.
And with each bed, an occupant, shackled at the ankle. Some lie on the thin mattresses, others sit on
the bed, a scanty blanket tugged around shoulders.
As Mitch peers into the gloom, one of the girls opens her mouth as though to scream…
“Shhh… Shhh... It’s alright. I’m a friend.”
So many: some barely women, some barely children. All so young.
Faces pale and drawn. Eyes red with tears and hopelessness. Some bear bruises to limbs or face.
Many stand, reaching out hands; imploring, weeping, a rising babble of words that Mitch doesn’t
understand
“Shhh… Don’t let them hear.”
A girl to the fore turns, yammering something to the others, waving down with her palms and the others
fall silent.
Mitch hisses through the draw-hole. “I’m coming. I’ll help. But you have to be quiet.”
Do they 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 lifts, then yanks it from tight sockets. She stiffens at the slight noise,
air juddering from her lungs as she listens…
Nothing…
… but a taut silence…
The door opens.
A dozen sets of eyes follow the finger she raises to her lips; eyes of blue, hazel, green and black; set in
faces pale, dark, tawny and tanned.
A girl with glossy black curls and huge golden irises set in a face of honey and cream is nearest.
Silently, she lifts a foot onto the bed, displaying the iron cuff which fetters her to the frame, and the welt,
raw and weeping, where it gnaws at her ankle.
Mitch sits by her on the bed, examining the shackle, padlocked tight.
She opens her bag, scrabbling inside for anything that might help…
… a nail-file, hair grips… anything at all…
She fingers the padlock. “I can’t do anything,” she says, looking up at its prisoner. The girl frowns,
shaking her head.
“I can’t do anything. Not now. Not like this…”
From somewhere in the depths of the building, comes the bang of a door and the clatter of boots
Mitch freezes. So do the women.
The footsteps grow louder….
Coming this way….
Mitch dashes for the door. “I'll come back. I promise I'll come back. I promise….” From behind her
comes a rising cacophony of voices, pleading, weeping entreaties. Denial…
Banging bolts closed, jamming the bar into its socket, she hisses into the sight-hole. “I’ll get help. I’ll
come back.” Then she slides it closed and…
… scanning, she looks for cover; left, right… A shadow… the least of covers. Trembling, she dashes,
pressing back tight into the narrow shelter of the farthest doorway…
Shoes…
Panic spikes through her and she sprints back to the door, snatches them up from the putrid carpet,
then dashes back to her scant shelter.
A silhouette marches for the door she just abandoned. “Shut the fuck up. Or do you want me to shut it
for you?”
The bar she banged down, bangs up again. The bolts crash back on their fittings. The door flings back.
“Whoever’s making that fucking racket, if it doesn’t stop right now, you’ll all get it. Right? So, whoever
speaks English, tell everyone. We can always start the fun early. Got that?”
There is not a sound in reply.
The door slams. The bolts slam. The bar slams. And the boots stamp back down the corridor and into
the darkness at the end.
Back-handedly, Mitch wipes tears from her cheeks that she’d not realised were there, then bolts for the
stairs…
At the bottom, she jams on her shoes, taking breaths in great heaving gulps, then turns, pushing the
door open.
“Can I help you?”
Her heart makes a great bound. Blood slams through her in a wave of pressure that stops her throat
and sets her fingertips humming.
She turns…
A woman stands there. Half-way down the steps that lead to the front, dispassionately, she surveys
Mitch. Blue-uniformed, her hair set back in a net, her lips pressed thin… “Can I help?” she repeats.
“I was looking for Mr Klempner. Larry Klempner. He’s… he’s in charge here. Is that right?”
“Mr Klempner isn't here. He is out of the country on business for several days now.”.
“Oh, I'll be on my way then.” Mitch turns, exits and skitters away.
The nurse watches her leave then closes the door and drops the bar. Lips pursed, she stares at
nothing for a moment then heads up to the main office at the front.
Picking up the telephone receiver, she dials a number. “Officer Corby please.”
*****
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