The Broken Man. Josephine Cox

Miss Martin quickened her steps.

      Adam was reluctant. Pulling back against her iron grip and dragging his feet, he glanced towards the windows, his forlorn gaze constantly drawn to where the car had taken Phil out of sight.

      He could not understand why or how everything had happened so very quickly, and he was so afraid. This morning he had gone to school as usual, and afterwards, Phil had walked him home. And now Phil was gone, his mother was gone, and his father had run away.

      ‘Come along, Adam,’ Miss Martin interrupted his thoughts. ‘There’s no time for wasting. Lots to do … lots to talk about.’

      She led him smartly along the corridor and through the house to the parlour, which doubled as her office. ‘Here we are, Adam. Now then, how about a glass of fresh orange juice?’

      Unceremoniously plonking him onto the sofa, she firmly closed the door and cut across the room to the sideboard. ‘I think we deserve a little treat, don’t you?’ Without waiting for an answer, she took out a small tumbler and a fluted glass.

      Humming a merry tune under her breath, she first poured the orange juice into the tumbler, and then she poured a sizeable helping of sherry into the glass. ‘One for each of us,’ she chirped.

      While she bustled about, Adam felt more lost and frightened than at any other time in his life.

      Everyone he knew had gone away. Everything familiar had changed, and now he was alone among strangers.

       PART TWO

The Unwanted Visitor

       CHAPTER FOUR

      ANNE WYMAN LOVED the little house, formerly her aunt’s, on the outskirts of Bedford. It was her pride and joy, but most of all, it was her safe hideaway.

      When she’d arrived in Bedford some thirteen years ago, she was a frightened young woman on the run.

      Fearful that the man from her past would find her, she would wait until the street was empty before venturing out. When a kindly neighbour might attempt to make small talk, she would merely give a brief nod of the head, before hurrying away.

      Back then, after she fled, she was at her most vulnerable. When night fell thick and heavy, she would climb up the stairs to her darkened bedroom and cautiously inch open the curtains just enough for her to peer through to the street below. Then she would kneel by the window and peek out until her eyeballs were sore and her bones ached from the kneeling.

      Haunted by the memory of Edward Carter, a madman who had twice beaten her to within an inch of her life, she had learned over the years to remain ever vigilant. Night after night, and even in the daylight hours, she made herself ready for when he might emerge from the shadows.

      At first, having finally escaped from him, she would hardly dare close her eyes to sleep. Instead, aching with tiredness, she would listen to every sound, every slight movement, fearing the moment when he might snatch her away.

      So she watched and waited, and eventually she would fall asleep, but it was not an easy sleep. Not then.

      And not now.

      Today was Saturday. Both herself and her friend Sally had completed their weekly quota of hours working at Woolworths, so this was their day off to do with as they liked.

      The thought of spending quality time with Sally brought a smile to Anne’s face.

      The weather had been bright and sunny all week. Having already decided that, if the weather held, they would drive to Yarmouth, it now seemed that a day at the seaside would be a reality.

      Anne hummed a little ditty as she went into the hallway to the telephone. Grabbing up the big black receiver, she dialled Sally’s number. It was a while before her friend answered.

      ‘Hello?’ She sounded sleepy.

      ‘Sally, being as it’s a lovely day, I was wondering, are we still on for Yarmouth?’ She kept her fingers crossed, because if Sally didn’t go, then neither would she, and she was really looking forward to it now.

      Sally, however, was of the same mind. ‘Yeah, I’m up for it.’

      ‘Great!’ Anne did a little dance on the spot. ‘So, d’you want me to drive?’

      ‘Well, my car’s leaking oil again, so if we go in yours we might actually get there. I meant to deliver mine to the garage but I haven’t had time.’ She groaned. ‘To tell the truth, I keep putting it off, because the mechanic will probably tell me to dump it anyway. He reckons it’s well and truly worn out but it’s all I can afford, so I’ll have to make do with it for now.’

      ‘Look, I’ve got savings,’ Anne said. ‘I can lend you some, and you can pay me back whenever.’

      Sally would not hear of it. ‘I know how long you’ve scrimped and saved to put a few quid aside. That money is your security and peace of mind, and I would never dream of taking it.’

      ‘It’s OK, really. I don’t mind. It would be a real pain if your car broke down altogether.’

      ‘Oh, don’t worry. It’s like an old soldier. It’s been patched up before and it’ll be patched up again. Meantime, I’ll have to stop gadding about and save a few shillings every week until I’ve got enough to get it put right.’

      ‘OK, so I’ll pick you up in what … an hour?’

      ‘I’ll be ready in half an hour.’

      ‘Are you sure?’ Anne knew from experience how long it took Sally to get ready, and by the sounds of it, she had only just got out of bed.

      ‘I’ll be ready, don’t worry.’

      ‘Right!’ Growing excited, Anne resumed her humming as she swiftly cleared away the last of the breakfast things. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was already half-past eight. ‘Crikey! I’d best get a move on.’ It was a fifteen-minute drive to Kempston where Sally lived, and at this time on a Saturday the roads could be busy.

      Having tidied the kitchen, she made sure the back door was locked and bolted before running upstairs and into the bathroom. She quickly cleaned her teeth, ruffled her fine blonde hair and ran back downstairs; grabbing her coat and bag as she went out the front door.

      As always, whenever leaving the house, she made doubly sure that the front door was secured. She then glanced up at the bedroom windows to satisfy herself that they were closed. For good reason, she had learned over the years to keep her wits about her as far as her own security was concerned.

      These days, though, she was slightly less paranoid than she had been on first arriving in this quiet backstreet many years ago. Even so, the bad memories and a dark, nagging fear that Edward Carter might find her still lurked at the back of her mind.

      Clambering into her beloved Morris Minor, she slammed shut the door and then checked through her handbag. She opened her purse: three pound and six shillings, more than enough.

      Next, she drew out a stick of rouge and a powder compact. She looked at her reflection in the compact mirror while she dabbed a little make-up over her cheekbones. ‘Anne Wyman, you’re no oil painting, but you’re all you’ve got, so you’ll have to do!’ she muttered to herself. Retrieving her lipstick from her handbag, she painted her full, plump mouth with the pale pink lipstick.

      She then returned the items to her handbag, started the engine, checked