The Broken Man

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‘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 for oncoming traffic, and drew away from the kerb.

At the top of Roff Avenue, she slowed and checked in the driver’s mirror. Her eyes were instantly drawn to a tall, dark-haired figure heading away towards the far end of Roff Avenue. He was walking slowly, almost strolling. He seemed nervous, his head turning this way and that, as though searching for something or someone.

Anne’s heart skipped a beat. She could hardly breathe. ‘Stop that!’ she chided herself. The past is long behind you.

The man was out of sight now and, with an irate driver honking his car horn behind her, Anne shifted into gear and drew away.

Some short distance down the road, she pulled over and switched the engine off. Wrapping her trembling fingers around the steering wheel, she gripped it so tight her knuckles turned white.

‘Pull yourself together, girl!’

She reminded herself that this was not the first time she’d imagined he was actually in her street searching for her. And each time she’d been wrong.

After a few minutes, feeling calmer, she restarted the engine and set off again. By now, there was no sight of the man who had truly unnerved her.

Edward Carter was in a foul mood. Having been up and down the back alley, peeking into yards and hanging about, he had still not been able to catch sight of her. He knew the house was in this street. He’d seen the address in the past enough damned times to know he’d got the right place. Roff Avenue, Bedford.

Unkempt and agitated, he had been on the run far too long. He needed a place to hide to keep his head down for a while. He had a plan, and it involved Anne Wyman, the girl he had married all those years ago. The naïve, trusting little girl who eventually ran off and left him. She owed him, and she was still his wife … whether she liked it or not.

He chuckled to himself. If she really thought he might never come looking for her, she was in for a real surprise.

He continued to wander up and down the back alley, growing increasingly agitated, his sharp eyes constantly scanning the houses.

When a couple of people turned into the alley and wandered past him, he flattened himself against the wall, pretending to light a cigarette. As they went past, he nodded amiably to them. ‘Morning.’

After a fleeting acknowledgement, the couple walked on, though they turned once to take another look at him. When he stared back, they made a hasty exit.

The policeman had not long turned the corner into Roff Avenue when he saw the man head into the alley, and now, as he noticed the couple hurrying out, he grew curious and crossed the street to investigate.

Edward Carter saw the policeman approaching, and, speaking in his finest voice, he cunningly made his way towards him.

‘Good morning, officer. I wonder if you might be able to help me?’

Surprised by this untidy man’s refined voice and manner, the policeman replied in a friendly but authoritative tone, ‘If I can help you, I will, but it’s not wise to be loitering about these back alleys. It tends to make people nervous, and that makes me nervous.’

‘Of course. I do understand, but I’m looking for an old friend … a woman by the name of Anne Carter. When she moved away from her previous address, she gave me the street and town, but forgot to write down the number of her aunt’s house … that’s where she’s staying.’

He began to rummage in his pocket. ‘I can show you what she wrote … Roff Avenue, Bedford. I promised to visit when I was able. The thing is, her old aunt Ada doesn’t have a telephone, doesn’t like them, so I’m told.’ He gave a warm smile.

The policeman nodded. ‘I know a lot of people who seem a bit timid of the idea. I expect they’re used to going down to the red box outside. My mother’s exactly the same … won’t even hear of a telephone in the house.’

Still putting on a show, Carter pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, feigning a groan when he read it. ‘Oh, wrong one. Sorry, officer. It must be in my inside pocket …’ He made a big fuss of digging about in his pockets.

The policeman accepted his story hook, line and sinker. ‘Look, I understand. I’m afraid I can’t help you, but I tell you what –’ he pointed back down the alley – ‘go back the same way you came in, and turn left. You’ll see a pub on the corner. The landlord’s always up and working, and there’s an old fella keeps the place spick and span. Like as not he might know where your friend is living, especially if there’s an old aunt, because the old ’uns do have a communal spirit round these parts.’