The Broken Man (Special Edition) Page 13

  In the half-light, he watched her every move. ‘No point in trying to escape, my dear. It will only rile me, and make matters worse for you.’

  Knowing what he was capable of, Anne remained quiet. Hurt and bleeding, she let him rant on, while training her frantic thoughts on a plan of escape.

  Sally ran all the way back from the bus stop. What an idiot, she muttered to herself, leaving my handbag on the windowsill.

  She hurried up the front path to Anne’s house, and was about to knock on the front door when she heard sounds much like soft laughter. Someone else was there … a neighbour, probably. She knocked on the door but there was no answer. She knocked again, louder this time, but still no answer. That was really odd.

  Growing curious, she sidestepped onto the lawn, and stretched up to peer in the window, but she was too short to see, and the curtains were closed. Why would Anne close the curtains at this time of day? Sally smiled. Maybe Anne had got a secret admirer, and didn’t want to say.

  Tapping on the window, she called, ‘Anne, are you in there? I left my handbag on the windowsill … I’m sorry!’

  When there was still no answer, she grew concerned.

  She looked about the garden. Spotting a large plant pot, she dragged it to the base of the window where she turned it upside down, and climbed onto it.

  Gripping the windowsill to steady herself, she leaned forward, towards the impossibly narrow slit between the two curtains. Peeping through, she found it difficult to make out anything. There were no sounds, but in the half-light from the hallway, she imagined she could just about see the two figures seated on the sofa. She called out, ‘Anne, are you in there? I need to quickly collect my handbag … please?’

  Suddenly, there was movement, but she couldn’t make out what was happening. ‘Anne, if you could please hand me my bag, I’ll be off and catch the bus.’

  Inside, Anne was desperately struggling. Hearing Sally, she tried to call out, but Carter punched her hard across the mouth. Dazed and bleeding, she fell back onto the sofa.

  Realising that something was not right, Sally remembered Anne’s words: He hurt me … he killed my baby.

  Horrified at the possibility that Edward Carter was inside the house, Sally bunched her fist and banged hard on the window. ‘Carter! I know who you are. I know what you did. You’d better not hurt her. I’ve seen you now … I can identify you.’ She banged on the window again. ‘I’m calling the police!’ Scrambling off her makeshift platform, she ran down the path, all the while yelling at the top of her voice, ‘Help! Call the police! There’s a madman … He’s got my friend … He’s hurting her …’

  She ran to the pub, thankful that the landlord was on the pavement putting out his boards advertising the evening darts match. He saw her running as though her life depended on it.

  ‘Good Lord! What’s wrong?’ He caught her in his arms.

  Breathless, Sally shouted, ‘Call the police! Quickly. It’s Anne! He means to kill her … he will. He’ll do it … please hurry! Get the police!’

  The landlord ran inside, with Sally following. As he dialled the number, Sally told him, ‘Hurry! He’s got her trapped inside the house, and he’s hurting her … he means to kill her! Please hurry!’

  It seemed like no time at all before the squad cars were racing down the street, sirens screaming.

  They found Anne lying on the floor, bruised and bloodied.

  Edward Carter, though, had already fled.

  Some half a mile away, the foot-patrol officer was on his rounds when he heard the sirens. They alerted his memory of the shifty-looking man who had been lurking about in the back alleys earlier.

  Being the kind of officer who took his work seriously, he decided to check the back alleys yet again.

  As he came round the corner, Edward Carter ran straight into him. There was a vicious set-to as Carter tried to escape, but he was out of breath and weakened, while the officer was a big, capable fellow, and not one to be brought down easily.

  This time, Edward Carter had met his match. Being well trained in the art of apprehending a violent suspect, the officer gave better than he got. There was a desperate struggle, but even though the officer was slightly injured, he soon had his prisoner safe against the wall, arms behind his back, and strong handcuffs securing him there.

  While keeping Carter trapped, the officer used his walkie-talkie and within minutes help arrived.

  A short time later, Carter was unceremoniously bundled into the car and taken away.

  As he went, he glanced out the window. Don’t celebrate too soon, little wifey, he mouthed in a whisper. I’ll be back.

  Pale and shaking from her ordeal, Anne told the constable, ‘He’s beaten me up before, but this time he really wanted to kill me. I saw it in his eyes.’

  ‘Right! Well, he can’t hurt you where he’s going.’ The kindly constable could see how Carter must have terrified this young woman.

  After checking her bruises he made an entry in his notebook. ‘I’m sorry, but I need you to tell me exactly what happened here.’

  As Anne described the frightening series of events, he meticulously recorded them.

  After the police had gone, Sally took charge. ‘Come on. Let’s get you upstairs … A freshen-up and change of clothes might help you feel better.’

  After escorting Anne upstairs and helping her choose a comfortable outfit, Sally told her, ‘You finish here, and I’ll go down and tidy up. When you’re ready, we’ll get into your car and I’ll drive you over to my house. You’re staying with me and Mick … and I am not taking no for an answer! Don’t worry, Pusscat can come too.’

  Anne did not need asking twice.

  Half an hour later, the two of them set off. Sally was driving, but she kept a careful eye on Anne, who was very quiet, shaken by what Carter had done to her … again.

  PART THREE

  Dangerous Times

  1957

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHEN THE KNOCK came on her office door, Miss Martin was head down, browsing through paperwork.

  ‘Come in!’ She was expecting a senior member of her staff to deliver Adam Carter to her door. In anticipation, she took off her spectacles, laid them on the desk and waited.

  Nancy Montague flounced in, ushering Adam before her. ‘I’ve brought Adam as instructed,’ she advised Miss Martin. Placing the flat of her hand in the centre of Adam’s back, she gently urged him forward.

  Miss Martin offered him a smile. ‘Good morning, Adam! And are you feeling good, this bright and beautiful morning?’

  ‘Good morning, Miss Martin.’ He stood before her, his two hands clenched before him. ‘I’m all right, thank you.’

  She nodded to Nancy. ‘Thank you, Nancy. We’ll be fine just now.’ With a flutter of her chubby hand she waved the nervous little woman away.

  When the door was closed and she was alone with the boy, she instructed him with a warm smile: ‘Please, Adam, do sit down.’ She gestured to the deep-bottomed chair strategically placed at the side of her large, well-polished desk.

  Adam stepped forward and did as he was asked.

  Momentarily, Miss Martin took quiet stock of him, especially noting the subservient manner in which he had stood, hands clenched in front, eyes down. Staring at the floor.

  With his thick brown hair and serious brown eyes, he was a handsome boy; quiet with a soulful disposition and a heavy heart.

  Now aged thirteen, and having been at the children’s home for a number of years, Adam had forged no real friendship here. He was a loner, plagued by events of the past, and ever anxious about whatever future awaited him.

  ‘Please, Adam, look up!’ When he raised his head and looked directly at her, Miss Martin asked him, ‘Did you enjoy your birthday party last week, Adam?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Martin, thank you.’

  ‘Good! And did you enjoy your outing with Miss Nightingale and your friend Phil?’

  Adam’s face lit up. ‘Oh, yes, I enjoyed it very much,
thank you.’

  ‘Excellent!’ She always made a point of giving praise where it was due. ‘You have a fine friend in Phil.’

  Her manner and tone grew serious. ‘So, Adam, what are we going to do with you, I wonder?’

  ‘I don’t understand, Miss Martin.’

  ‘Very well then, I shall explain. Here you are, now thirteen years old, and still not settled with a foster family. Why is that, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t really know, Miss Martin.’

  ‘So, Adam. Now that you’ve had time to think about your month with the last foster family, can you tell me what really happened there?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Miss Martin. I just wasn’t very happy.’

  ‘And why was that? Did someone beat you?’

  ‘No, miss.’

  ‘Were they spiteful in any other way?’

  ‘No, miss.’

  ‘So, they were good to you, then?’

  Adam hesitated before giving his answer. ‘Yes … only …’ Falling silent, he returned his gaze to the floor.

  ‘Adam! Look at me.’

  Reluctantly, Adam raised his gaze.

  ‘Dearie me!’ Exasperated, Miss Martin clambered out of her chair, to pace anxiously back and forth. ‘This is not good, Adam! After three attempts to place you with fine, God-fearing families, you are still here, with us. Why is that?’

  ‘I don’t know, miss.’

  ‘Well, I do know! Mr and Mrs Shaler have now officially reported to us. They claim that not once did you even try to fit in. They said you were sullen, disobedient, and that one time, you sat outside in the garden for hours, refusing to come in, even though you had no coat on and it was pouring with rain. Is that true, Adam? Did you do these things?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  The atmosphere grew heavy, while Miss Martin, loudly tutting, padded her way up and down the carpet.

  Meanwhile, Adam closed his mind to that particular foster family and his bad behaviour while living there. He even closed his mind to Miss Martin as she paced back and forth.

  Inevitably, his thoughts wandered back to the house where he had lived with his darling mother and the devil who took her from him.

  Recently, both Phil and Miss Martin’s staff had gone to great lengths to keep the newspapers from him, but he heard the gossip, and what he had learned was more than enough. They said his father had been arrested and locked up for a long time. That it was to do with another woman, that he had beaten her up … just as he had beaten his own mother.

  So, Edward Carter was in prison. Adam was glad about that.

  But it was not enough. It would never be enough!

  ‘I so need to see you settled,’ Miss Martin went on, ‘but it has not gone well so far. Which is why I continue to ask myself, how on earth are we going to get you settled with a good family? Adam, do you hear what I say?’

  Miss Martin’s question jolted him back to the moment, ‘Yes, Miss Martin.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m sorry, miss … I don’t know.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Flummoxed by his negative attitude, Miss Martin stole a moment to study this troubled but capable boy, and reflect on the dreadful experiences he had encountered through his short life. Not for the first time, she was deeply saddened.

  ‘Adam, you do realise you could have a great future, if only you would set your mind to it?’

  When he chose not to comment, she persevered. ‘I’m told by your teachers that you have a natural talent for painting. I understand they’ve told you as much. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Do you enjoy painting?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Martin.’

  ‘Why is that, Adam? What do you see in painting that brings you pleasure? They tell me that most of the images are somewhat dark and brooding, and yet somehow they quicken the heart and fire the imagination.’ She paused, before asking softly, ‘What makes you want to paint these dark pictures, Adam?’

  Adam had never been asked that before. In truth, he had never even thought about it, but now, the answer came to him so easily. ‘Most of all, I like painting my mother.’

  ‘Really? And why is that, do you think?’

  Adam gave a whimsical smile. ‘I paint her when she’s walking along the hill rise behind our house, because then she was happy, and so very pretty. It’s like springtime. But then he hurts her, and everything becomes dark and ugly. It’s like …’ he struggled for the right words, ‘… it’s like she’s running away, but she can’t get through the trees … it’s dark and shadowy. The trees are like giants. They stretch out their branches and trap her inside, and then it becomes a prison. I can hear her calling for me, but I can’t get her out. I can’t save her.’

  His voice hardened to a harsh whisper. ‘That’s what I draw, because that’s what he did to her.’

  ‘And does it help you, Adam? When you draw these pictures, how does it make you feel?’

  ‘Sometimes happy, sometimes sad. Especially when I draw a picture where I make him be the prisoner. He’s the one in the dark, afraid and trapped. In my paintings, I punish him. And then I feel better inside.’

  Miss Martin was shocked at the hatred in Adam’s face, whenever he referred to his father. She shared Adam’s abhorrence of his father’s cruelty to his mother, but to hear the boy talk with such loathing she found deeply upsetting.

  More than that, she feared for this sad and lonely boy. He had done no wrong, and yet it seemed his punishment was never-ending. His bad experiences appeared to have crippled him, both mentally and emotionally.

  ‘Adam, I know life has not been kind to you, and I truly am sorry for that. But maybe now it’s time to try and put the past behind you. Sometimes, through no fault of our own, terrible things happen to us, and we wonder why.’

  Adam simply nodded.

  ‘It’s foolish, Adam, but often we blame ourselves when we are just the innocent bystander. You, in particular, have had to deal with things that most children of your age would never encounter. But you really must try very hard to face up to the sequence of events that brought you here, because if you don’t face up to them, they will always haunt you. Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Adam?’

  Choked with emotion and unable to speak, Adam nodded again.

  ‘No, Adam!’ Miss Martin raised her voice. ‘A nod of the head will not do! You must say it out loud. Say it, Adam: “Bad things have happened to me, and I have to face up to them. It’s the only way I can move forward and build a life of my own.” Say it for me, Adam. Say it loud and clear!’

  A moment passed and still he could not say it. Miss Martin waited hopefully.

  When Adam continued to be silent, she took it to be a simple matter of wills between the two of them. In a way she had always known it would come to this. So, she rose to the challenge in her indomitable way.

  Taking a sheaf of typed paper from her drawer, she laid it on the desktop, slowly and deliberately put on her spectacles, and, appearing to ignore him, she pretended to be reading, occasionally adding a little tick alongside the writing, merely for effect.

  In the corner of the room, the grandfather clock ticked sombrely. The rhythmic sound of the swinging pendulum was the only sound in the room.

  Moments passed, and still Miss Martin kept her head down, seeming not to care if Adam was there or not.

  After a while, Adam’s hesitant voice began: ‘Bad things happened to me …’ He paused, thinking of his mother, before going on. ‘I have to … face up to them. It’s the only way I can build … a life … of my own.’ There was a moment when his voice seemed to resonate with the ticking of the clock before his muffled sobbing filled the room.

  ‘There!’ Miss Martin got out of her chair in a flurry. ‘Ssh, child. Well done for being strong enough to say that out loud. I know it can’t have been easy. Yes! Well done, my dear.’ On an impulse, she wrapped him in her chubby warm arms and held him to her ample bosom for a moment, before dip
ping into her pocket and flourishing a pretty white handkerchief. ‘Here … wipe your eyes.’

  With a tear in her own eye, she sat beside him, and for a while neither of them spoke.

  Presently, she addressed him kindly. ‘I do realise how very hard it’s been for you losing the mother you loved, and then learning how your father is now imprisoned.’ With some embarrassment at showing the softness of her character, she admitted, ‘Believe me, Adam, when I say that if I could take away your pain, you know I would.’

  ‘I’m glad he’s in prison.’ Adam wished that man all the harm he’d caused his mother. ‘I hate him! I hope they never let him out.’

  Having momentarily dropped her guard, Miss Martin chose not to remark on what Adam had said. Instead, she abruptly returned to her formal self.

  ‘Now then, Adam! I have good news for you.’ Having got his attention, she informed him, ‘We have another foster family who, I hope, might give you the home you deserve … and before you get worried, you won’t be the only child, as in the previous home. This family already has two children: an eighteen-month-old baby girl and her nine-year-old sister. Oh, and a dog called Buster.’

  Having seen his face light up at the mention of a dog, she asked him, ‘Have you ever had a dog, Adam?’

  ‘No, Miss Martin. Phil has a dog, though. He takes it for walks every morning before he drives the school bus.’

  Adam’s whole manner had lightened, and for the moment he was not consciously thinking of his parents. ‘What kind of dog is it, Miss Martin?’

  ‘As I recall, Buster is a little brown terrier. That’s all I know. And that’s only because they asked if having a dog might stop them from fostering. But in actual fact, we sometimes welcome a pet of sorts. It helps the foster child to fit in. Mind you, if the child is nervous of pets, then that’s a different story. We would never send a child where he or she might feel threatened.’