Sweet as Honey (The Seven Sisters) (7 page)

“It started with shoplifting,” he carried
on. “The older guys would dare me to take stuff, and I did it because I wanted
to impress them, plus I never had pocket money, and it was a way to get sweets
and stuff for free.” A couple of guilty looks flashed around the classroom.
Yeah, he’d suspected as much.

“I left school at sixteen, before taking
any qualifications. Did a couple of odd jobs. Continued to hang around with the
boys because there was nothing else to do at night. Couldn’t afford to take a
girl out, unless I stole money, which I did occasionally, from my dad as well
as from shops.” He didn’t tell them about how he’d slept around, got into worse
fights—how he’d sunk farther and farther into a dark pit of despair where in
the end he barely thought himself worthy of any happiness—barely cared whether
he lived or died.

“Then, one night I got pressured into
joining in with a theft on a house. A rich guy, an accountant or something. One
of the guys knew he was away on business, and apparently he had all this
technology in his home, widescreen TVs, Playstations, X-Boxes, phones, you name
it. So we broke in.”

He paused. The students stared at him,
wide-eyed. His lips twisted as he remembered the anticipation that had turned
to panic and then fear. “We didn’t know that not only was the house alarmed, it
was linked to a security firm, and they called the police. I’d always wanted a
Playstation, and the guy had two—two! One in the bedroom and one in the living
room, as well as an X-Box. It seemed unfair—why should he have all these things
when I didn’t have anything? So I took one. Climbed out of the window and ran
off—straight into a policeman.”

“Shit,” said one of the boys, earning
himself a scolding from the teacher.

But Dex just laughed. “Yeah.”

“What happened to you? Did you go to
prison?”

He shook his head. “I was sixteen. And
stupid. And incredibly lucky. Because the policeman I ran into was part of a
programme that helped boys like me, and he recognised that I hated what I’d
sunk to. That I knew I could be better if only I could climb out of the pit,
you know?”

The Maori boy met his eyes for a moment
before he dropped his gaze. Yes, he knew.

“So what happened?” asked the girl.

“The policeman talked me into joining the
programme. He was the same age as my dad, but he seemed to care, where my dad
didn’t. He listened when I talked. And when I said I wanted to change, he
believed me.” As Dex thought about Charlie Randall, his throat tightened.
Charlie had been the sole reason for Dex turning his life around. His sudden,
shocking death from a heart attack two years before had been the reason Dex had
decided to leave Wellington behind and start again.

Dex continued, “He talked to me about
getting fit—about eating healthily and exercising, things I’d never been told
before. I worked hard, lost twenty pounds, ran every day, joined several sports
clubs, and grew fit and strong. I went back to school and got my level one
literacy and numeracy. And then Charlie suggested I apply for the Police Force.
I didn’t think I stood a chance, but he organised my referees, told me what to
expect and encouraged me, and to my amazement, I got in.”

Of course that wasn’t the whole story.
There were the gruelling interviews, the years of training, of self-doubt, of
having to prove himself, of being tempted by his old life, and of having to
fight to break away completely from the chains of the past that kept drawing
him back. But it was a start.

He glanced around the room, taking them all
in. “I’m not saying it’s easy. You have to work at it—nobody’s going to give
you anything in this life. But what I am saying is that there’s always a way
out. And if you want something badly enough, you shouldn’t use your past, or
your family, or your social status or your race or your sex or
anything
as an excuse, because you’re more than all those things. You’re better than
that.”

He was talking too much. He ran a hand
through his hair and hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Okay, enough from me. Any
questions?”

Every student in the class lifted a hand.

***

Half an hour later, he left the classroom
and walked back through the school and across the road, feeling light of
spirit. He hoped he hadn’t come across as preachy. He certainly hadn’t meant to
sound like that. He’d just wanted to pass on his absolute conviction that you
had to take control of your own life. He’d done it, Honey had done it—they’d
both overcome some terrible trials and tribulations to get where they were. But
perhaps life was all the sweeter for it.

Thinking of sweetness made him think of his
fiancée, and thinking of Honey made him smile. He put on his hat, reminding
himself to bring it with him on Saturday to the hotel for the wedding. She
wanted him to wear it on the honeymoon, and he had every intention of doing
whatever she desired in bed.

He wondered how she’d got on at the
courthouse. If she hadn’t been chosen, she should have been home by now, and he
was surprised he hadn’t heard from her. On impulse, he took out his phone and
sent her a quick text message.

As he clipped his phone shut, his gaze fell
on a woman leaning against his car. Arms folded, she watched his approach, her
posture calm, as if she’d expected him. Her long hair fell about her shoulders
in soft brown waves, and she wore a tiny pair of denim shorts and a skimpy
white top that emphasised her fantastic figure. She licked her lips as he
approached, and pushed herself off the car, saying, “Hey Dex.” She fanned her
hands out and made a jazz hands gesture. “Surprise.”

Fucking right, it was a surprise.

It was Cathryn.

The judge called lunch at one o’clock for
an hour. Honey bought a sandwich and a drink from the café near the courthouse
and sat in her car. She didn’t feel hungry, but she made herself nibble the
sandwich because she wasn’t sure how long the afternoon session would be.

In the end, though, she only ate one half,
the bread and chicken sitting uneasily on her churning stomach. It had been an
unsettling morning.

The defendant, Sarah Green, had taken the
stand. The defence lawyer had summarised the case and asked her to tell her
side of the story.

Honey had grown cold as Sarah related her
tale. Sarah had worked in the advertising department of a paper mill, and James
was a salesman at the same firm. She’d fallen for him the first moment she saw
him, and when he finally asked her out a few months after she started working
there, it was like a dream come true.

In the beginning, it had been wonderful.
She was deeply in love and he was attentive, loving, generous and caring. Yes,
he’d been possessive from the beginning, but she’d kind of liked that. What
woman didn’t like to be waited on hand and foot, to have her partner jealous
and protective of her? She’d come from a large family with parents who had no
time for her, and he had made her feel loved and wanted.

Yes, she knew some of the things he liked
to do were frowned on by modern women. Ordering for both of them in a
restaurant. Suggesting what clothes she should wear each day. Stopping her from
seeing her friends because he didn’t like them. Wiping her iPod free of the pop
songs she liked and replacing them with music he thought she should listen to.

She’d suppressed her unease, wanting to
please him, hating it when he got his dark, cold moods and refused to talk to
her, or even worse, when he grew angry and shouted at her. She loved him, and
she just wanted to make him happy.

But gradually it grew more and more
difficult. He seemed permanently irritable, snapping at everything she did or
said. She couldn’t do anything right. He hated her clothes, called her fat and
frumpy. She dieted hard to lose thirty pounds but he still didn’t like the way
she looked. She cut her hair and dyed it like one of the actresses he was
always going on about, even though she didn’t like her hair short. She cooked
him all his favourite meals, but he came home and said he’d already eaten.

And slowly the relationship turned
abusive—she could see that now. He’d yell at her until she was in tears, then
walk out and leave her, sometimes all night, and she never knew where he went.
Once she asked if he was having an affair and he grew enraged and threw a book across
the room in her direction that glanced off her cheek. It gave her a black eye,
although he swore he hadn’t aimed it at her. She never asked about other women again,
even though he regularly disappeared for several nights at a time.

The abuse grew worse—more mental than
physical, and she became depressed. She had so many days off that she lost her
job, but at least then she didn’t have to go out the house.

“Why did you stay with him?” asked the
lawyer.

“Because I loved him,” Sarah replied
simply. “And it takes a long time for love to erode.” And because she had
nowhere else to go. She hardly saw her family anymore. Her friends had all
drifted away. She had no savings and no job to pay for her own place. At least
with James she had a roof over her head and food in her belly. She grew to love
the nights he went out—she would watch her favourite programmes on TV, the ones
he hated and wouldn’t have on when he was home, and eat chocolate biscuits that
she’d smuggle in so he didn’t take them for himself.

But of course things couldn’t go on like
that. One night he came home drunk with lipstick on his cheek, and she lost her
temper and accused him once again of having an affair. They had a terrible
argument, and he said he was leaving. She begged him not to go, but he said he
was done, and he didn’t care if he never saw her again.

She spent several days in utter panic,
knowing he would want her out of the house that he was paying for,
alternatively relieved and upset, loving and hating him at the same time. The
house was in a rough part of the neighbourhood, and at night she’d have to lay
there alone listening to neighbours shouting, bottles breaking, the occasional
police siren. It hadn’t been as bad when she’d still been with James and he’d left
her alone at night because her neighbours knew him and left her alone, but once
he’d gone, she felt vulnerable and scared. Sometimes drunk men would bang on
the door, and once someone threw up on her doorstep. They’d been burgled
before, when they were out, and she was scared someone was going to break in to
steal her TV and maybe attack her while she lay in bed.

Then one night she heard someone fumbling at
the door. Terrified, she crept down the hall to the kitchen. She heard the
front door open and grabbed the nearest object to her, which happened to be a
knife. The intruder fumbled around the living room, stuffing objects into a
black bag. When he came closer, she lashed out with the blade, only realising as
he swore and yelled at her that it was James. He yelled at her and ran out of
the house, his hands and face covered in blood.

That was the last time she’d seen him. She
left the house and begged her parents to take her back. Since then she’d got
herself a job working the local supermarket and was trying to make a life for
herself.

Honey had listened to the sorry story with
rising nausea. She knew the other jurors would think Sarah sounded pathetic, a
victim, too weak to stand up to the bully she’d fallen for. They would find it
difficult to understand why she’d stayed with James, just as Dex and Honey’s
family had found it difficult to understand why she’d stayed with Ian for so
long. She hadn’t been able to explain to anyone that her own lack of confidence
and low self-worth meant she’d constantly blamed herself for the problems in
their relationship. It hadn’t been quite as bad as Sarah’s relationship with
James, but there were definite echoes. Honey sympathised with Sarah and knew
how difficult it must have been for her.

She stuffed the uneaten chicken sandwich
back in its wrapper and checked her watch. Still fifteen minutes to go before
she had to be back.

Taking on her phone, she saw she had two
messages. One from the wedding organiser checking the colour of the lilies for
the tables, and one from Dex.

She texted the wedding organiser back with
White,
please!
Then she read Dex’s message.

Ring me and let me know you’re okay
, it said, sent about half an hour ago.

Honey hesitated, wanting to speak to him but
not really wanting to talk about the case. But she missed him, and suddenly
longed to hear his voice.

In the end, she gave in and dialled his
number.

It took him about ten rings to answer, and
she was just about to leave a message on his answerphone.

“Hello?” he said.

Was it her imagination, or had he made that
one word sound irritable? “It’s me,” she said, flustered.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. She
thought she heard the scrape of a chair, a mumbled sentence to someone in the
room. Then he said, “Hi.”

He sounded strange. Or was it her
imagination?

“Are you busy?” she asked, as she did
whenever she rang him while he was on duty.

“Ah, no. Just taking a bit of lunch.”