“Why are you here?” he asked the nearest boy, the one who’d been suspected of marijuana dealing.
The boy glared at him. “I’ve as much right to be here as anyone else.”
“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise,” Dex said wryly. “What I meant is, why are you interested in joining the force?”
The boy glanced across at his mate, who smirked.
Dex’s heart sank, but he made himself smile. “I see. Missing science are we?”
“Phys Ed,” said one of the boys. “Too hot to run around.”
Dex glanced at the others.
“English,” a couple said guiltily. “Geography,” said another. A few others insisted they really were interested in joining, but he suspected it was more out of politeness than anything.
“Okay,” he said. “So let me ask you something else. Why aren’t you interested in joining?”
The boy nearest him shrugged. “They won’t want me. They just want white fellas.”
“Well that’s rubbish for a start,” Dex said. “We run special programmes to encourage young Maori men and women like yourselves to join, and I know half a dozen great Maori officers.”
The boy shrugged again. “They won’t want me. I’ve been in trouble.”
Dex hesitated. He didn’t talk much about his past. He’d had to declare it when he applied to the Force, of course, and without the support of his mentor, he didn’t think he’d have made it through the interviews. And of course Honey knew, and therefore probably did most of her family, although they’d never mentioned it. But he never spoke about it to his friends, maybe because he was worried of their reaction—that they’d treat him differently if they knew.
But he was here to reach out to these young men and women. And how could he do that if he didn’t tell it like it was?
“You want to know why I joined?” he asked.
The boy shrugged, but a flicker of interest crossed his features.
Dex tried not to look at the teacher listening intently to one side of the classroom. “I got into trouble when I was sixteen.”
They all stared at him.
“What kind of trouble?” asked the boy in front of him.
“Theft.” Dex cleared his throat. Then he sighed. What did it matter? It was all in the past. “I come from Wellington. My parents separated when I was eight and my mum moved back to England, where she was born. My two brothers and I lived with my dad. All he wanted was for us to be quiet around the house and help out with his painting business at the weekend. He didn’t really care how we did at school—he never came to parents’ evenings or read our reports or anything.”
A couple of the boys nodded, clearly associating with that image.
“I didn’t do well at school,” he continued. “I was fairly bright, but I couldn’t see the point in bothering. I was never going to go to university—we didn’t have the money and, well, there was no encouragement. I knew I’d never be a lawyer or a doctor. I knew I’d probably end up working for my dad, maybe one day run the business with him.”
“Yeah,” said one of the boys, “teachers are always going on about university but my folks aren’t never gonna have that kind of money, so why bother?”
“That’s what I thought,” Dex said, hoping the teacher wasn’t sending him daggers. “So I never did homework, and I hung around with other kids who didn’t work either. Mostly friends of my brothers—older boys. Did graffiti. Got into fights. Drank. Smoked a lot of weed.” He could almost feel the teacher’s eyes on his back, but he ignored her. For the first time, all the kids in the room were engaged.
“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 tri
bulations 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.
Chapter Eight
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.”
Still, his words were stilted. Perhaps he was working through his lunch break. It wouldn’t be the first time. “I won’t keep you,” she said. “Just wanted to let you know I’m okay. I did get picked though.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
“I know. Hardly anyone turned up! Typical.”
“Couldn’t you ask the judge to excuse you?” he said.
She shifted awkwardly. “It’s a bit late now. The case has started.”
“Honey, honestly. You should have told the judge once you were chosen—I’m sure he would have excused you.” He sounded irritated that she hadn’t thought of that herself.
She frowned and scraped at a mark on the steering wheel. “It’s my civic duty. I wanted to do it.” It was partly true. To be honest, it hadn’t entered her head that she could have asked to be excused after she’d been chosen. And now she was stuck there for the next few days. The judge had said the evidence would be presented over Monday, Tuesday and possibly Wednesday, and then they would have to make their decision. She could be there until the end of the week!
“What’s the case about?” he asked.
She hesitated. “I’m not supposed to say.”
He gave a barely suppressed sigh. “Fair enough.”
She flushed, even though he couldn’t see her. “It’s the rules, Dex. I’m not supposed to discuss it with anyone.”
“Not even the guy you’re marrying at the end of the week?”
She couldn’t tell if he was amused or irritated. “You are a police officer,” she pointed out. “You could have been involved the night it happened.”
Sweet as Honey (The Seven Sisters) Page 5
