I count myself fortunate that I don’t have many regrets, but I do have one that stands head and shoulders above all the others.

I met Ray when I was 18. He was nine years older than me; short, weedy, mulleted, kind of weasly, still living at home with his mum, cleaning cars and pumping gas for a living, and the owner of a wonderful 1970 metallic blue Holden Brougham, which despite being a Holden (I was a Ford girl back then, through and through) more than made up for Ray’s shortcomings.

He was parked up on Queen Street one Saturday night, and when he offered to take me for a spin I couldn’t resist. In my circle of boyracers and their girl followers, the kudos of being in the passenger seat of such a car was almost as good as driving it.

Ray played it cool, and even let me drive that night. Oh how I revelled in the throaty gurgle of the Brougham’s V8 as I roared past my friends watching on the roadside. How cool was I!

We started going out, and Ray treated me well. He was generous and paid for everything, charming my friends and convincingly playing the part of the cheeky, happy-go-lucky man about town. He even let me borrow his beloved Brougham to go cruising on a Saturday night with my friends will he pumped gas at a Shell Station in Grey Lynn. In my eyes, he was quite the catch.

Then, six months or so into our relationship, his ex appeared outside my work. I was on my way to catch my bus, and she stepped out in front of me,

“You know who I am don’t you,” she said. I nodded, even though I never met Debbie, I had seen her photo. Her and Ray had two kids together, but her rampant jealously and erratic moods had been too much for him to cope with, so they had split up the year before.

“I don’t think you and Ray will last. He’s supposed to be with me. He still is! Just let him go, ok?” Debbie was nervous; her hands shook and she kept dragging on her cigarette and looking furtively over my shoulder, as if she expected to be seen off by somebody.

Flustered, I just nodded, and she walked off, head down. I told Ray but he just laughed it off. “Crazy bitch,” he said,”It’s just the sort of shit she does. Forget about it.”

But Debbie was to keep appearing in my life (I was later to find out that Ray would frequently pop in on the pretense of visiting the kids and end up sleeping with her – yep, no wonder she was so screwed up…). She turned up at work again, this time fronting up to reception and asking for me. I asked a work colleague to tell her to go away, and every time I left the building my heart would be thumping, looking out for her.

Then there was the handbags at dawn scene in the supermarket, and later on that year, Debbie turned up on the doorstep with a carving knife, screaming for me to come out, and when I wouldn’t, she began kicking the side of my car, wailing and crying, all with the two kids watching in horror from her car across the street. Only when the police turned up did she back off. I was petrified, but again Ray urged me to forget about it, and said she wouldn’t really hurt me, but deep down I knew he was just too weak to stand up to her and nothing was ever going to change.

Meanwhile, our relationship was deteriorating. Ray was becoming jealous and suspicious of me if I wanted to spend time with friends, or do anything without him and he would interrogate and pick arguments for hours afterwards, constantly baiting and sniping at me.

I withdrew, and Ray’s arguments and accusations esclated to throwing-matches, and then began to include a nastier, silent kind of bullying. We’d be out with friends, and I’d be too quiet for his liking so he would squeeze my hand until I could feel the bones grating, just to punish me. Once we were home, he’d punch walls and threaten me, push me, never hitting me but coming oh-so-close to it.

The carving knife incident was the final straw, and I moved out of the flat one day while he was at work and went back home to live – to the huge relief of all my family and most of my friends. Ray rang me constantly, pleading for me to return but even as a niave 19 year old, I knew he was bad for me. He started hanging round my neighbourhood and followed me home one night. Nobody was there, and he began hammering on the door to let him in, he only wanted to talk. I cracked it open to tell him to leave, and he barged in, grabbing me, yelling at me that no-one was going to leave him like that, who did I think I was? I managed to shove him out the door, but that wasn’t the last I saw of him.

A couple of months later I moved into a flat with my friends T and Paul, and we decided that we’d have the mother of all housewarming parties that night. I’d had plenty to drink, and was dancing in the lounge when Ray appeared in the doorway. He pulled me through to the back the house and I pleaded with him to go, just leave me alone, I was never coming back to him. He pushed me into the toilet and grabbed me by the throat, and crushed me up against the wall, his eyes bulging, shouting furiously in my face how much of a c**t I was, how much he hated me, did I think I was going to get away with this? I screamed and screamed, tears and snot running down my face as Ray’s hand tightened harder and harder round my neck.

Paul bashed through the toilet door at that moment, and he and a couple of mates grabbed Ray and took him out on the street. I don’t know what they did to Ray that night, but I never saw him again.

Till three weeks ago, Tuesday. Standing on the corner of John Street and Cameron, still with his stringy blonde mullet and weedy frame and faded black jeans. His face was haggard and wrinkled, but I instantly recognised him.

I turned and walked the other way, as quickly as I could, heart pounding in my chest, memories and fear and regret surging through me.

“I don’t think you and Ray will last. He’s supposed to be with me. He
still is! Just let him go, ok?” Debbie was nervous; her hands shook and
she kept dragging on her cigarette and looking furtively over my
shoulder, as if she expected to be seen off by somebody.

Flustered,
I just nodded, and she walked off, head down. I told Ray but he just
laughed it off. “Crazy bitch,” he said,”It’s just the sort of shit she
does. Forget about it.”

But Debbie was to keep appearing in my
life (I was later to find out that Ray would frequently pop in on the
pretense of visiting the kids and end up sleeping with her – yep, no
wonder she was so screwed up…). She turned up at work again, this
time fronting up to reception and asking for me. I asked a work
colleague to tell her to go away, and every time I left the building my
heart would be thumping, looking out for her.

Then there was the
handbags at dawn scene in the supermarket, and later on that year,
Debbie turned up on the doorstep with a carving knife, screaming for me
to come out, and when I wouldn’t, she began kicking the side of my car,
wailing and crying, all with the two kids watching in horror from her
car across the street. Only when the police turned up did she back off.
I was petrified, but again Ray urged me to forget about it, and said
she wouldn’t really hurt me, but deep down I knew he was just too weak
to stand up to her and nothing was ever going to change.

Meanwhile,
our relationship was deteriorating. Ray was becoming jealous and
suspicious of me if I wanted to spend time with friends, or do anything
without him and he would interrogate and pick arguments for hours
afterwards, constantly baiting and sniping at me.

I withdrew,
and Ray’s arguments and accusations esclated to throwing-matches, and
then began to include a nastier, silent kind of bullying. We’d be out
with friends, and I’d be too quiet for his liking so he would squeeze
my hand until I could feel the bones grating, just to punish me. Once
we were home, he’d punch walls and threaten me, push me, never hitting
me but coming oh-so-close to it.

The carving knife incident was
the final straw, and I moved out of the flat one day while he was at
work and went back home to live – to the huge relief of all my family
and most of my friends. Ray rang me constantly, pleading for me to
return but even as a niave 19 year old, I knew he was bad for me. He
started hanging round my neighbourhood and followed me home one night.
Nobody was there, and he began hammering on the door to let him in, he only wanted to talk.
I cracked it open to tell him to leave, and he barged in, grabbing me,
yelling at me that no-one was going to leave him like that, who did I
think I was? I managed to shove him out the door, but that wasn’t the
last I saw of him.

A couple of months later I moved into a flat
with my friends T and Paul, and we decided that we’d have the mother of
all housewarming parties that night. I’d had plenty to drink, and was
dancing in the lounge when Ray appeared in the doorway. He pulled me
through to the back the house and I pleaded with him to go, just leave
me alone, I was never coming back to him. He pushed me into the toilet
and grabbed me by the throat, and crushed me up against the wall, his
eyes bulging, shouting furiously in my face how much of a c**t I was,
how much he hated me, did I think I was going to get away with this? I
screamed and screamed, tears and snot running down my face as Ray’s
hand tightened harder and harder round my neck.

Paul bashed
through the toilet door at that moment, and he and a couple of mates
grabbed Ray and took him out on the street. I don’t know what they did
to Ray that night, but I never saw him again.

Till three weeks
ago, Tuesday. Standing on the corner of John Street and Cameron, still
with his stringy blonde mullet and weedy frame and faded black jeans.
His face was haggard and wrinkled, but I instantly recognised him.

I
turned and walked the other way, as quickly as I could, heart pounding
in my chest, memories and fear and regret surging through me.