Checkers

by John Marsden

  My beautiful crazy ugly Checkers, so full of life, so much spirit and energy.

  It was no wonder Dad wanted to turn the house into a fortress because the Vandals and Goths were at the drawbridge. It got quite scary. There were reporters and cameramen most days, sometimes one of each, sometimes two or three of each. A few weirdos turned up: a guy who explained over the intercom that he wanted to tell Dad how to dedicate his life to the One True Lord, another guy who said he had commercial information of enormous value to Dad and he would let him have it for $250 000, a woman who said she thought Dad was her real father who she’d been searching for since 1986. Some of the other directors of Rider Group, Dermot and Doug, and a Mr Brooks, who I didn’t know too well, got into the habit of calling around late at night, and they and Dad would sit in his office for hours drinking and talking, with the door shut and no-one else allowed in. Jack never came round, not once, and we didn’t go round there. I got the feeling that he and Dad weren’t getting on so well now.

  The next big story came with news that Jack had sold a large parcel of shares in Rider Group, which didn’t exactly help the situation. I don’t think Dad was too thrilled about that.

  On November the eighth the Standard ran a story about the Premier’s son. It said he was employed as a consultant by the American group who had advised Rider Group on their casino bid, and he’d been paid between three and four hundred thousand dollars. Everyone denied that and the Premier said he was taking legal action. Next day he and his son both issued writs against the Standard. On November the eleventh the Argus said Rider Group had illegally moved another twenty-eight million dollars offshore in September. November the fourteenth was a Sunday, but no rest for us. The Sunday Spectator had a big story that they advertised on TV all through the weekend. I think Dad and Jack tried to get an injunction to stop it, but they couldn’t. The story was an interview with a bloke who’d worked as a gardener at the Premier’s home, until he got the sack. He’d seen Dad on TV and he said he recognised him as a man who’d come to the Premier’s house one day around the middle of March. ‘I noticed him because of the way he acted,’ he said. ‘It was like he was being smuggled into the place. Mr Koneckny brought him through a side gate. It was the only time I ever saw that gate used. They went across the back of the tennis court and into the house through the laundry door. They were looking around all the time, like they didn’t want anyone to see them. They didn’t see me, because I was in the greenhouse, but the bloke I saw that day was the same man I saw on TV.’

  On November the fifteenth the Premier stood up in Parliament and made a statement that the evening news showed in full, and that the papers ran the next day: ‘Once and for all I do not know Mr Murray Warner. He has never visited my house. I have never discussed the casino or the business affairs of Rider Group with him. The gardener referred to in yesterday’s Spectator was dismissed from my employment for an unsatisfactory attitude to his work. If the Standard wishes to print these scurrilous stories from disaffected ex-employees they will have to face the legal consequences. I do not plan to spend the rest of the year answering these charges. This is my last word on the matter.’

  Then it was November the sixteenth. The day everything came to an end.

  I’d been walking Checkers, as usual. I was feeling funny: lonely and depressed. The neighbours didn’t seem to be talking to us the way they used to. My friends at school were getting kind of funny too, like wary, suspicious, and I sure wasn’t making any new friends. Dad never seemed to talk to anyone at home, and he wasn’t home much to talk to us anyway. Mum was weird: she’d taken to watching TV in an upstairs sitting room that no-one ever used. She sat there for hours every day with the lights off, just watching junk. She never used to watch TV before. When she wasn’t doing that she was in her room, asleep. Mark was at his friends’ practically fulltime and when he was home he stayed in his room, too. As a family we only came together at meals, and the conversation was just grunts, or sentences of two or three words.

  The ski trip had worked for a while to improve things, but the effect didn’t last long.

  So there I was, wandering back along the street, being towed by Checkers, who was tired but wasn’t going to admit it. We got to our place and I saw a reporter sitting on the bit of wall that they all seemed to choose. The stonework must have been nice and warm there. This guy was young, much younger than any others I’d seen. He looked about nineteen. He had long hair and this cool blue cap that was completely round and sat on his head like a cap on a bottle. He had a few pimples but they hardly showed. I admit I liked the look of him but he wasn’t taking any notice of me. He was looking at Checkers, staring at him, as though he was the greatest dog he’d ever seen. That attracted me to him, too: I liked people who liked Checkers.

  Above all, though, I think the reason I spoke to him was that I was so lonely.

  He kept staring at Checkers as we walked towards him, but then he sort of pulled himself together and looked at me.

  ‘Interesting dog,’ he said. ‘Very unusual looks.’

  I laughed. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘Well, I like him. He’s got a nice honest face.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘He’s still a pup, isn’t he?’

  ‘Oh yes. Just a kid.’

  ‘How long have you had him?’

  ‘Look,’ I said, because I’m not a complete fool, and I’d dealt with these guys before, ‘if you want to talk to my father you’re wasting your time. He won’t be home for hours, and he probably won’t talk to you when he does get here.’

  The guy looked quite hurt. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t trying to get around you. I really do like dogs.’

  Then I felt guilty—see, even then I suffered from that disease.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m just suspicious of all you guys now.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Some of them make me ashamed to be a journo. There’s some real animals in this business.’ He looked at Checkers. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to insult animals.’

  ‘Which paper are you from?’ I asked.

  ‘The Mail. Not the Standard. We haven’t given you too hard a time.’

  ‘You haven’t given us a good time,’ I said.

  He shrugged and looked away. ‘It’s a complicated business.’

  I went to unlock the gate.

  ‘Wait!’ he said, jumping up and putting out his arm. He seemed so anxious to stop me. ‘We don’t have to talk about Rider Group. It’s boring sitting out here. Let’s talk about something else. Your dog, if you want.’

  I admit I was flattered. And I suppose I thought if I got on well with this guy his paper might go easier on Dad.

  ‘What’s his name?’ the man asked.

  ‘Checkers.’

  He laughed, then stopped himself. ‘Sorry I laughed. It’s a perfect name in every way, I think. When did you get him?’

  ‘March.’

  ‘Oh yes? I’ve got a birthday in March. Which day’d you get him?’

  ‘The sixteenth.’

  ‘Oh. My birthday’s the twenty-third. So where’d you get him from?’

  ‘Oh, some friend of Dad’s. I don’t know exactly.’

  ‘Was he a pup when you got him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has he got any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘One, I think. What do you want to know so much about Checkers for?’

  ‘I told you, I like dogs.’ He started to take his camera out of his bag. He didn’t have a photographer with him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked nervously. ‘No photos.’

  ‘You don’t mind do you? It’s not for the paper.’

  ‘What, you want to take a photo of Checkers for your own collection? Come off it.’

  ‘Not Checkers,’ he said. ‘You.’

  My face burned. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘I’m not being stupid. You’re stunning. I’ve got a lot of friends in adve
rtising and modelling who’d kill to get a face like yours on their books. But, to be honest, I want to take it for myself. I don’t want to forget you in a hurry.’

  I didn’t know what to think. I was embarrassed, confused, but somewhere inside I was a bit pleased, I suppose thinking about how I could casually drop this into conversation at school tomorrow. I took my time unlocking the gate and he fired off four or five shots.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said. ‘Come on, Checkers.’

  The guy looked at his camera. ‘Only got one or two left,’ he said. ‘Might as well use them up.’

  He pointed the camera at Checkers and, as I dragged him through the gate, he took a series of photos; more like ten than one or two. ‘Must have had more film left than I thought,’ he said.

  I felt rude shutting the gate in his face, but I was still confused about him. So before I shut the gate I said, ‘My father normally gets home about eight o’clock. I’ll ask him to talk to you if you want, but you’ve got to promise to be nice to him.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, like he didn’t care any more, which was another thing that confused me.

  ‘You don’t want to talk to him now?’

  ‘No, I’ve got to get back to the office. Anyway eight o’clock’s too late for me.’ He was backing away towards his car then, with a quick wave, he went around to the driver’s door. Seemed like suddenly he was in a big hurry. I shrugged and closed the gate. I’d been attracted to him at first but now I was starting to think he was a bit strange. And I didn’t like the idea of his having photos of me.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Dad left for work about seven the next morning, which was late for him. But it seemed like almost no time before I heard his car again, in the driveway. There was a furious spitting of gravel and a squeal of tyres. The sounds, so angry and alien, frightened me. I jumped out of bed and ran to the front door and opened it. Dad was already on the veranda and coming straight at the door. If I hadn’t opened it I think he’d have gone through it. His face: I’d never seen him looking like that. It was black, dark with rage, shadowed. His lips were trembling. ‘Get out of my way,’ he said. He didn’t look at me. I could have been a shop dummy. He pushed me aside, violently. I fell backwards over the umbrella stand, against the wall. ‘What?’ I said. He was already down the hallway and going into the kitchen. I stood up again and put the umbrella stand upright, then followed him, nervously. When I came into the kitchen he had one of the cutlery drawers open and was fumbling through it. He pulled out a long sharp carving knife. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked him. He didn’t answer.

  I’d got up earlier to let Checkers out and I could hear him now, whining at the back door. Dad went to the door, and threw it open. He put his knee into Checkers, really brutally, to keep him out. ‘Don’t,’ I called, but I was too scared to go after him. He went outside, with Checkers. I couldn’t see what was happening. At that moment the phone rang. I picked up the kitchen one without even moving: it was right at my elbow. I heard Jack’s voice asking, ‘Who’s that?’ I told him. ‘You,’ he said. ‘You’ve done for us now, you stupid bitch. You and your stupid father.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, in a frightened whisper.

  ‘Have a look at the paper,’ he said. The line went dead. I remembered that Dad had dropped a newspaper as he was coming across the veranda. It was probably all over the front garden by now. I ran to get it. On the way I bumped into Mum.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘Why’s he back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ They’re the last words I’ve spoken to her. I came out onto the veranda. I was right about the paper: it was everywhere, so many sheets blowing around the lawn that it looked like a snowstorm. I grabbed at one: it was a page of classified ads.

  I let it go and ran around looking for the news section. From the back of the house came a terrible high-pitched squeal, a shriek that seemed to tear through my body. I felt like a dark cloud had come over the sky, over the house. I was in a state of terror, hysteria, I suppose. I grabbed at another sheet that blew past me and there it was: two photos of Checkers and a screaming headline. I stared at the huge black print, trying to read the words. Eventually I made sense of them: EXPLAIN THIS, MR PREMIER. Explain what? What did Checkers have to do with the Premier? I stared frantically at the page, wanting to work it out but wanting to rush out to the back garden, too, to see what terrible thing had happened, what had caused Checkers to utter that ghastly wail. I scanned the article, trying to take it in quickly, even as I was moving back to the front door, down the corridor.

  ‘The long reign of Bruce Scranton seems certain to come to an end late this morning. The Premier will face the party room at 11 a.m., and is expected to be presented with an ultimatum: resign or be sacked. And the cause of his downfall? A young black and white dog named Checkers. A dog that belongs to a man the Premier says he has never met.’ That was the opening. Then came another, smaller headline: DOG THE MISSING LINK IN CASINO INVESTIGATION. Under that the article began: ‘Months of rumour and innuendo about the Premier’s involvement with Rider Group came to a head last night when the teenage daughter of a Rider Group executive admitted to the Mail that the family’s pet dog was a personal gift from the Premier. The dog was handed over at a secret meeting between the Premier and Rider Group’s finance director, Murray Warner. The man the Premier still claims he has never met!’ Now I was shaking uncontrollably. JUDGE FOR YOURSELF, read the next heading. ‘The Premier’s dog and his brother! Can you tell them apart?’ Only then did I realise that the two photos I’d thought were of Checkers were of two dogs: Checkers and another one. They could have been twins: in fact, they were. ‘Faced with an unwanted puppy, from a litter of two, in March of this year, the Premier did what most of us do: gave one away to someone who owed him a favour. Someone who owed him a billion dollar favour! Someone who Premier Scranton has consistently claimed, both inside and outside Parliament, he has never met.’

  At the bottom of the page were all the previews of the stories on inside pages: BRUCE SCRANTON: SURVIVED FOURTEEN YEARS OF INQUIRIES AND ROYAL COMMISSIONS—BROUGHT DOWN BY A DOG: PAGE 2; MUTTON OR FULLATON TIPPED FOR TOP JOB: PAGE 3; WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO CASINO CONTRACT?: PAGE 4; THE WESTMINSTER TRADITION: MINISTERS WHO MISLEAD PARLIAMENT: PAGE 5; EDITORIAL: ONE SCANDAL TOO MANY: PAGE 22.

  I let the paper go, although later I was to get it back and read it compulsively, to make myself sick, like an itch that you scratch and scratch even though you know you’ll make it red and hot and sore. I never bothered denying all the lies in it. Come to think of it, no-one ever asked me whether I’d actually said all those things. I guess they just took it for granted that I had.

  I walked through the house to the kitchen. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. I walked past him and out through the door to the lawn. Checkers was lying there in a pool of blood. His face was contorted in its last spasm of agony and fear and confusion. I sat there in the blood and cradled him, rocking him to sleep.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I don’t know if talking in Group helped. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. That was funny; I hadn’t expected that. I talked for about a week. Well, it seemed like that to me. I know it wasn’t quite that way, but it seemed . . .

  Oh well. It doesn’t matter.

  That was more than three weeks ago. Since then I suppose I’ve been a bit better. They seem to think so here, Marj and Dr Singh and Sister Llosa. They’ve put me on the Patients’ Committee, for instance. I get to welcome new patients, collect suggestions to improve the place, listen to complaints about the food, stuff like that.

  There sure have been plenty of new patients to welcome. I’m the only one left of our little group. Ben went home. I don’t think he was much better, or that he’d learnt much, but he went home anyway. Esther went to live with her grandmother, the one she doesn’t like, and her father. Her mother said she wanted some time to herself, so Esther couldn’t go to her. Emine went home. She was rea
lly nervous about it but it was her decision: she didn’t want to stay here any longer.

  Daniel went home three days ago. He was good: his showers were down to ten minutes, which makes them shorter than mine. Maybe he passed his disease on to me. Oliver went home today. That was awful. I’ve been dreading it for more than a week. I didn’t cry in front of him but God, I bawled my eyes out after he’d gone. I don’t love him or anything like that: it’s just that he became my best friend, so close to me that I could tell him anything.

  He gave me his phone number and all that stuff. I’ll ring him tomorrow. I hope we can talk. The nurses say that friendships formed in here don’t usually survive outside. I hope they’re wrong.

  I miss them all, Ben and Cindy and Oliver and Emine and Esther and Daniel, I miss them all. They became my brothers and sisters.

  And now I go around the place welcoming their replacements.

  They’re not too easy to welcome, though. They’re so nervous, so messed up when they come in here. I go into their rooms to introduce myself and tell them how the place works and most of them look at me like I’m an axe murderer or serial killer, like, if they make a false move I’ll attack them with my ballpoint pen. I don’t blame them. I was that way, too. Being in a psych hospital, God, I just knew they were going to put me in a padded cell or a straitjacket and leave me here for twenty years.