Checkers (8 page)

Checkers was not the brightest dog there was, I've never claimed that for him. Actually he was pretty dumb in a lot of ways. Finding the rabbit at Clifford College, that was about the smartest thing he did. He did an awful lot of dumb things. He nearly gave me a heart attack one day when we were in the park and I suddenly realised he'd taken off and gone right across the street and was sniffing around the Mannings' place. Without thinking I called him and for once he spun around and came racing straight back. What I hadn't noticed was a car and trailer coming along the street, quite fast. Checkers saw the car: that wasn't the problem. The problem was, he didn't see that it was towing something. He swerved around the back of the car and looked like he was going to run full pelt into the trailer. At the very last second, though, he saw it and somehow managed to launch himself through the gap. Talk about timing. I wish I'd had a camera. Considering the speed of the car, I don't know how he did it, but I don't think a hair on his body was touched.

I suppose I was the dumb one really, calling him without making sure the road was clear.

But no, he was no genius, Checkers. What he had, and what I loved about him, was his happiness, his friendliness, his loyalty. He bounced through life, looking for another adventure, another game, another person to love and lick and fuss over. Those crazy black and white squares: you could see them a mile away, spreading chaos and confusion. It wasn't just Muggins, the Whites' cat, who suffered. Down the street were the Owens, who had two borzois, dogs that looked like they belonged on the front cover of
Home and Garden
. They were perfectly groomed, perfectly beautiful, and perfectly boring. I never had Checkers on a leash in Argyle Street because it's such a quiet neighbourhood and every time we walked along it, Checkers would make a point of trotting across the road to the Owens' house and barking through the high fence at their dogs. There'd be an immediate eruption inside as the two borzois barked their lungs out. Checkers, having stirred them up, would trot happily away again, a look of quiet satisfaction on his face. For five minutes or more, until we were a couple of blocks away, I'd hear the barking of the beautiful boring borzois. I thought Checkers and I were doing the dogs a big favour, giving them the only moment of excitement in their day, but the Owens, who were as stupid and boring as their dogs, didn't agree. They complained to Dad, and I had to take a different route with Checkers.

I knew I felt bad about Checkers' death but I don't think I even knew myself how bad I felt until I said it in Group. And I didn't realise I felt guilty about it. Since Group, everyone keeps telling me that I shouldn't feel guilty—but it doesn't seem to help much. What you feel is what you feel.

When the snow holiday was over we went back to living in a fortress. And it really did become one. Dad had always refused to have a lot of security. ‘If they're going to get in, they're going to get in,' he said. That's what he used to say. Now we had a remote control lock, intercom, video camera at the front and back gates, a new security fence all around the property, and burglar alarms with flashing blue lights and loud sirens. A security company drove past about six times every night, and we had panic buttons to press that called them instantly if we ever needed them.

It was horrible. It made the house dark and horrible. I didn't look forward to coming home any more and used to stay at school longer and longer in the afternoons.

For once Dad started to think getting Checkers might have been a good idea, because now Checkers could qualify as a guard dog. He probably became a tax deduction.

Checkers had gone berserk when we picked him up from the kennels. ‘He was very good,' the lady said, ‘no trouble at all.' But he'd lost weight. When we arrived to get him I saw him before he saw me. He was lying in his cage, on the strip at the front, with his nose almost under the gate and a little damp patch where he'd been breathing onto the concrete. I gave my special whistle that he always recognised, and his head shot up like he'd just touched a live wire with his tongue. He looked around wildly, his big eyes staring, trying to work out where the sound had come from. Then he saw me and he was on his feet whining and wagging his whole bottom, not just his tail. He kept pawing at the gate with his foot. When the woman started unlocking the gate, Checkers was down on his forepaws, still whining, like he couldn't, wouldn't, believe this was true until he was actually out. Then he got a glimpse of freedom. That was all it took. The woman had to sway out of the way as this mad collection of black and white leapt straight at my face. I ended up sitting on the concrete myself as Checkers climbed all over me, licking my face, making little crying noises, his welcome breath hot on my skin. It took about five minutes to get a lead on him. When I did, he dragged me to the car like I was a sled and he was a husky in a hurry to get to the South Pole.

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 advertising 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.'