Checkers (9 page)

‘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.

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.

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 really 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.

For example, I've learned not to stand between new patients and the doors of their rooms—even that makes them nervous.

The most common question here has always been ‘what are you in for?' but I never ask it too soon. I figure you've got to get to know people a bit first. Not like Daniel: he loved asking. He couldn't wait to find out. Half the time he just got stupid answers though. Cindy used to say she was allergic to pumpkin.

Some people say they've got the ‘s' word: that's schizophrenia. Some people say they've got the ‘a' word: that's anorexia. Some people just say ‘Depression'. Some people just show you the scars on their wrists.

But gradually, no matter what they say, you figure it out. So now we have Beth who's got bulimia. There's Tony, who's in a wheelchair, but he's meant to be really violent. There's Jacqui, who's been expelled from four schools and run away from home a hundred times. There's Nick, who gets panic attacks and can't breathe. There's Tanya, who cuts herself, not like slashing her wrists, but just, I don't know, because she wants to, I suppose. And there's a new girl, I don't know her name or what she's here for. I guess she's replacing Oliver. She came in a couple of hours ago. Tomorrow I'll have to go and do my welcoming routine: ‘Good morning and welcome to the funny farm. We hope you enjoy your stay. This resort has everything you could ever ask for, including Mr Miles who'll try to take you into the Mens' so he can grope you and Max who thinks the CIA are after him and Bernadette, who'll wake you up in the middle of the night trying to strangle you. Don't worry though, she's not strong enough to do it. Have a nice day.'

I think if I had anywhere to go they'd probably discharge me pretty soon, too. But with Dad not getting bail and Mum still not capable of looking after herself, let alone anyone else, they're not quite sure what to do with me. I'll probably do like Mark and go to boarding school. I don't know about the holidays. I think Mark's going to stay with friends from Clifford College. Probably Josh. Mark's lucky; he's still got friends from his old school. I don't think I do. It's two months since I heard from anyone from my school.

Maybe I'll just stay here forever, welcoming people and saying goodbye to people. I might be the first permanent member of the Patients' Committee. Safe in here, safe and secure, protected from the piranhas, not having to think about my family and my friends and how I killed my darling dog, Checkers.

You are invited to spend a few days with John Marsden at one of Australia's most beautiful properties.

The Tye Estate is just 25 minutes from Melbourne's Tullamarine Airport, and is perfectly set up for writing camps and other activities.

Every school holidays, John takes writing and drama camps, where you can improve your skills, make new friends, expand your thinking, and have a huge heap of fun.

Accommodation is modern and comfortable; meals are far removed from the shepherd's pie they gave you at your last school camp, and supervision is by friendly and experienced staff.

Between the workshops with John, you can explore 850 acres of spectacular bush, looking out for rare and highly endangered species like Tiger Quolls and Powerful Owls, as well as koalas, platypuses, wedgetail eagles, kangaroos and wallabies.

Mountain bikes, bushwalking, orienteering, and a picnic at nearby Hanging Rock, are among the highlights of your memorable stay at the Tye Estate.

School groups in term time are also welcome.

For details, write to:

The Tye Estate

RMB 1250

ROMSEY

VICTORIA 3434

Or fax: (61) 03 54 270395

Phone: (61) 03 54 270384

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