The Labrador Pact Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  talk

  normal

  pleasure

  The Labrador Pact: Duty Over All

  garden

  retrieval

  powder

  mess

  everywhere

  The Labrador Pact: Prepare for changes in human behaviour

  happy

  power

  mirror-girl

  voice

  meal

  phone

  gravity

  trouble

  dream

  sound

  whimper

  The Labrador Pact: Learn from your elders

  good

  principles

  cleaning

  sign

  resistance

  pattern

  africa

  shoes

  The Labrador Pact: Prediction equals protection

  saliva

  The Labrador Pact: Resist the Springers

  sigh

  smell-heap

  horlicks

  rescuers

  missy

  chop

  hard

  sniff

  face

  stick

  letter

  The Labrador Pact: Observe everything

  snip

  slippery

  devil

  stroke

  The Labrador Pact: Preserve the secrecy of the mission

  ruler

  marriage

  leaking

  safe

  pretty

  learning

  holes

  The Labrador Pact: Protect one Family, protect all

  changing

  england

  bush

  signals

  naked

  paw

  someone

  The Labrador Pact: Never deter others from their mission

  night

  blood

  shakespeare

  property

  The Labrador Pact: You are always in control

  laughter

  bully

  problem

  victims

  hearing

  trousers

  charlotte

  radiator

  superdog

  carpet

  mad

  nice

  fur

  bag

  back

  damage

  suicide

  stairs

  toilet

  video

  The Labrador Pact: Never resort to violence

  connections

  control

  precious

  nature

  flash

  paradise

  responsibility

  ropes

  clouds

  breathe

  mistakes

  adventure

  The Labrador Pact: Never betray your master’s trust

  rock

  existence

  collar

  thread

  sex

  The Labrador Pact: Never sniff for pleasure

  smell

  brakes

  soil

  news

  killer

  henry

  The Labrador Pact: Have faith in the Eternal Reward

  muzzle

  Also by Matt Haig

  The Dead Fathers Club

  Copyright © Matt Haig, 2004

  All rights reserved

  Originally published in Great Britain as The Last Family in England by Jonathan Cape, Random House.

  Publisher’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s

  imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business estab-lishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

  Haig, Matt, 1975-

  [Last family in England]

  Laborador Pact : a novel / Matt Haig.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-0-670-01852-9

  1. Labrador retriever—Fiction. 2. Dogs—Fiction. 3. Duty—Fiction. 4. Loyalty—Fiction. 5. Middle-class

  families—England—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6108.A39L37 2008

  823’.92—dc22

  2007019557

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Andrea

  The first role of a father and husband is to keep his family safe

  David Beckham

  Wisdom cries out in the streets and no man regards it

  William Shakespeare

  talk

  Dogs like to talk.

  We are talking all the time, non-stop. To each other, to humans, to ourselves. Talk, talk, talk. Of course, we do not talk like humans. We do not open our mouths and say things the way humans do. We cannot. We see the harm this causes. We know words, we understand everything, we have language, but our language is one which is continuous, one which does not stop when we decide to close our jaws. During every sniff, every bark, every crotch nuzzle, every spray of a lamppost, we are speaking our minds.

  So if you want the truth, ask the dog.

  Not that humans always hear us. Not that they always think we would have anything worthwhile to say. They command, we listen. Sit. Stay. Walkies. Here. Fetch. That is all the conversation we are allowed. All that most humans can cope with.

  But we are not deterred. I mean, other breeds may get pretty pissed off about the situation and sometimes have to resort to a language humans can understand. As for the Labradors, we are willing to wait. And besides, we get to learn more this way. We get to sit and listen to it all. We hear the lies and smell the truth. Especially in Families.

  After all, who but the dog knows the whole picture? Who but the dog can sit and watch reality unfold behind each bedroom door? The role play in front of the mirror, the whimpers under the duvet, the never-ending interrogation of their hairless bodies? We are the only witnesses.

  And we are there when they are ready to pour out their hearts. When they are ready to reveal their unspoken loves.

  We are always there. Listening to everything and talking our silent words of comfort.

  normal

  When I woke up this morning it was as if nothing had happened.

  For those first few hazy moments I felt almost normal, the way I used to feel, before the Hunters had come under threat. But as the empty shoes by the back door slowly slipped into focus, a wave of nausea passed over me. Everything came back. Most of all, the pungent taste of blood returned to my throat, and I craved the time when I didn’t realise exactly what it cost to keep the Family safe.

  Then, following the fear, there was a strange sense of relief as I remembered what was going to happen today.

  As I remembered I was going to die.

  pleasure

  We are on the pavement outside Nice Mister Vet’s when Ada
m crouches down next to me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Prince,’ he says, his hand resting on my collar. ‘This is all my fault.’

  I try to tell him that everything, in fact, is down to me. But of course, he doesn’t understand. He pushes the door open and everyone looks around as the bell goes. Adam walks towards the desk, but no one is there. While we wait, I feel the attention of every other dog, marking my scent.

  I can smell another Labrador, behind me, but I don’t turn to look. Instead, I glance quickly at those dogs sitting with their masters along the far wall. A three-legged Alsatian. A border collie, biting air. An Old English sheepdog, laughing to himself from behind a shaggy veil of white hair. There is a cat too, hissing from behind her cage door.

  Surely nobody can know why I am here; it is too early.

  Another scent floats over towards me, sick-sweet perfume.

  The woman behind the desk is now here, although I cannot see her.

  ‘It’s er, Mister Hunter,’ Adam says, before gesturing to me. ‘With Prince. We’re due at half nine.’

  The woman flicks through pages. ‘Mister Hunter. Nine thirt-’ She stops suddenly, and leans over her desk to get a closer look. Her face is a vast expanse of hairless flesh, painted orange. ‘Shouldn’t he have a muzzle?’ The voice is now tight with anxiety.

  ‘He’s fine,’ Adam says, offering a weak smile to some of the other humans in the room. ‘He’s been here before and there’s never been a problem. He’s always been . . . a good dog.’

  There is a silence. But it is not really a silence at all, because sounds of pain and distress are making their way from the next room.

  ‘We have a muzzle here,’ says the woman.

  ‘Oh.’ I sense he wants to defend me further, but doesn’t know how.

  ‘Only it’s the policy, you know, for dangerous dogs.’

  ‘Um, OK.’

  She hands Adam the muzzle and he crouches down again, this time offering no sympathy. I don’t blame him though. Not at all. He will never be able to comprehend any of this.

  The muzzle is tight around my nose and blocks out smell.

  ‘Right,’ Adam says. ‘Come on, boy.’ I can sense that he is close to tears, but he is just about holding himself together.

  He sits down in the only available chair, placing me directly next to the Labrador whose scent I had picked up before. I can tell she is young, younger than me, and that she is not seriously ill.

  ‘Duty over all,’ she says, sniffing the side of my face.

  ‘Duty over all,’ I sniff back, through the muzzle, hoping for no further interaction.

  She sniffs me some more, then sits back down. ‘You’re the one,’ she says. ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I tell her, although I am worried that I do.

  She looks around, to check none of the other dogs are listening: ‘You’re the one who broke the Labrador Pact.’

  I swallow. I want to lie to her. I am going to lie to her. But she will realise I am lying and then there will be more questions. And there are a lot of other animals here, holding up my death. The interrogation could go on for ever.

  So I tell her the truth. I tell her: ‘Yes, I am.’

  I look at her face. She looks as though someone has just yanked her tail.

  ‘Why? What made you do it?’

  ‘It’s a long -’ Before I have time to finish, the door opens. The bell rings. It’s a Springer spaniel, yanking his master forward.

  The moment he spots me, his nose twitches. Smelling my guilt he starts to bark: ‘It’s him! It’s him!’

  His master tries to calm him down. ‘Shush, Murdoch! Shush!’

  But of course, Murdoch pays no notice and carries on barking. ‘It’s him! It’s him! The one who broke the Labrador Pact!’

  The other dogs are now joining in.

  ‘It’s him!’ barks the three-legged Alsatian.

  ‘It’s him!’ yaps the border collie.

  ‘It’s him!’ chuckles the Old English sheepdog.

  Murdoch is now playing to the crowd. ‘The Labradors are in crisis! The Pact is a joke! Dogs for dogs, not for humans!’ He starts to choke on his collar. ‘Pleasure not duty!’

  ‘Pleasure not duty!’

  ‘Pleasure not duty!’

  ‘Pleasure not duty!’

  The cat is circling her cage in fright, hissing more violently than before.

  ‘Could everyone please keep their pets under control!’ says the woman behind the desk. But despite the efforts of the humans, the barking just gets louder.

  ‘Can’t you see?’ says the Labrador next to me. ‘Can’t you see what you’ve done? The Springers will think they’ve won! Labradors will start to lose faith! There will be anarchy!’

  As if to illustrate her point, Murdoch slips his lead, jumps up onto the desk and starts licking the paint from the woman’s orange face.

  ‘I’m sorry, I never meant to betray the Pact,’ I say, as much to myself as my fellow Labrador. ‘But there was no other way.’

  ‘No other way?’

  ‘The Pact wasn’t enough.’ I turn and look at her and then at Adam, who is attempting to shield my ears from the noise.

  ‘But why?’ Although she is inevitably upset by my blasphemy, I can see she genuinely wants to understand. And, as the noise and chaos continue around us, I realise for the first time that there may still be hope for the humans.

  With that thought in mind, I begin to answer her question.

  The Labrador Pact: Duty Over All

  The happiness and security of human Families depends on sacrifice.

  Our sacrifice.

  We are the last dogs to understand the need for duty over all. We are the last to realise that human Families hold the key to our future survival. Never has the task of maintaining a harmonious Family environment been more difficult, yet never has it been more vital.

  Labradors must devote every aspect of their lives to protecting their masters if we are to gain the Eternal Reward. If one Labrador fails in their task, the whole mission is placed in jeopardy.

  Fewer Families now have dogs to protect them, and fewer still have Labradors. This means our influence over human society could soon begin to wane. In order to prevent this dreadful situation, every single Labrador, whether within a Family or not, must have their masters’ best interests at heart.

  If we surrender to our instincts and neglect those who provide for us, we will never be reunited with our own Families in the after-life. We must therefore be permanently aware of the ultimate truth: that to give up on humans is to give up on ourselves.

  garden

  I was in the garden with Adam.

  On my side, in the middle of the grass, loving the sun and the warm breeze. With my ear to the ground I could pick up, deep below, the gentle pulse of the earth. Paa-dah. Paa-dah. Paa-dah.

  Adam did not hear the sounds of the earth. He was in the middle of wrestling with a rosebush. And, even though he was armed with metal snippers, the rosebush clearly had the upper hand.

  ‘Agh. Shit. Jesus. Agh. Bloody. Christ,’ he said as thorned stems took the necessary defensive action. Eventually, although a few snips had been successful, he stood back and admitted defeat.

  ‘I don’t know, boy, I don’t know,’ he told me, drying his brow with the back of a gloved hand. One quick, squinted look towards the sun and then he was back, bending down and grappling with softer targets.

  Snip, snip, snip.

  Making sure Nature knew her place.

  retrieval

  Later, when the darkness came, Adam took me for my evening walk.

  The park was full of teenage humans, sitting on the wall. They did this every week; they just came and sat.

  Adam didn’t get too close. He had taught some of them at school and I think he preferred not to be recognised. So he stuck to the other side of the park, looking for sticks.

  I saw one before he did, of suitable length, and used my nose to draw attention. He
smiled, faintly, and stroked the back of my neck as he picked it up.

  ‘OK, Prince. OK.’

  After a couple of dummy-throws, he swung his arm above his shoulder and released the stick. I started to run, fast, as it flew through the air, up towards the sky. As I ran, I watched it all the way, even when flowers hit my chest, watching, waiting for it to reach the highest point, where it paused, motionless, before heading back down - fast, faster - until it met the ground in front of me with an awkward bounce. Before it came to rest, the stick was between my teeth, and I was jogging back towards Adam, triumphant.

  We then went through the cycle two more times. Throw. Catch. Retrieve. Throw. Catch. Retrieve. Both of us gaining equal pleasure in the activity. For me it was about the retrieval, the sense of satisfaction it gave me to bring things back. To be able to start again. The pattern of it. The repetition. For Adam, though, it was always about the throw itself. About letting go.

  Midway through the fourth cycle, just as the stick bounced, someone shouted. I didn’t pick up the word at first, and neither did Adam, so we moved closer to the park wall.

  Seeing us coming, one of the teenagers, a boy, stood up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Adam. ‘I misheard. What did you just call me?’

  ‘Wanker. I called you a wanker.’ And then, after a quick, courage-fuelling glance at one of his friends, he added: ‘Sir’.

  The teenagers laughed, their heads now angled towards the ground.

  ‘That’s very funny. I’m surprised the careers adviser didn’t tell you to become a stand-up comedian.’

  ‘Whatever.’ The boy sucked hard on his cigarette. ‘But that’s the thing, now I’m not at school I don’t have to put up with all your shit.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure that must be very liberating for you.’

  ‘Fuck off, sir.’