The bitterness of that row blew over in the end, as all the others had. But the memory of it added to the growing residue of cold resentment between them. Despite all Becky’s mother tried to do to maintain some kind of peace between them, the house became more and more a place of sullen silence. When she wasn’t at school Becky spent as much time as she could up on the moor with Red and the two dogs, riding each time further and further away from the farm. Time and again she thought of riding off with them and never coming back. It was only the thought of how much it would upset her mother that prevented her from actually doing it.

But of course, whether she liked it or not, the three of them were still thrown together on the evenings when they went off to the dog races. For a while Alfie and Brighteyes kept on winning, one or other of them, regularly enough. But Becky could see, as everyone could, that things were gradually changing. More and more it was Brighteyes who was replacing Alfie as the favourite down at the dog track. He was unquestionably on his way to becoming top dog. Everywhere they went now the cameras were on him, and the bets were on him too.

The two dogs were still just as inseparable as ever, off the track and on it, only now it was Brighteyes who almost always came in first, with Alfie a whisker behind. Alfie was definitely off the pace these days, getting older, everyone said, not past it but certainly past his best. No one could deny he was as eager as ever. His speed out of the traps was electric. In full stride he was still magnificent, but his stamina was failing him. He was having to strain every muscle and sinew to stay with Brighteyes, who, as everyone could plainly see, was coming into his prime.

Down at the track Craig was king of the castle, top trainer, and revelling triumphantly in every moment of it. So long as one of his two champion dogs came first and the other came in second, so long as the prize money was still coming in, and the trophies too, that was all that mattered to Craig. For Becky though every race was a torment. She could see that Alfie was not the dog he had been. He was too tired. He was too old. Every time he ran, she thought it might be his last.

Becky was there at the track the evening Alfie broke down. He looked fine as she led him around the enclosure, full of himself and up on his toes. He was the first out of the traps, as usual, kept tight around the bend and powered ahead, with Brighteyes just behind, but moving up alongside him. It looked to Becky, and to everyone else, like another double win, another one-two. The only question was which of them would finish first. All the other dogs were out of it. Then, with no warning whatever, Alfie simply stopped running, slowed to a limping walk and stood there panting under the glare of the lights, as every other dog streaked by him.