Brighteyes was growling from the back of his throat. He had seen the man before she had. The man was whistling as he came into view. He was pushing a wheelbarrow. He wore the same flat cap and the same dirty blue overalls. Becky could see quite clearly now what was in the wheelbarrow. A dead greyhound. Black and white. Alfie. It was Alfie. Becky’s pulse was pounding in her ears. She stifled the scream rising inside her, as she watched him wheeling the barrow out into a nearby field. That was when Becky saw the mound of newly dug earth and a spade stuck into the top of it. Beyond this grave there were dozens of other mounds, some with the earth freshly turned, but most already grassed over.

A terrible grief and a fierce anger gripped Becky’s heart as she looked out over this hateful killing field, as she watched Alfie being dumped into his grave. She turned and walked away weeping silently. She could feel Brighteyes beside her, his face against her leg. One glance between them told her he had seen and understood everything. In the moments that followed Becky decided exactly what she had to do.

She took her time riding back over the darkening moor. She stopped off for a short while by her rock on High Moor, partly to postpone her return to the farmhouse for as long as she could, and partly to say goodbye to her father, to tell him what she was going to do. “I’ll be back one day, Dad, I promise,” she said as she left. “But I don’t exactly know when.”

Once back in the farmyard she led Red to his stable, fed him and said her last goodbyes. She took Brighteyes to his kennel and put out some food for him. “I won’t be long,” she whispered, getting up to go. “Then we’ll be out of here, for good. I know you don’t want it, but try to eat. You’ll need it.”

Craig and her mother were in the sitting room with the television on. To avoid them she went in the back door and up the back stairs to her bedroom, where she sat on her bed to write the letter she would be leaving behind. She kept it short.

Dear Mum,

I’m going away with Brighteyes. I don’t know where, just away. I know it’s not your fault, but you promised me Alfie was going to be looked after. That’s what he told you. That’s what he told me. I can’t even write his name, I hate him so much. Sometimes I’ve even hated you, Mum, because you take his side, because you won’t stand up to him enough, even when he rubbishes Dad, and because you won’t leave him even though you know he’s a monster, and I just can’t understand that.

I want to tell you what I’ve just seen, but I can’t write it because I’ll remember it too well. Just tell him that I know what really happened to Alfie, and to all the dogs when he sends them away, because I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And I’m not going to let it happen to Brighteyes. One day even Brighteyes will start losing, or he’ll break down like Alfie and he’ll be no use any more for racing. Then he’ll do the same thing to Brighteyes as he did to all the others. So I’m taking him away before the Land Rover does. Don’t worry about me. Brighteyes and I will look after one another.