There was a strange smell in the air, Joe noticed, sweet and sour like the brown sauce he loved on his bacon butties, and Joe wondered where it was coming from. Ahead of them, about 400 metres away was the next bridge. There was a pair of swans swimming side by side towards it, with half a dozen cygnets bobbing along behind them. Joe thought then it might be the swans Paddywack was getting so worked up about. Or maybe it was the sound of the children in the playground that was exciting him. He noticed Paddywack stopping from time to time to lift his nose and scent the air. But then he’d be racing up and down the deck again, barking wildly, his tail whirling. Joe had never seen him so agitated. He called out to him, trying to calm him down, but Paddywack wasn’t listening.

Joe could see what Paddywack was going to do. There was nothing whatever he could do about it. There was no time. All he could do was watch as Paddywack took a running jump and landed in the canal.

By the time Joe had managed to slow the barge down, Paddywack was already clambering out of the water and haring off down the towpath. Joe shouted after him, but he knew it was pointless, that Paddywack was too far away by now to hear him. He could only look on in horror as Paddywack bounded up the steps by the bridge, and then ran straight out into the road. A huge lorry was coming over the bridge. Joe heard the blast of a horn and the screeching of tyres.

“Paddywack!” he cried. “Oh my God, Paddywack!”

It was cold in the water, but I hardly noticed it. I was scrambling out and running, running where my legs took me, knowing Patrick would be waiting for me. I was up the steps then and dashing across the road. I didn’t care about the cars all around me, or the lorry bearing down on me. I knew the way home and nothing would stop me getting there. I was going home. I was going back to Patrick. I raced along the pavement, dodging and weaving as I went. Everything around me was so familiar, the trees, the lamp posts, the houses, then I was in the street where I once lived, where Patrick lived.

The gate was open when I got there, but I hurdled the garden wall anyway as I always used to do. I was leaping up and down outside the front door, scrabbling and scratching at it, and barking, barking, barking. But Patrick didn’t come. No one came. I decided I’d wait. He’d be bound to come back soon. So I sat down by the door and listened for Patrick’s voice, listened for his footsteps. But all the voices I heard were strangers’ voices and all the footsteps, strangers’ footsteps. There were one or two who stopped to stare at me for a while. One of them was a boy with a little terrier on a lead who was trying to pull away from him, straining to come through the front gate and meet me. I knew that terrier at once – we’d chased each other around up in the park in the old days, I was sure of it. So I went after him.