The dog had been a gift to his mother, the closest thing to a kindness that he had ever shown her. He had won the puppy in a card game at the pub when his mother was still struggling to come to terms with the death of her husband. Jimmy Cox thought it might cheer her up. Or at least stop her snivelling all the time. His mother had been thrilled and showered the little dog with all the love that she had previously wasted on her son. She had named the puppy Hope, which was to prove a cruel misnomer. Just three months later, Jimmy Cox’s mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Her dying wish was that her son should look after Hope. She had made him promise.

The dog lay panting and trembling beside the broken remains of a cheap wardrobe that had been there so long that it was covered in bindweed. Left in the garden all day without any drinking water, she had sought refuge from the pitiless sun in the only patch of shade that she could find.

‘Get here, you filthy bitch!’

She cowered, trying to make herself smaller. Trying to make herself disappear. She was so thin that her ribs poked through her matted fur. Jimmy Cox lunged towards her. He picked up a piece of brick and hurled it. It caught her on her hind leg and she yowled in pain. He looked around for another missile while the dog searched desperately for an escape route. Her eyes were wide and white-rimmed with fear. Jimmy Cox bent down to pick up a lump of rubble but instead clutched at his chest, wheezing. He tried to stand upright but with every attempt a violent fit of coughing caused him to buckle. Now it was his eyes that were wide with fear. He staggered back towards the kitchen. The dog lifted her head and watched him struggle. As he reached the door, she got up and followed at a safe distance, keeping low to the ground. She was still very wary, but her instinct told her that the balance of power between them had momentarily shifted.

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