It was a good message, and there had been times when I’d believed in it, and it had helped me. But not today. Today I did not feel that the thick burning knot of pain in my lower back was just weakness leaving the body.

Today, pain was just pain.

Fred walked in. He went over to the music system and fiddled about with it until he found some early Clash. The gym was filled with the crashing guitar chords of Mick Jones and Joe Strummer’s machine-gun bark. Fred picked up a towel that somebody had dropped on the floor and went off to put it in the laundry. When he came back I was leaning against the ropes and staring at the square that we call a ring. My back was stiff with pain, and I reflected on the fact that the things that hurt me the most were a source of entertainment for others.

Fred and I leaned on the ropes, the sweet stink of a boxing gym all around us, The Clash at full volume, and the silence between us was not awkward.

And then he spoke.

‘It’s not about how hard you can hit,’ he said. ‘It’s about how hard you can get hit and then keep going – for just long enough to hit the bastards back.’

Chapter 17

17

‘LET HIM GO!’

On the far side of a field that glittered with early morning frost, Scout released the dog and he began tearing towards me.

Hampstead Heath, early Sunday morning. The forest at the top of London. We were in a meadow high on the Heath and my daughter and my dog seemed giddy with all the sunlight, fresh air and freedom. All around us were trees that still clung to the last of the red and gold leaves of autumn. Beyond them you could see the city from Canary Wharf to the BT Tower. It felt like it all belonged to us.

We should do this more often, I thought. We should do this all the time.

The field we were in looked perfectly flat until Stan began racing across it. With him in top gear I suddenly became aware of all the dips and bumps and rabbit holes. As he came to one sudden drop in the ground he extended his front legs before him and his hind legs behind to dramatically bound across. He looked like he was flying.

Scout shouted with delight. ‘Superdog!’

Stan raced towards me, his large ears streaming behind him, bright eyes shining and mouth open, panting, going flat out. It was his first time off lead and he was almost hysterical with excitement. And so were we.

I got down on my knees, my back moaning in protest, and held my arms wide to greet him.