‘There are many bad things about steroid abuse,’ observed Fred, who was the kind of boxer who is also a philosopher. ‘Shrunken balls. Acne. Hair loss. But the worst thing is that it wipes out the part of the brain that inhibits aggression. In the end they want to kill someone.’

There was a heavy bag near the exit door. Just before the weightlifter walked out of Smithfield ABC, he hit the bag as hard as he could.

Fred laughed with contempt.

‘It’s not about how hard you can hit,’ he said.

Chapter 9

9

STAN KNEW SOMETHING was up.

The dog was the only member of the family who had eaten breakfast, but Scout was standing at the window with her palms pressed against the glass, watching the street, occasionally flinching with anticipation at the sight of a car pulling up, while I kept checking the clock, my watch, my mobile.

She should have been here by now.

Stan lay Sphinx-like in the middle of the loft, his front paws demurely crossed, his huge round eyes watching us with suspicion.

Something you want to tell me?

‘Oh – oh – oh!’ Scout said, and when I went to the window I saw a white van that was stuffed full of dogs.

An Irish Wolfhound occupied the passenger seat, staring with interest at a white-coated porter emerging from the meat market, arms stained red up to the elbow. A pair of Pugs pressed their flat faces against the rear windows, while behind them a forest of tails were erect and wagging as small faces sniffed large bottoms and large faces sniffed small bottoms.

A young woman in muddy combat fatigues got out of the driver’s seat. A Labradoodle got out with her. She placed it back in the van and closed the door.

‘Stan,’ I said, ‘it’s your ride.’

She was a cheerful young Czech called Jana, and Stan welcomed her like an old friend. It was nothing personal. Stan welcomed everyone like an old friend.

Scout was saying goodbye when without further ceremony the dog walker snapped a lead on Stan’s collar and headed for the door.

We returned to the window. A Bichon Frise had somehow squeezed through the van’s half-open window and was sniffing the pavement as the Irish Wolfhound considered it with lofty disdain. Stan and Jana appeared on the street. The dog walker put the runaway Bichon Frise under one arm and Stan under the other and delivered them both to the back of the van. Then they were off. We stood at the window until the tail lights had disappeared.

‘I hope Stan’s all right,’ Scout said.

‘Are you kidding?’ I said. ‘He’ll have the time of his life with the rest of the pack.’