Fortunately, the response was less spectacular. A party of ladies who had been subjected to the clearest view of poor Woody cried out in disgust and promptly put down their forks, fanning their faces in distress. Everyone was staring; even the raucous laughter from the gaggle of older boys in the corner of the square had trailed off into a sort of horrified glee.

Oh, brilliant, thought Nat, they’re coming over. Sensing trouble, he pulled on the piece of string that was Woody’s leash and made an abrupt turn back to Mick’s car.

His way was barred by a barrage of grinning youths. One of them, his hair so blond he’d looked bald from a distance, drew his lips back in a fake smile.

“That wasn’t very nice, was it?” the blond kid asked in mock concern. He pushed his face threateningly close to Nat’s. His eyes were extraordinarily blank, the pupils tiny in the blue of the irises.

“Those are my dad’s paying customers,” he said. “How’d you like it if you were enjoying a nice bit of venison carpaccio and some dumb ol’ dog spills its guts in front of you?”

The boy was at least three years older than Nat, and much bigger. Nat knew that whatever his answer was, it was never going to be the right one.

“I … I’m …” Nat’s voice came out squeaky and scared. He tried again. The tone he was aiming for was confident and grown-up. “I’m really, really sorry about that,” he finished.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew that he hadn’t sounded sincere or confident. It sounded as though he were being sarcastic, and not in the least bit sorry.

“Ooooh oooh,” mimicked the boy in a high falsetto. “Hear that? He says he’s really, really sorry! He don’t sound very sorry to me!”

Vicious laughter rang out from the others, who had gathered around in a grubby corral of dirty necks and sneering faces.

Nat was just about to say something else when his arm began to vibrate with a remarkable noise. Low at first, it built to a rumbling, thunderous hum. It seemed to be traveling up from the piece of string to which Woody was attached. Puzzled, Nat looked down.

Woody’s matted, dingy fur had puffed up to almost twice its size; his head seemed to be made solely of gleaming white teeth and blazing eyes. The rumbling grew to a bloodcurdling growl. The blond boy drew back sharply and brayed forced laughter.

“Has he got rabies or what?”

Badly shaken, Nat dragged Woody away from the gang.