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found she was gripping with both hands.
    The aftermath was messy. Not because of blood or saliva (Robbie had been remarkably clean) but because there was disagreement among the spectators over the deadness of some of the rats. A forlorn specimen was fished from the ring and laid on the floor at the men’s feet. One man alleged that the creature only had its back broken, rendering it immobile, but that it was still alive: he had seen it choke for breath. Another man stamped on the rat’s tail, arguing that if it had any life left in it, the pain would surely summon up some reaction. There was none. A second contentious rat was retrieved from the arena, having allegedly been spotted breathing. Although limp and unconscious, it seemed to be very much alive; its abdomen was palpating visibly. Two of the men who had bet against Robbie insisted that he’d failed to kill his quota. Another man proposed that the match be resumed just for a few seconds, to allow Robbie to kill this last rat in whatever time it took – to which the two dissenters objected that it would obviously take the dog only half a second to kill a rat which was insensible, but that he ought to’ve done the job properly the first time. The rat-catcher, who had been regarding the creature philosophically all this while, suddenly bent down and slit open the rat’s belly with a knife. A grisly sight was revealed: a tangle of foetal sacs, shiny as sausages, each containing a squirming baby rat, fully-furred and almost ready for life.
    ‘’Ave we got a puppy wants to learn a trade?’ quipped the rat-catcher, and the good spirits of the company were restored.
    With one exception. Mr Heaton left The Traveller’s Rest before Lopsy-Lou even had her chance to perform. He pleaded a stomach upset, and indeed he did look ghastly, his face a mixture of bone-white and beefsteak red. His fellow sportsmen protested that he must stay: Robbie was a champion and would surely be given a third match after Lopsy-Lou had done her dash. Lopsy-Lou’s owner hinted that Mr Heaton’s sudden illness might indicate a greater regard for his already-pocketed winnings than for the inherent value of watching two noble dogs compete. But Mr Heaton was not to be persuaded. His digestion, he insisted, was very bad. He shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he was in bed within the hour.
    Without speaking to each other, Mr Heaton and Clara walked side-by-side out of the pub. Mr Heaton hailed a cab at once, and for a moment Clara was afraid he would leave her standing on the footpath while he sped away. But he opened the cabin door for her, with stony-faced courtesy, and waited for her to climb in.
    ‘You broke your promise,’ he said, as soon as they were seated and the vehicle was in motion.
    ‘I forgot, sir,’ she said.
    ‘I reminded you,’ he said. ‘Twice.’
    ‘I couldn’t take my eyes off the dog and the rats, sir. It was my first time.’
    He sighed deeply, and looked out the window. Night was falling. Shopworkers were hurrying home. A lamplighter was doing what seemed like callisthenics, stretching his back and arms in preparation for the task ahead.
    ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Clara. She surmised that Mr Heaton was too much of a gentleman to demand his ten shillings back, but thought it was just as well to show contrition, so that he might take pity on her.
    ‘What’s done is done,’ he said, in a tone of bitter melancholy. He seemed to be retreating into a world of his own, a place where he alone could go. Clara found this more discomfiting than if he had loudly chastised her in the street.
    ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said again, peeking surreptitiously at whether he was softening towards her. He appeared not to have heard.
    The cab joined the traffic bound for Westminster, rattled across the bridge, passed the houses of Parliament. The tall buildings blocked out the sun, bringing on the night all the quicker. Mr Heaton unfastened his overcoat, unbuttoned the coat he wore