Life Goes On by Alan Sillitoe

I find our meeting particularly discouraging. I really do. Moggerhanger would just trade me in for half the money. He doesn’t mess about. During the transfer he would take the lot. Come on, then. Let’s go to The Hair of the Dog. They’ll be opening about now.’
    He put on his coat, and took my umbrella – being in such a low state that I couldn’t tell the light-fingered bastard to put it back. We headed up Charing Cross Road, Bill in front, neither of us saying anything because of traffic noise and the difficulty of walking side by side among so many people. A middle-aged man with a dog on a lead intended passing us on our right but the dog, wanting to go along the wall for a sniff or two, got entangled in Bill’s legs.
    Even Dr Anderson the demon psychologist would be hard put to it to find a reason as to why some people are born with an animus against our canine friends. Perhaps whoever hates dogs had a particularly hard life in his (or her) younger days, which of course was true of Bill. Such types resent dogs because they regard them as lower than human beings and don’t see why they should have a better and more carefree time than they did. Other people who dislike dogs may well be mentally unstable, or stricken with some physical ailment which makes them irascible and intolerant. In any case I don’t suppose they can stand the whining fawning bloody pests shitting all over the streets.
    Not that Bill reacted violently when the dog tangled with his legs and sent a few squirts of amber piss against his trousers. He had his own troubles, and wanted to be on his way with the least fuss. But he prodded it quite gently, it seemed to me, who had by this time caught up with him, with the end of my umbrella.
    The result was extraordinary, to say the least. The black dog, of medium size and uncertain breed, and no doubt a gentle and fetching creature as far as dogs go, gave a squeak and rolled on its back, shivered along the belly, shook all paws and howled.
    Bill stepped over it, and so did I. Neither of us realised the seriousness of what had happened. The man bent to look at what was ailing his pet, not for the moment relating its peculiar condition to the seemingly light prod dealt by Bill. He may not even have noticed. We speeded up, to the tune of the man wailing that his dog was having a fit. Perhaps it was dead. As quick as that. It maybe wasn’t as bad as he thought, though something had certainly gone wrong as a result of the playful tap from the umbrella.
    Running away from trouble seemed undignified, and I thought here was an opportunity to act on my idea of being more honest and responsible. ‘Let’s go back and see what’s wrong.’
    He grabbed my arm, the berserker tone in his voice taking on a quality that I hated but which my blood could not ignore: ‘Run! For fuck’s sake, run!’
    We trotted up the road, glad so many people were about. They always came out when the rain stopped. ‘Where did you get this umbrella, did you say?’ he panted.
    â€˜I told you. I found it.’
    â€˜It must be poisoned.’
    We darted across Cambridge Circus, then doubled back towards Long Acre. ‘I didn’t know. But don’t throw it away. It might come in handy. And keep it away from me. My ankles ache already, it’s so close.’
    The Hair of the Dog, like auntie’s parlour, was tarted up rather than down. The flock wallpaper was deep crimson and reeked of Jamaican rum. The corner of a condom packet showed from under the pseudo-Axminster carpet. I’d have known one anywhere. I looked around the walls at the plastic gold-leafed light-brackets for a sign of the condom itself. There was a framed picture of a child with big tears in its eyes, the sort that should have a microphone behind it. ‘Why did we come here? Isn’t it one of Moggerhanger’s clubs?’
    He looked as if the question was unnecessary. ‘What