That night, Rose had to sleep beside Minty for the last time. In the morning, the dog would have been taken to a farm, but at four o’clock a figure appeared on the stairwell landing who knew the bakery workers sometimes got paid in cash.

Last night I slept beside Minty for what I was sure would be the last time. By morning she was meant to be on a farm. But at four o’clock a man appeared in the stairwell—a man who knew that the bakery staff are sometimes paid in cash.

I’m Dawn Holloway, forty-seven; I work nights at Whitmore’s Bakery in Leeds and rent a tiny flat in Armley. Minty came into my life tied to an abandoned garage, all bones and fear. She grew into a solid grey dog, and people crossed the road because of the way she looked.

The landlady came round and froze when she saw her.

“There’s no mention of a dog in the tenancy agreement.”

“She was small when I signed it.”

“Either the dog goes or I don’t renew.”

I found a farmer outside Wetherby. He promised a yard and a kennel. But in the photo he sent, I spotted a short chain behind him. I spent the whole evening going back and forth.

I came home from the bakery at four. The light in the stairwell was out. Minty waited behind the door, as she always does. The second I opened it, a man stood up from the dark corner. I knew him: Kevin Dutton, sacked from the bakery for stealing.

“Give me the handbag.”

“There’s nothing in it.”

“I know they got paid today.”

He stepped closer. Minty came out and stood in front of me. She didn’t attack. She just lowered her head. He hit my arm. The phone dropped on the stairs. Minty barked once. A door opened below. Kevin grabbed my handbag and ran downstairs, Minty right behind him.

I picked up the phone and heard a crash. When I got down, he was standing by the cellar door. Minty was in front of him, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was sniffing at the gap under the locked door and whining. From inside came a muffled knock.

“Who’s there?”

“Please… let me out…”

A child’s voice.

Kevin bolted for the exit. The neighbour tried to hold on to him, but he got free. I rang the police and the block manager. The cellar door had a brand-new padlock on it. While we waited, Minty lay down by the gap and whined calmly, so the boy could hear her and know he wasn’t alone.

After twenty minutes the door was opened. Inside sat Mrs Whitmore’s grandson, Charlie. He was nine. It turned out Kevin had met him outside the flats, tricked him into the cellar and meant to make his grandmother bring him cash. I’d come home earlier than he expected. They caught Kevin the same day at Leeds bus station. My handbag was in his car.

The next morning the landlady, Mrs Fletcher, came to my door herself.

“Dawn, I’ve heard about last night. The dog can stay.”

I looked at her for a long time.

“Yesterday she was a problem.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“And I’ve changed my plans.”

Within a month I found part of an old terraced house in Armley. The kitchen was old and the floorboards creaked, but there was an apple tree in the yard. I rang the farmer myself.

“I won’t be bringing Minty.”

“Why not?”

“Because there was a chain in the photo.”

Mrs Whitmore helped me with the deposit. “Not because your dog saved my grandson,” she said. “Because you didn’t run away.”

Afterwards Charlie was afraid of cellars and dark stairwells. His counsellor said he should ease himself back into familiar places. The first time he went down into the bakery cellar, Minty went with him. She walked slowly, letting him keep his hand on her collar.

A few months later, he drew Minty for a school competition. He called it “Light Behind a Locked Door.” I hung it in the kitchen.

On the first evening in the new yard, Minty picked up a fallen apple and set it down at my feet.

“Right,” I laughed, “you can pay half the rent in apples.”

There was no room in that yard for a chain.