Turn Coat took up and ran, British Bulldog, lumbering with luck, across a sun-drench of asphalt, sticky in the shade, to a half of where even with a Protestant tap, he managed to stop and lick his fury.
Turn Coat carried his own shadow beneath his feet, his own sand, safe for the pull at his collar, the rip of stitching that he knew would cause his mother, already a glass of sherry in, to fury, then resignation after the slap.
In his dreams, turncoat stayed bulldog, short stubby legs, the spotting mark of territory, boundaries enforced by the fury of strength sapped from the sun where others withered in too-warm wool tops, clapping to egg another on to sneak up behind, run, before Turn Coat’s bark.