The Dog Who Saved the World

by Ross Welford

  ROBERTO AND CASSANDRA SANTOS

  It was the only time I’ve ever seen Dad wear a tie. We were standing around, not knowing anyone, and a plain-looking lady with short, spiky hair came up to Dad and introduced herself.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Jessica Stone.” She didn’t bother to introduce herself to me or Clem.

  There was something in the way that Dad looked at her that meant I knew. I know we can’t really see the future, but I had a vivid mental picture of this Jessica Stone sitting on our sofa.

  When we were going home after the ceremony in Dad’s shiny old car, I said, “Dad, you know I don’t want a stepmum,” and he laughed but didn’t say anything.

  The biobotics lab at the hospital seems to be bigger than the time I was there with Dad and Clem. Outside, there’s a new stack of trailers, two stories high, and definitely more people, all looking like they’re in a hurry, clutching iPads and clipboards and speaking into their phones or earpieces as they walk.

  “No results yet…expected Tuesday…”

  “Well, get on to it then—it’s been a week already!”

  “I’ve sent the samples twice. You can’t have lost both of them, Tasha…”

  The main building is made of old red and orange bricks. Above the huge double doors is a sign:

  THE EDWARD JENNER

  DEPARTMENT OF BIOBOTICS

  The sign looks old, with curly writing, but I know that it can’t be because “biobotics” is a new science.

  “Wait here,” says Jessica. “I’ve got to clear you with security.” Then, as an afterthought, “You feeling OK?” but she doesn’t wait to see me nod in reply.

  Inside the doors is a lobby with a high ceiling and a shiny stone floor the color of thick cream; in the middle of the floor is a plinth bearing a statue in whitish marble of a man wearing old-fashioned clothes and holding a small, naked boy on his lap. The boy looks like he’s struggling, and the man is frowning in concentration: he’s poking something into the boy’s shoulder. I’m frowning too because I swear this statue wasn’t here before.

  “Simply marvelous, isn’t it?” says a voice beside me, and I turn to see an elderly security guard in a dark uniform with a tie, staring in awe at the statue. He gently brushes the little boy’s marble leg with the back of his hand.

  “Hello, Jackson,” I say, and he inclines his head.

  “Charmed as always, Miss Santos. To what do I owe the considerable honor?”

  I don’t really want to get into why I’ve been to the hospital, so I just say, “Oh, just a checkup, you know?”

  I guess being a hospital security guard means he knows not to be inquisitive about people’s reasons for being there, and he nods slowly, and we turn our attention back to the statue.

  “Is it new?” I ask. I didn’t see it last time I visited, I’m sure of that.

  Jackson chuckles. “Well, it’s new to us, young lady. In fact, it’s very old. Look.”

  He points to an engraved panel on the plinth, which says simply,

  JENNER BY GIULIO MONTEVERDE

  1878

  “It’s on permanent loan from Genoa, Italy. In honor of the work done by people like your stepmum.”

  Jessica is not my stepmum, I want to say, but Jackson is an old family friend so I let it go.

  “What’s he doing to the boy?” I ask.

  “Giving him an injection. An inoculation. Immunizing him against…”

  I know this from school. “Smallpox!”

  “Very good.”

  “This must be the man that Jessica says saved so many people’s lives.”

  He nods solemnly. “She’s right. More than anyone else in history, they say, thanks to vaccinations.”

  Jessica approaches across the marble floor. “Sorry it took so long, Georgina. Security’s a nightmare.” She looks at Jackson. “Sorry, Jackson. You’re an exception.”

  “You’re exceptional yourself, Miss Stone. No offense taken.”

  “Come on,” says Jessica to me. “Let’s get you in. You’re going to have to wait for a little bit before I can take you home.”

  I follow her through the lobby, down a long corridor into the new wing of the building. All along one wall are huge glass windows. On the other side is a laboratory like something from a movie. White-coated people with hairnets and face masks hurry between lab stations, with anxious expressions in their eyes. Rack upon rack of test tubes inch along a long conveyor belt, while articulated robot arms dip in and out of them.

  It’s transfixing to watch: like some sort of medical factory.

  Then a shout goes up at the other end of the corridor. “There she is!”

  Round a corner comes a small crowd of people in white lab coats, all of them hurrying toward us, their faces a mixture of fear, panic, and relief.

  “Jessica! Where have you been?” says the lead one, a large man with a carefully sculpted beard.

  Jessica seems flustered. “I…I’ve been here, I mean…” Her fingers go up to touch her ear. “I’m sorry. I have my earpiece turned off. Earpiece on! What’s going on? This is my, erm…this is Georgina, by the way.”

  They all do the polite thing, and there are a few seconds of “Hi, Georgina, how are you?” but they don’t mean it. As soon as they can, they turn their attention back to Jessica.

  Beard Man: “It’s a big one, Jess. I think we’ve at least identified where the CBE’s coming from.” He shows her his tablet. Jessica looks for a second and then says something that casts a chill into my heart.

  “The church of St. Wulfran and All Saints?”

  “It’s an animal shelter,” someone says.

  St. Woof’s.

  The others nod and murmur.

  “Looks like it. And it’s already spread.”

  “This is not good.”

  Soon everyone is talking at once, and the crowd huddles together, squeezing me out, so I’m sort of on the margins of the group and it’s pretty clear that everyone—Jessica included—has forgotten that I’m even there.

  That’s when I hear a shout from down the corridor: “No! Please, no!” Everyone turns to see a white-coated technician running toward them, clutching a phone to her ear. “I’ll call you back!” she gasps, and then stops. I can see her face through the press of people, and I’ve never seen anyone look so distraught.

  “It’s here,” she sobs. “It’s confirmed. First human case, two others suspected…” Then her shoulders slump, her phone drops to the floor, and she covers her face with her hands.

  The group of people I’m with gasp aloud, and Jessica mutters, “Oh no. Oh no, no, no…Please, God, no!”

  The bearded man goes over to the crying woman, murmuring comforting words, and she whispers, “We tried…we tried so hard, and now everyone’s going to…”

  She cannot finish her words and starts weeping quietly. And then the group begins to move, gabbling as they hurry off back down the corridor, taking the sobbing woman with them. The panic in the atmosphere is so intense I can almost feel it on my skin.

  And there I am, left alone, standing in the middle of the corridor.

  Jessica suddenly stops and looks back at me, as if seeing me for the first time.

  “Can you get back on your own?” she says. “Take a taxi. Get Jackson to help you. And, Georgina—not a word. Not. A. Word.” Her face is white with anxiety as she turns to leave. If part of me is feeling upset at being abandoned, the rest of me is so terrified that I feel like being sick.

  Was that lady about to say, “Everyone’s going to die?” Or was it something else?

  I’m alone, blinking back tears, when I hear Jackson calling softly to me from the end of the corridor. He hasn’t heard the commotion.

  “Miss Santos! The kettle’s on, and I have some Victoria sponge my wife baked. Would you care t
o join me?”

  Not. A. Word.

  The television is chattering in Jackson’s little office while he makes tea and lays out the Victoria sponge on a china plate. I’m trying so hard to be polite while he chats amiably about how long he has till his retirement, and his wife’s baking, and asking about Clem, but I can’t get what has just happened out of my mind.

  What had the lady in the white coat meant? We’re all going to…what?

  What had the man with the beard meant about St. Woof’s?

  “It’s been a while, Georgie,” Jackson was saying, “but it’s always a pleasure to see you. Your mother would be pleased you’ve grown up so fit and healthy.”

  I force a smile. Jackson always says something nice about Mum when we meet: how clever she was, how well dressed, for example. Dad says he was very kind to me and Clem during that time I don’t remember, when Mum was dying in a quarantine tent, surrounded by machines.

  He sends us a Christmas card every year. It’s always a Jesus-y one, never a Santa Claus one, and he writes a long message before signing his name.

  Jackson has just started telling a story about Mum years ago when his radio crackles and I hear someone say, “Jackson: this is main reception. Would you check out a car parked in a reserved space in the south parking lot, please?”

  “I’ll be right back,” says Jackson. “You stay here, and we’ll figure you out a ride home, OK?”

  I am barely listening because what is happening on the TV screen makes everything even worse.

  Look, if you’re really sensitive about stuff, skip this bit. There are dead dogs in it.

  The TV pictures show people wearing all-over protective suits, and face masks, and gloves. They’re picking up dead dogs from the street and throwing them into the back of a truck. It doesn’t look like this country, though.

  REPORTER: “Within days, all dogs in Britain may be banned from public spaces and from associating with other dogs. This is in response to the continued spread of the canine-borne Ebola disease. Several countries have already begun a program of humane killing of stray and pet dogs.

  “Earlier today, I spoke to the director of the National Centre for Disease Control, Ainsley Gill.

  “Is there a risk that this disease will spread to humans?”

  AINSLEY GILL: “Well, at the moment, the risk seems small, but we’re taking no chances. There have already been unconfirmed reports of human cases of CBE in China. Here in the UK, we are an island, which helps.”

  REPORTER: “All six of the UK cases are in the northeast of England. The dogs have been humanely destroyed. Researchers do not yet know the exact source of the outbreak. More on this story as it develops. This is Jamie Bates for News Now.”

  I find I can hardly stand up. I stagger out of Jackson’s hot office, a wave of fear washing over me.

  I know more than the TV news. I know that the source of the outbreak had been traced to St. Woof’s. I know there are now human cases in the UK.

  And I know that I’m not supposed to know that.

  How could that be?

  There’ll be a curfew. No dogs allowed outside.

  How would that work?

  In a daze, I shuffle past the statue of Edward Jenner toward the hazy sunshine. I barely hear Jackson behind me.

  “Georgie! Miss Santos! You’ve forgotten your Victoria sponge!” I turn and he’s standing there, a plate of cake in his hand, looking a little hurt.

  “I…I’m sorry, Jackson, I have to go…” and I push through the double doors.

  Somehow I make it to a waiting taxi. I clamber in and tell the driver my address, confirming the fare with my phone.

  The little taxi screen in front of me shouts advertisements till I touch it to mute the volume.

  I can still see the pictures, though. Trailers for films, ads for vacations, food, drinks…And, running under it all, a crawling message with the latest headlines:

  Dog curfew “within days” says British government minister…

  Northeast connection to CBE outbreak…

  More CBE deaths in China…

  USA—Canada border: “No Dogs” agreement…

  German Chancellor: “This could be worse than the Black Death…”

  I’m jolted out of my daze by the driver saying, “I didn’t catch that, love. Do you want to change your destination?”

  I have been muttering, “Mr. Mash, Mr. Mash, Mr. Mash,” to myself, but the driver has given me an idea.

  “Take me to St. Wulfran’s church in Whitley Bay, please,” I say.

  The taxi drops me at the end of the street, which has a police car parked across it and several officers in face masks preventing people from passing.

  As I get closer, one holds up her hand to stop me. “Are you a resident?” she asks.

  “N-no. I’m a volun—”

  “Residents only, dear. If it’s the park you’re wanting, go round the back and up Clovelly Gardens.”

  “No. I don’t need the park. It’s the church. St. Woof’s. I…I work there.” It sounds a bit silly: I know as soon as I say it. Another police officer approaches, a man, and speaks to me through his face mask.

  “Listen, love. I don’t care if you’re St. Wulfran ’imself. It’s out of bounds for a reason, government orders. Now—”

  “Can I at least speak to the vicar?”

  The two of them stare at me, amazed—I think—at my nerve.

  “No. You. Can’t,” says the man. “Now scram. This is an emergency.”

  I feel fear rising further inside me, and my voice gets higher in tone. “What’s going on?”

  “Check the news. Now I don’t want to have to tell you again. Stand aside.”

  Behind me, a large van approaches the line of officers. Inside are several people in the same overalls I have seen before, all wearing face masks. The van is waved through, mounting the pavement to get past the police car that blocks the road.

  I sit on a low wall and take out my phone to call St. Woof’s. If I speak to the vicar directly, maybe I’ll be able to find out what’s going on.

  “This is Reverend Maurice Cleghorn of St. Wulfran’s Dog Shelter. I cannot take your call at the moment…”

  I might have guessed.

  “Eee, it’s terrible, isn’t it?”

  I jump in fright at the voice. Sass Hennessey flicks her hair, sits down heavily next to me on the wall, and says again, “Terrible.”

  “What’s happening?” I say. I have a fairly good idea, but I want to know how much Sass knows.

  “It’s that Dog Plague thingy, isn’t it? All started here, they reckon. And it’s going to get bad.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Maurice told me.”

  There it is again. Maurice. Now I find I’m past caring. “You spoke to the vicar? How come?”

  “I was there when the police and doctors arrived. They cleared us all out. Probably so we wouldn’t see what they were doing.”

  I’m staring at Sass. She has a slightly smug look on her face. Like she knows something that I don’t. She sees my puzzled look.

  “You really have no clue, do you, Georgie? You do know what’s going on in there, don’t you?”

  I can only shake my head dumbly. Is it my imagination or is Sass actually pleased to be telling me this? Perhaps she just enjoys being the one who knows and who can pass on information.

  “All of the dogs…” and she draws a finger across her throat. I am horrified.

  “They’re cutting their throats?”

  “No! You idiot. Of course not. ‘Humane dispatch’ they call it. Putting them down. Euthanasia. Lethal inj—”

  “All right, all right, Sass. I get it.” I’m breathing heavily. It’s a few seconds before I can speak. “All of them?”

  “Yup.”
This is when Sass fixes me with what I take to be a glare. “And all because someone, somewhere, ignored the cross-infection rules. Seems as though someone visited St. Woof’s who was carrying the infection from China, and—”

  “I…I’m sorry, Sass. I have to go.” My head is swirling with thoughts, and I feel like throwing up.

  I stagger away toward the seafront, and between the cars and the bikes, horns honking, and people yelling “Watch it!” till I’m on the path above the beach, looking down at a group of guys playing soccer, and people walking their dogs.

  I’m gasping for breath, the air rasping in my throat as I suck in lungfuls.

  Was it me?

  I search my memory for the events of that day. The little Chinese girl…Dudley’s soggy ball, which I took out of quarantine…Me handling it…then touching all the other dogs…my carelessness.

  My carelessness!

  And I think about the dogs in St. Woof’s. Mr. Mash, of course, but also Sally-Ann and Ben and poor, ugly Dudley. Is it my fault?

  I wipe a large tear away from my cheek and swallow hard and take a deep breath. One of those “that’s the end of my panic” sighs when you think that it’s all going to be a bit better. And then it hits me.

  When I was in the dome, looking down at the beach a week from now. I knew something was different, but I hadn’t been able to put my finger on it.

  But now I think I know what it is.

  I try to cast my mind back to the previous day in Dr. Pretorius’s studio, which seems as though it was much longer ago. The book’s pages are still jumbled up in my mind, and I’m trying to sort them out, but as soon as one is in place, the others seem to fly out and mix up again.

  I crossed the road, didn’t I?

  I looked down at the beach.

  Something was not right.

  It was the people on the beach. With their dogs. Or rather the lack of people on the beach with their dogs. That was what was missing.

  At that time of day, on that part of the beach, on a summer afternoon? There are normally loads of dogs. Half the beach is off-limits to dogs in the summer months anyway, so they’re all crowded together on the other half: chasing balls, running in and out of the sea, shaking themselves dry, doing all of that fabulous doggy stuff that I love about them.