The Dog Who Saved the World

by Ross Welford

  But in the future that I visited the dogs were gone.

  I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the sand, the people, the dogs, the sea, my mind whirring with possibilities.

  It must just have been a fault in the simulation, I tell myself. Perhaps it can’t replicate that sort of thing? Perhaps Dr. Pretorius’s computer program simply doesn’t do animals. That makes sense, doesn’t it? I’m desperate to convince myself, but I’m not doing a very good job of it.

  I remember the giant scorpion—that is an animal. And something else as well: a conversation between some people I passed. What had they said?

  “I says to ’im, you hide that dog if you dare…”

  Who would hide a dog? And why?

  What about the dog on the chain that’s always barking? That hadn’t been there. I have literally never passed that front garden and not seen the dog there.

  A cold feeling comes over me, even though I’m sweating from running and the evening is warm. Did I really see the future? My mind is a storm of doubt and confusion and forgetfulness. It wasn’t so long ago that I was pretty sure that Dr. Pretorius had tricked me and Ramzy—and now I’m doubting that.

  Not only that, but it also seems as though it’s my fault that Dog Plague broke out at St. Woof’s, and it’s already spreading.

  And just when I think things can’t get any worse, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Dad.

  “Where are you? Are you OK?” He sounds agitated. “Jessica said you were on your way. She shouldn’t have left you, really. I’d have come to collect you if—”

  “I am. That is, I was. I got…delayed. It was…I’m fine, Dad. What’s up?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Get back now. The police are here.”

  Oh, great.

  I get off the FreeBike, leave it at the bottom of the lane, and walk up toward our house, panting from my pedaling and my mind swirling with anxiety. My headache has gone completely, but I feel as though my brain has been replaced with cotton wool, plus a cloud of worry and sadness about the dogs at St. Woof’s.

  I have to save Mr. Mash, that much I know. “Humane dispatch.” I can’t let that happen. I try to call Ramzy, but he doesn’t pick up, and I remember he’s probably still grounded.

  There’s a police car outside the house. Inside, Dad and two police officers, a man and a woman, are sitting at one end of the kitchen table, drinking tea and talking in low voices.

  At the other end are Ramzy and his aunty Nush. She’s giving him such a talking-to, in a low, furious voice. I can’t understand what she’s saying, but it sounds like one of those tellings-off that started half an hour ago and has continued nonstop. Her right forefinger is busy: when she’s not wagging it under his nose, she’s using it to jab him in the chest, making him wince. His head is bowed, and I feel so sorry for him.

  I’m standing there for a few seconds, watching. No one has noticed me come in.

  “Hello?” I say, and they all turn and look. I feel guilty already.

  They’re the same sort of questions—and I get the same sort of feelings—as at the hospital.

  “How did you meet Dr. Pretorius?”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “What was this 3-D game?”

  We answer truthfully, though I can tell that Ramzy now feels ashamed at having been deceived. The whole story just sounds ridiculous, and that’s without mentioning the beach that had no dogs on it.

  But Ramzy doesn’t say anything about the video clip of the Geordie Jackpot numbers he took inside the studio. I don’t understand why, but I don’t bring it up, either.

  I can only imagine that Ramzy, like me, still thinks—somewhere in the back of his mind—that it might all be real. I try to make eye contact with him—you know, to judge what he’s thinking—but he keeps his eyes down all the time. Also Aunty Nush barely shifts her eyes off me. She watches me throughout the interview like I’m an escaped criminal who might attack her at any time. I’m sure she thinks I’m a bad influence on Ramzy. Two or three times, she shakes her head and says, “He good boy. Ramzy good boy.”

  I think, If he’s such a good boy, why are you being so horrible to him?

  “So tell me, Georgina, how would you get in touch with this Dr. Pretorius?” asks the woman officer. “Like, did you have a mobile number, or a messaging app, or ChAppster…?”

  Ramzy and I both shake our heads. “She never called us. We just…you know, met her. We arranged the next meeting, and turned up.”

  “And she didn’t have your contact information?”

  Again, we shake our heads.

  The sheer craziness of our stories (which don’t always match, thanks to my fuzzy memory) means that after about twenty minutes the officer who has done most of the questioning flips her notebook shut and turns off her bodycam. She speaks to Dad and to Aunty Nush.

  “Thing is, Mr. Santos, Ms. Rahman, it’s difficult to know whether or not a crime has been committed here. We have no record of a Dr. Emilia Pretorius in the area. The leasehold of the Spanish City dome is registered to a private limited company and there’s insufficient evidence, on the basis of what we’ve been told today, to apply for a search warrant for the premises. We called round earlier: there’s no one there, or at least no one answering.”

  Dad is not happy with this, I can tell. “But my daughter was hospitalized! And you’re just going to let it go?”

  The policewoman sighs. “Like I say, sir: no real evidence. One word against another, and juvenile migraine is not exactly uncommon. We would very much like to question this Dr. Pretorius, but we don’t yet have grounds for an arrest or forced entry. We will definitely be keeping an eye out for her, but meanwhile my advice to you, Georgina, and to you, Ramzy, is to stay away from the Spanish City and, if you see this person again, report it to us. How’s that?”

  Ramzy and I nod, kind of relieved, but Dad’s not giving up so easily. “How’s that? Not very satisfactory is how it is, Officer. I’ve had—”

  The policewoman interrupts. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s not helped by the latest news. I don’t know if you know, but all the security services in the country have had their leave canceled for the foreseeable future. This CBE—Dog Plague they’re calling it—is proving to be very serious.”

  The other officer chips in: “I’ve had to cancel a week in Cornwall.”

  It all translates as: I’m sorry, sir, but we have much more important things to be worried about than the fantasy of two kids and some games inventor who is probably harmless.

  As the police officers leave, Aunty Nush stands up. “Ramzy. He good boy,” she says again.

  The policewoman says, “I’m sure he is, ma’am.”

  After they’ve gone, Dad turns to us and says, “I guess you can consider yourselves pretty lucky that nothing worse happened.”

  I think he feels a bit uncomfortable. Aunty Nush, after all, is still in our kitchen, with a face like she’s just licked a frog. Perhaps she didn’t understand what was going on, although Ramzy translated.

  Anyway, Dad can’t really tell me off while Ramzy’s there, and he can’t tell Ramzy off, either, not while his aunt is there, so it’s all a bit awkward.

  Then Ramzy says, “We’d better go,” and just as Aunty Nush is gathering up her cloak to step out the door, she looks at Dad and curls her lip.

  “Ramzy good boy. She no.”

  She means me, obviously. And I’m thinking, Well, thanks a lot, you meanie—that’s got me into a lot of trouble! Behind his aunty’s back, Ramzy shrugs apologetically and then holds up his phone. He mouths the word later to me.

  The door shuts, and I can hear Aunty Nush start in on Ramzy again as soon as they’re walking away. Dad turns to me, arms folded. Then he says, “Blimey. Poor Ramzy!”

  And I’m so relieved that I just step into his big arms and sta
rt sobbing, and he holds me tight. I’m crying for Dudley, and for Mr. Mash, and all the dogs that may die, and the people too, but it’s not just that.

  I’m crying for myself. I’m crying with guilt for what I’ve done. I’m crying because it’s all my fault, and if I could go back and put it right I would, but I can’t.

  I don’t know how long we’re there, me and Dad, holding each other and me crying, but I don’t hear Dad’s phone ping. I just look up when I hear his voice.

  “Aye aye,” he says, reading a message. “Announcement on the TV at ten.”

  Behind him, Jessica has come through the door. “I thought there might be. Government statement.” Then she adds, as an afterthought, “You OK, Georgina?”

  Clem—who has been upstairs in the Teen Cave throughout all of this—is already in the front room with the TV on.

  It is not the government, though. It’s the king.

  The television announcer says, “We now go live to Balmoral for a statement on the deepening CBE crisis by His Majesty the king.” There’s no music, no other introduction.

  The king is in formal country clothes: tweed jacket, checked shirt, tie. He’s seated at a desk in a grand, oak-paneled room. A window behind him shows Scottish hills. He looks serious, concern furrowing his brow, even before he’s said anything.

  STATEMENT BY HIS MAJESTY THE KING

  “I am speaking to you today from my home in Scotland. Even here in the Highlands it is impossible to escape the ghastly news of a disease spreading throughout the country with alarming speed.

  “I have spoken today to both the prime minister and the secretary of state for health, and they have informed me that the situation is very grave indeed. Without swift and decisive action, many thousands—maybe even many millions—of people may die.

  “We may be facing a disease as deadly as the plagues of many hundreds of years ago. I say this not to alarm you, but to make clear the need for the measures that my government has announced. Without them, the survival of our families—indeed our nation itself—will be thrown into doubt.

  “This is a situation that we cannot—and will not—tolerate.

  “Canine-borne Ebola is, as you may already know, caused by a rapidly mutating virus, which even the very best doctors and scientists both here and in the rest of the world have so far failed to overcome.

  “I am told that, in time, a remedy will be discovered, although that will certainly be too late to avoid some of the sadness and pain that await us.

  “Only by acting now can we hope to prevail against this deadly disease.

  “Accordingly, my government has this evening issued emergency instructions.

  “With immediate effect, all dogs are to be kept indoors until further instructions are issued. That includes working dogs and assistance dogs as well as domestic pets.

  “Dogs seen outside—and that includes private gardens and enclosed spaces—will be regarded as strays. Specialist police and army marksmen will, from tonight, be patrolling the streets of our cities and villages. They have been given orders to shoot such animals.”

  The king, at this point, swallows hard and closes his eyes for a moment.

  “Gosh, he’s going to cry,” says Jessica, horrified.

  “Don’t be daft: he’s the king,” says Clem. I have to say, though, that he does look very upset. He goes on:

  “As you may know, I am a lover of dogs myself. I know firsthand how difficult this will be, not only for you but also for your pets. They will not understand the absolute necessity of this temporary measure, but it is my sincere hope that you will, and that you will do your duty accordingly and comply with the law completely.

  “The British are known worldwide as a nation of animal lovers. We are world leaders in protecting animals, which makes it all the more painful to have to announce these measures.

  “I do hope that, wherever you are, you will join me in praying for a speedy conclusion to this challenge that we all face. I wish for resilience and fortitude in the struggle ahead.

  “May God bless us all.”

  We sit in silence as the picture fades to black.

  In the quiet, we hear a single gunshot.

  “Maybe it was a car backfiring,” says Dad. It’s nice of him to try to make us feel better.

  The chaos, however, is only just beginning.

  It starts with a series of late-night messages from Ramzy that begin as I’m lying in bed, thinking of the king nearly crying on TV.

  Stray dogs will be shot, he said. That’s bad enough. But Mr. Mash is in danger now.

  Anyway, Ramzy’s last message is simply:

  Meet me by the tree. Midnight.

  The tree. Mum’s tree.

  I throw back the duvet and look out my bedroom window. The moon is nearly full, making the fields a dark, inky green, and there is Mum’s tree at the top of the slight hill. It’s typical of Ramzy to pick such a spot to meet. It’s exactly his idea of an adventure.

  I view the situation differently. You see, there are some things that you just have to accept. Going to school, for example. You can complain about it, but you’ve still got to go. Rain on a school picnic is another.

  Broccoli.

  But leaving Mr. Mash to be put down doesn’t fit into the category of “things you just have to accept.”

  So I get up and get dressed.

  And that’s why I find myself, shortly after midnight, standing in my rain boots in the poop composter behind St. Woof’s, a handkerchief over my nose, but gagging nonetheless at the stink. Ramzy and I have hardly said a word all the way here: it’s as if everything we’re doing is just understood. I like him for that.

  Leaving the house was easy. My bedroom’s at the back, and there’s a tree with a branch that I can reach from my window. We’ve even joked about it, Dad and I—he calls it the “fire escape.”

  I have a pair of long rubber gloves and swimming goggles in my jeans pocket, along with a handkerchief that I’ve soaked with some of Clem’s aftershave “borrowed” from the bathroom cabinet.

  Mum’s tree was rustling loudly in the breeze when I got there. I half expected Ramzy to be hiding nearby just to scare me, and I was glad that he wasn’t. It was all too serious for that. He just stepped out from behind the tree and said, “Hi.”

  “Did you get away OK?” I asked, and he shrugged as if to say, Looks like it.

  “Aunty Nush all right?” In the moonlight, I got a flash of white as he rolled his eyes hard.

  “She’s a total pain,” he said, “but thank God for headphones, eh?”

  He’s told me this before: Aunty Nush stays up late, watching TV shows, wearing headphones because they live in such a tiny flat. His dad is at home at the moment, and Ramzy says he’s so tired that he sleeps most of the time, which only leaves his excitable little brothers.

  “It’s a risk I had to take,” he said with a touch of bravado in his voice. We stood there for a moment by the rustling tree.

  Eventually, I said, “Shall we do this then?”

  Ramzy nodded and we turned to the path that leads out of the field. Behind us, the breeze shook the leaves even louder, as though it was wishing us on our way, and I smiled, despite my fear.

  Too nervous to talk, we made our way in silence through the dark streets to the back wall of the churchyard.

  There was a stretch of tape saying HEALTH RISK—DO NOT CROSS and we dodged under it. At the front of the church, a police car was parked on the street, with two officers inside, but that was it. We were pretty well concealed as we skirted the edge of the churchyard in the shadows and then—one by one—crept across the open lawn to the poop composter.

  That was not, by the way, the original plan. No: the plan till two minutes ago was to climb in a window, or even just go in through the vestry sid
e door, which I know is sometimes left open due to a really stiff lock. Thanks to the warm weather, the windows have been left open a lot. Except now all of the windows at ground level are locked, and the vestry door has a huge plastic tent covering it. So it wasn’t much of a plan anyway, really.

  “There’s another way in,” said Ramzy as we crouched under a big laurel bush, staring at the church. “But you’re not gonna like it.”

  Which is how we ended up here.

  The composter, about the size of a bathtub, is dug into the ground, about half a yard deep, and is covered with a heavy wooden lid made out of an old door. With the lid on, it doesn’t smell so bad, especially as every few days some sort of chemical is sprinkled on all the poo to make it break down. But when Ramzy and I slide the lid off, the stench hits us like a punch in the throat.

  Ramzy retches.

  “Shhh,” I say.

  “I can’t help it,” he hisses. “Gimme the hanky.” I untie it from my face and hand it to him. He takes a grateful lungful of aftershave-scented cloth and hands it back. Silently, I put the rubber gloves on, retie the hankie round my mouth and nose, snap on the goggles, and finally tuck my jeans into the boots.

  There’s an infection risk that I’m very aware of. I have thought it through and decided that, so long as I take care, the danger is worth it.

  Just below ground level is the chute that leads up into the old church. It’s just wide enough for me to squeeze my shoulders in, but I’m going to have to kneel down in the muck.

  Beneath my legs the poo oozes as I crouch down, and I have to fight the urge to be sick. I’m trying to breathe through my mouth, but I end up tasting the smell as well, and combined with Clem’s cheap aftershave it seems to be causing a headache again, which is just another thing to scare me.