The Dog Who Saved the World

She gives a final, decisive whack on her keyboard to begin a rendering of a huge Roman arena, with gladiators and chariots, then she swings her chair round and looks at us hard.

There’s a silence while we wait for her to speak, and I study her old, lined face. Her sky-blue eyes are as sharp and captivating as ever, but her skin seems paler, duller, and I immediately understand when she coughs violently and says, ‘I may not have long left, kiddos. I’m engaged in a battle against time, and there’s stuff I need to complete before I … before I leave you.’

Ramzy frowns. ‘Aww. Are you moving?’ I roll my eyes at him. Even I knew what she meant, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

Instead, she barks, ‘Moving? Ha! Do I have to spell it out, kid? I’m dyin’. A fatal heart condition that the finest physicians in the land are powerless to combat. And before I check out I need to know that my life hasn’t been wasted, you know?’

Ramzy just goes, ‘Oh,’ and looks at his scuffed shoes.

‘Yep. Oh, indeed. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!’

There it is: that phrase again. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. What on earth could it be that is so big and important?

‘I tell ya, kids, it’s going to be extraordinary. You’ll be the first to experience it.’

I think she wants us to go ‘Wow!’ or something, or even just say thank you, so I do.

‘Wow,’ I say but I don’t think I’m very convincing. The silence afterwards is a bit awkward, so I fill it by saying the one thing that I have been wondering.

‘Why us?’

She grins her wolfish grin. ‘You wanna know? You wanna know the whole truth?’

When someone asks you that, there’s only one answer you can give, even though the outcome might be uncomfortable. I shrug one shoulder and say, ‘I guess?’

She turns back to her keyboard and taps it a few times till a series of still photos appear. They’re satellite pictures of the street outside – Marine Drive – which leads to our school. A few more clicks show pictures of Ramzy and me, taken from a distance, but pretty sharp. The pictures scroll down, one after the other: Ramzy in his thick, too-big coat in the winter, the two of us riding FreeBikes one day, me in my red, white and blue costume for the school’s International Flags day … And so on.

Ramzy speaks up, a touch of indignation in his voice, ‘You … you were spying on us?’ I have to say, it’s all a bit creepy.

‘Aah, relax, kid! Look: what do you notice about these pictures?’

We peer at them, but I can’t think of anything (apart, obviously, from how strange it is to be photographed without knowing it). Eventually, Dr Pretorius says, ‘Look, guys – you’re the only two on your own! Every other kid is with a parent, or childminder, or whatever. Well, those that don’t get a car or a taxi home.’

It’s true, of course. Ramzy and I are pretty much the only kids who walk home alone.

‘That told me something. And then when you started to quiz my builder that day? I figured, Hmm – curious kids. You see – you kids are all so darn protected these days. You don’t play out in the street, you get taken everywhere – everybody except for you. I’d see you on the beach with those dogs, and walking home on your own. And well … it turned out you were just what I needed. Also – you don’t wear glasses. Multi-sensory virtual reality requires near-perfect vision.’

‘So … that day on the beach, when we met?’ says Ramzy, suspiciously.

‘All kinda engineered. Well, apart from your dog eating my swim cap. That was a piece of luck.’

‘Your watch?’ I say.

‘Already scratched.’

‘Your wrist?’

She averts her eyes and even looks a bit embarrassed. ‘Sorry.’ She glances up and sees our shocked expressions. ‘Hey – don’t bail on me now. We’re so close.’

‘So close to what?’ I say. I can’t keep the impatience from my voice. Dr Pretorius narrows her eyes.

‘You’ll see. Trust me, kid. You’ll see. It’s nearly time for the Big Experiment.’

‘Today?’ says Ramzy, who’s still buzzing after shooting down an attack helicopter containing scary-looking aliens.

Dr Pretorius doesn’t answer directly. She just says, ‘Gimme a week, kiddos. One week. I’ll take you somewhere no one has ever been before.’ She unlocks the door that leads through to the Spanish City arcade and the tea rooms. I do a quick check for Sass Hennessey’s mum and am relieved that she isn’t there. She has seen me a few times, I’m pretty sure – and although she hasn’t said anything I still worry that she might.

Although, as it turns out, there are bigger things to worry about.

Because this is the week that everything goes wrong.

It is the week everybody learns about the plague.

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First, though, I need to explain about St Woof’s.

The old parish church of St Wulfran and All Saints – known to everyone as St Woof’s – is a smallish church not far from the seafront, and old, with a short, fat steeple. Except it’s not a church any more – at least not one with a congregation, and a choir, and weddings and stuff. Now it’s just a building in the shape of a church. It’s got heavy wooden doors and, together with the thick sandstone walls, they do a good job of holding in the noise made by twenty-five dogs.

It is also my most favourite place in the whole world.

I first took Ramzy to St Woof’s at the start of last term. I wanted him to know what I’d been talking about (or, as he put it, ‘boring everyone senseless with’ – thanks, Ramz).

The first thing a newcomer notices about St Woof’s is the noise: the howling, the barking, the yapping and the snuffling. I love the noise almost as much as I love the second thing you notice – the smell. I was horrified to see that Ramzy had clapped a hand over his nose.

‘Oh, by goodness,’ he said through his pinched nose. ‘It stigs!’

‘You get used to it.’ I hardly even notice it any more, to be honest. Dogs do smell a bit, but they usually smell nice: sort of warm and woody. And – fun fact – their paws smell of popcorn. Honestly!

(I know their breath can be a bit fishy and I’m happy to admit that their poo really is foul, but then – sorry to say this – whose isn’t?)

Anyway, it was a Saturday morning, just before we start the weekly clean, when I turned up with Ramzy and that’s when St Woof’s smells the strongest.

‘Good morning, Georgie!’ said the vicar. I like the vicar: he’s quite old, probably seventy. He’s sort of lean with shaggy grey hair like an Irish wolfhound. That day he was wearing a huge, hand-knitted jumper and fingerless gloves. He sat at the long table just inside the door. ‘And who do we have here, perchance?’ he said when he saw Ramzy. He talks like that. You get used to it.

Without waiting for me to answer, Ramzy clicked his heels together and saluted. ‘Ramzy Rahman, at your service, sah!’

The vicar was a little taken aback, but then lots of people are when they first meet Ramzy. After a few seconds, though, he returned the salute and smiled.

‘Welcome aboard, Private Rahman! I suppose you’ve come to help, ah … Sergeant Santos?’ He removed his glasses and reached under his baggy sweater to extract an untucked shirt tail to polish them on. Ramzy nodded, enthusiastically.

‘Top-notch! Tickety-boo! Many hands make light work, eh?’ He replaced his glasses and peered at a worksheet on his desk. ‘You are on your usual station, Georgie. Clean first, brush afterwards, and remember …’ He held up a finger, his eyes looking humorous for a moment. We said it together:

‘Whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord!’

‘Jolly good, Georgie. Off you go!’

Ramzy’s face was contorted in puzzlement as we walked away. ‘What the heck was that?’ he said, easily loud enough for the vicar to hear.