The Dog Who Saved the World Read online

  I was born wanting a dog. That’s what Dad says, anyway. He says my first words were “Can we get a dog?” I think he’s joking but I like to pretend it’s true.

  Next to the poster on my bedroom wall I’ve got a collection of pictures of famous people with their dogs. My favorites are:

  Robby Els and his poodle.

  G-Topp and his (very cute) chihuahua.

  The American president and her Great Dane.

  Our king with his Jack Russell (I met the king once, when I was a baby, before he was the king. He didn’t have his dog with him, though.)

  The old queen with her corgis.

  Anyway, eventually we got a dog. It was March last year, not long after Dad’s girlfriend, Jessica, moved in. (Coincidence? I don’t think so.)

  I knew something was up. Dad had taken a couple of calls from his friend Maurice, who used to be a vicar and now runs St. Woof’s Dog Shelter on Eastbourne Gardens. Nothing odd about that, but when he answered, he would say, “Ah, Maurice! Hold on,” and then leave the room, and once when he came back in he was smirking so much his face was nearly bursting. Of course, I didn’t even dare to hope.

  I asked Clem, but he’d already started his retreat to his bedroom, otherwise known as the Teen Cave (a retreat that is now more or less complete). He shrugged. To be fair, getting a dog was always my thing, not my brother’s. If it doesn’t have a smelly gas engine, Clem’s not all that interested.

  Not daring to hope is really, really hard when you’re hoping like crazy. I’d look at the calendar on my wall—12 Months of Paw-some Puppies!—and wonder if we’d get one, ranking my preferences in a list that I kept in my bedside drawer:

  Golden retriever (excellent with children)

  Cockapoo

  Chocolate Labrador

  Great Dane (I know, they’re massive. “You may as well buy a horse,” says Dad.)

  Border collie (v. smart, need lots of training)

  I even tried to work out what was going on in Dad’s head. It was like, Jessica’s moving in, Clem’s growing up, Georgie’s not happy about any of that, so let’s get her a dog.

  Which suited me fine. And then…I came back from school one Friday, walked into the kitchen, and Dad was there. He said, “Close your eyes!” but I had already heard a dog whining behind the door.

  I have never, ever been happier than when Dad opened the door to the living room, and I first saw this bundle of fur, wagging his tail so much that his entire backside was in motion. I sank to my knees, and when he licked me, I fell instantly, totally in love.

  Dad got him from St. Woof’s, and we didn’t know his age. The vicar (who knows about this sort of thing) estimated him to be about five years old. Nor did he fit anywhere on my list of favorite dog breeds.

  So I made a new list, where “mutts” was at the top.

  It lasted a month. Twenty-seven days, actually. Twenty-seven days of pure happiness, and then it was over. Trashed by Jessica, who I try so hard to like—without success.

  It wasn’t Mr. Mash’s “gas problem” that was the issue.

  I for one would have put up with that. Although sometimes the smell could make your eyes water, it was never for long. No: it was Jessica, one hundred percent.

  It started with a cough, then wheezing, then a rash on her hands. Jessica, it turned out, was completely allergic.

  “Didn’t you know?” I wailed, and she shook her head. Believe it or not, she had simply never been in close enough contact with dogs for long enough to discover that she was hypersensitive to their fur, or their saliva, or something. Or maybe it developed when she was an adult. I don’t think she was making it up: she’s not that bad.

  OK, I did—occasionally—think that. But after Jessica had an asthma attack that left her exhausted, and her hair all sweaty, we knew that Mr. Mash would have to go back.

  It’s probably unusual to have the best day and the worst day of your life within a month, especially since I was still only ten at the time.

  I cried for a week, and Jessica kept saying she was sorry and trying to hug me with her bony arms, but I was furious. I still am sometimes.

  Mr. Mash went back to St. Woof’s. And the only good thing is that he is still there. The vicar says I can see him whenever I like.

  I became a St. Woof’s volunteer. I’m way too young officially, but Dad says he persuaded the vicar to “bend the rules.”

  Actually, it wasn’t the only good thing. The other good thing was that there were loads of dogs at St. Woof’s, and I liked them all.

  But I loved Mr. Mash the best, and it was because of him that—fifteen months later—Ramzy and I ended up meeting Dr. Pretorius.

  It was morning, about nine, and there was a cool, early mist hanging over the beach. There was me, Ramzy, Mr. Mash, plus two of the other dogs from St. Woof’s.

  I had let Mr. Mash off his leash, and he’d run down the steps and across the sand to the shore, where he likes to try to eat the white tops of the little waves. Ramzy was holding on to ugly Dudley, who can’t be let off the leash because he has zero recall, which is when you call to a dog and he doesn’t come. Dudley once ran as far as the lighthouse, and would probably have run farther if the tide hadn’t been in.

  So there was Mr. Mash down by the shoreline, Dudley straining on his leash, and Sally-Ann, the Lhasa apso, sniffing the stone steps very reluctantly. Sally-Ann’s a “paying guest” at St. Woof’s and I genuinely think she’s snobby toward the other dogs there, like a duchess having to stay at a cheap hotel.

  At the bottom of the steps was a tall old lady cramming a load of white hair, bit by bit, into a yellow rubber swimming cap. I nudged Ramzy. “It’s her,” I whispered. “From the Spanish City.” At that stage, we didn’t know her name, and hadn’t even met her, although we had both seen her before.

  We hung back at the top of the steps. The old lady snapped on a pair of swimming goggles, shrugged off a long beach robe, and started walking across the sand toward the sea. The tide was in, so it was a short walk, but long enough for us to stare in wonder.

  Her one-piece bathing suit matched the vivid yellow of her cap and made her long legs and arms—a rich dark brown—seem even darker. She had almost no flesh where her bottom should be: just a slight swelling below the scooped back of the swimsuit. She moved confidently but slowly and didn’t stop when she got to the water, just carried on walking until the sea was at waist level; then she bent forward and started a steady swim out toward a buoy about fifty yards away.

  What happened about fifteen minutes later was Mr. Mash’s fault. By now, Ramzy and I were on the beach. We’d seen the old lady come out of the water and walk back up the sand to where her stuff was. She was a bit scary-looking, and I didn’t want to have to pass her as we went back up the steps, so we stayed by the shoreline.

  I have no idea what Mr. Mash could have found even slightly edible about a yellow swimming cap, but suddenly he was running up the beach to where the old lady had dropped it, and he had it in his jaws.

  “Hey! You! Get off that!” she yelled, and then I was running too.

  “Mr. Mash! Off! Off! Leave it!” I yelled.

  “Give it to me!” shouted the old lady, and that was it. Mr. Mash leaped up at her with the swimming cap in his mouth, and over she went onto the sand, banging her wrist on the steps as she fell. I heard something scrape and the old lady exclaimed in pain.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! He’s just being friendly!” I cried, and the lady sat upright, sand sticking to her wet skin where she’d fallen. She rubbed her wrist while, behind her, the silly mutt slowly chewed her bathing cap.

  On her wrist was a big watch, one of those ones with pointers and numbers, and she was looking at it. Then she held it up to show me a wide scratch on the glass front.

  “Your
dog did that,” she said. “And what the heck is he doing to my swim cap?”

  “I’m really sorry.” It was pretty much all I could think of saying. I just wanted to run away.

  Ramzy, meanwhile, was wringing his hands and shuffling in the sand like he needed to go to the bathroom, his mouth pulled tight into a line of fear. His skinny legs were trembling and making his enormous school shorts shake. Dudley was yapping with excitement on the end of his leash, while Sally-Ann sat nearby, facing the other way as if she was trying to ignore the commotion.

  The woman looked at me carefully as she got to her feet and pulled on the long woollen beach robe that reached to her ankles. “You’re lucky my watch isn’t broken,” she said to me in her strange, low-pitched American accent. Then she added, “You’re the two I saw a few weeks ago, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. “I…I’m sorry about your wrist. Is it OK?”

  “No, of course it’s not OK. It hurts like heck and there’s a great big scratch on the crystal of my watch.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, so you said. I get it. You’re sorry. Jeez, is that dog gonna eat the whole darn thing? It sure looks like it.” Her white Afro bobbed as she talked. She stretched her sinewy neck to peer at me and I think I squeaked in surprise when I saw her unusual pale blue eyes: I don’t think I’d ever seen a black person with eyes like that, and it was difficult not to stare. I dragged my gaze away to look at Mr. Mash.

  “Stop it, Mr. Mash!” I said. I tried to pull the cap from the dog’s mouth, but it was ruined. “I’m sorry!” I said again. Then, “Stop that, Dudley!” to Dudley, who had a dead seagull in his mouth. It was all pretty chaotic.

  The old lady replaced her thick spectacles; then she folded her skinny arms with their papery skin. She looked me up and down. “How old are you?” she snarled.

  “I’m eleven.”

  “Hmph. What about Mr. Madrid over there?” She jerked her thumb at Ramzy, who was still hopping from foot to foot with anxiety. He was wearing his black Real Madrid soccer jersey, although—so far as I know—he doesn’t follow the team. It’s not a real jersey: it’s made by ‘Adadis’ but I don’t think he cares.

  “He’s ten,” I said.

  “And five-sixths,” Ramzy chipped in, then immediately looked embarrassed. He’s the youngest in our class.

  A trace of a smile appeared on the old lady’s face: it wasn’t much more than the slight lifting of one side of her mouth. I didn’t know then that it was an expression I would get used to. She flexed her wrist and winced. “Five-sixths, huh? Well, ain’t you the big fella?” She took a long breath in through her nose as if she was making a big decision about what to say next.

  “I really don’t want to have to report all this,” she said, staring out at the sea, and then her eyes flashed to the side, measuring my reaction. “You know—a stolen swim cap, a potentially serious injury, a damaged watch, an outta control dog…”

  “Oh, he’s not out of—”

  “Like I said, I don’t want to have to report it. That would be a drag. But you two could help me.” She turned round to face us and put her long hands on her narrow hips. “You know the Spanish City?”

  “Of course.” I pointed to the big dome a little way in the distance.

  “Yeah, course you do. Go there this evening at six, and we may be able to forget about all…this. And don’t tell anyone, either.”

  Ramzy was nodding away like an idiot, but that’s because his aunty Nush, who he lives with, is super strict about good behavior. I think he’s on his last chance or something, so he’d agree to anything. Me, on the other hand…

  I half raised my hand and said, “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, only you said don’t tell anyone, but we don’t know you, and…”

  She stared at me, unblinking, and her large glasses seemed to magnify her pale eyes.

  “There’s a rule, honey, and I know that you know it: if a grown-up you hardly know asks you to keep a secret from your mom and pop, it is always a bad idea.”

  I nodded, wishing she’d stop staring, but I was unable to take my eyes away.

  “It’s a cast-iron rule,” she said. I nodded again and swallowed. “Which I’m gonna ask you to break.”

  She let this sink in. “See you at six this evening.” She turned and, in one movement, gathered up her sandals and yellow beach bag and stalked off up the steps. Then she turned. “Pretorius. Dr. Emilia Pretorius. Good to meet ya.”

  Beside me, Mr. Mash threw up the pieces of bathing cap, then started to eat them again. (Later I added bathing cap to the ever-lengthening list of things Mr. Mash has eaten.)

  “What d’you reckon?” asked Ramzy, watching her go.

  I thought a bit and then pointed to his soccer jersey. “How many ladies of her age would recognize Real Madrid’s away uniform?” I said, impressed. “Plus…Mr. Mash quite liked her.”

  Which meant I was prepared to give her a chance.

  So here we are, the evening of the same day, back in the Spanish City.

  “Ha ha ha haaa!” cackles Dr. Pretorius again, and I honestly don’t think she’s acting. I think she’s just excited.

  Beyond the double doors it’s dark—I mean, totally dark—till Dr. Pretorius barks, “Studio lights!” and brilliant pinpoint lights flicker to life on thin metal rails that crisscross the domed ceiling high, high above us.

  We’re in a vast, round, windowless room with walls clad entirely—floor to ceiling—with a dull dark green…foam, I suppose? It looks spongy, although I don’t dare touch it. The ceiling and floor are matte black, and in the center of the room is a single deck chair: the old-fashioned type with red-and-white-striped canvas. That’s it.

  We are inside the dome of the Spanish City—the mosque-like building that dominates the seafront of Whitley Bay—and it is huge.

  “You like?” says Dr. Pretorius, sweeping a proud arm into the blackness, and her voice echoes round the vast emptiness.

  “Yeah!” I say, and Ramzy nods, but before I’ve finished my syllable, she turns and glares.

  “Liar! How can you? You have no idea what this is. I warned you: you must tell me the truth, and only the truth! Now, I’ll try again. You like?”

  “Erm…” I don’t know what to say this time, and I’m scared I’ll get it wrong again. This Dr. Pretorius is pretty intimidating. Ramzy rescues me.

  “To be honest, Dr. Pretorius,” he says, “there’s not a great deal to like. But I’d certainly call it impressive. Striking. Erm…remarkable.”

  “Ha! You’re learning! That’s more like it. You know a lot of words. Where are you from, kid? That Northeastern accent’s mixed up with something else, isn’t it?”

  Ramzy hesitates. “Well, my home country doesn’t really exist anymore. There was a war and, well…”

  “I get it, kid. We’re all lookin’ for a home, huh? Well, this is mine. Welcome to my lab-ratory, or—as you English say—my la-bor-atory, ha! Come this way. Stay to the side. And…hold up a second.” She sniffs the air. “Can you smell…burning rubber?”

  “I’m sorry. That, erm…that’s Mr. Mash. He has a slight erm…digestive problem.”

  Dr. Pretorius’s hand covers her face and her voice is muffled. “You don’t say!” She looks at Mr. Mash and then her gaze flicks to the door as if she’s considering sending him out, but she doesn’t. It makes me like her a little more.

  My eyes have become accustomed to the gloom, and we follow her round the side of the circular room. She pulls aside a thick green curtain to reveal a narrow doorway, and the three of us, plus Mr. Mash, squeeze through.

  “Control-room lights!”

  Blue-white strip lights come on to reveal a long room with white tiles on the floor and walls. There are workbenches, sinks, a big fridge, an eight-ring stove, and a black iron grill. It’s ob
vious that this was once a restaurant kitchen.

  Along one wall, above a wooden desk, are three huge, blank computer screens and a large keyboard with colored keys—the kind they have in the tech lab at school. And everywhere—on every shelf, on every surface—are endless bits of…stuff. Boxes of wires, components, tiny tools, rolls of gaffer tape, a soldering iron, boxes of screws and nails, and a selection of eye-shields, helmets, gloves, and glasses for use with virtual-reality games. Some of them are dusty and look years old, with different names on them. Google, Vis-Art, Apple, Ocean Blue, Samsung…Some of the names I recognize but most I don’t.

  On one aluminum worktop lies a computer and a monitor—an old one, from the last century, with its insides spilling out as though it’s been dropped and no one has swept up the pieces. I don’t think anyone has swept anything, to be honest: the whole place is pretty rank.

  Below the desk are several cabinets, housing—I suppose—the actual workings of the computers. A few lights blink but they make no sound, not even a hum.

  On a worktop next to a sink is a wooden board with a wrapped loaf of bread and some butter and cheese, plus a load of dirty cups. Mr. Mash has found some crumbs and snuffles around, trying to locate some more.

  Dr. Pretorius eases her long body into a wheeled desk chair, adjusts her spectacles, and taps the keyboard on the desk, which makes the middle screen come to life.

  “Sorry about the mess,” says Dr. Pretorius, but she doesn’t sound sorry at all.

  Her fingers tap and type while page after page scrolls up on the screen. The two other computer monitors light up with images that flash by, too fast to see properly, before they stop on a picture of a beach.

  It’s a moving image, from three different angles, one on each screen.

  I look at Ramzy, who has been silent since we walked in. He gazes at the screens, his mouth hanging open.