The Dog Who Saved the World. Ross Welford

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

      I thought a bit and then pointed to his football top. ‘How many ladies of her age would recognise Real Madrid’s away kit?’ 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 criss-cross 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 matt black, and in the centre of the room is a single deckchair: 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 norra 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 north-eastern accent’s mixed up with something else, isn’t it?’

      Ramzy hesitates. ‘Well, my home country doesn’t really exist any more. 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 cooker and a black iron grill. It’s obvious 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 coloured 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 recognise but most I don’t.

      On one aluminium 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.

      ‘Don’t worry, guys,’ says Dr Pretorius behind us. ‘It gets better. Here.’ She holds a bicycle helmet in each hand, and waits for our reaction. ‘Well, put ’em on,’ she says, eventually. ‘Adjust them so they’re a good fit, and make ’em tight: tighter than you’d normally wear.’

      A tiny earbud plugs snugly into each ear. She helps us with the straps and buckles, fiddling and pulling, till Ramzy says, ‘Argh! It’s too tight!’

      ‘Can you breathe?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Then it isn’t too tight. OK – follow me. The dog stays here.’ She leads us out of the control room and back into the studio and we stand with our backs to the foamy green wall.

      I look down and realise for the first time that we’re standing on a kind of path that runs round the whole of the circular floor. The floor itself is a huge disc filled with … what? I bend down to look closer.

      ‘One-millimetre matt-black ball bearings,’ says Dr Pretorius beside me. ‘Billions of them, half a metre deep. You can walk on them – it’s OK. They’re packed tight. You won’t sink.’

      She stands before us, checking the helmets and finally lowering a curved steel bar that attaches to the helmets like a visor. It rests above our eyes. ‘That’s the 3D generator,’ she says. ‘It’ll dazzle a bit but you’ll get used to it. You’ll probably also feel a little discomfort on your scalp, but it’s nothin’ to worry about.’

      Ramzy says, ‘This is just like the Surround-a-Room at Disney World!’

      I get the impression that that was not the right thing to say, although I can’t be sure. Dr Pretorius blinks slowly and takes a deep breath through her nose, as though considering her response. Eventually, she says, ‘Dead right, sonny. Only this is waay better. This is a game that’s gonna change the world. OK, this way.’

      She leads us towards the deckchair. The ball bearings feel odd underfoot, like walking on soft gravel. ‘When the program starts,’ Dr Pretorius says, ‘the floor will shift a little beneath you. It might feel strange at first but you’ll get used to it.’ She turns and goes back into the control room, pulling the curtain