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:
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.