He'd never heard of the Oxford Office of Ophthalmic Health and, in the darkness, he'd missed the fearsome etching of a stoat on the door, but despite that, he had certain expectations. Expectations which remained unmet. He'd anticipated a modern and spacious car park. What he found was a cramped garage with a chest freezer and a DIY workbench. Bottles of white spirit and antifreeze sat on a shelf which ran along the opposite wall at an angle that could scarcely be described as parallel to the floor. Although the floor itself didn't appear horizontal.
As Bobby stood surveying the scene with a sense of disappointment, Snellen was busy tapping numbers into a keypad by a metal door to the right. A bleep signalled that the code had been accepted, and a click that the door had unlocked.
"Come on," he said, looking over at Bobby.
A voice came from the back seat of the car, its owner hidden by the tinted windows.
"Can someone help me with my seatbelt?" said the voice. "I can't find the button."
Bobby opened the back door of the limo. Mavis Clutter was fiddling with the cigarette lighter in a vain attempt to release herself.
"Here," said Bobby, reaching over and depressing the red button at the base of the belt. "And don't forget your bag."
Mavis gathered her belongings and clambered out of the car, taking the hand that Bobby reluctantly chose to offer. She looked at her surroundings.
"Well this is very nice," she said, taking off her coat. "Where can I hang this?"
Bobby tensed. Three hours in the back of a heated limo, and not a word. Five seconds in a cool garage and she was stripping off already. He felt like punching her in the face, throwing her into the chest freezer and jumping on the lid until she agreed to put her coat on. But he'd already been impulsive once that day, and he had to draw the line somewhere.
"Here," he said, a momentary wave of pity, if not guilt, washing over him. "I'll carry it."
Bobby took the old lady's coat, stepped over a bag of charcoal briquettes, and walked across to the open door. Mavis Clutter followed him, her walking stick hooked over one arm, handbag over the opposite shoulder, reading glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. She paused momentarily to sip Lucozade from an artificial hip flask hidden in the pocket of her bay cardigan, then continued on past the freezer.
Ivor Snellen checked his watch impatiently, then turned the handle of the metal door, which swung open on well-oiled hinges. Checking that his companions were following, he stepped through the doorway, and was instantly enveloped in darkness.
As people were fond of telling Bobby Macula, first impressions could be deceptive. The Oxford Office of Ophthalmic Health may have had the parking facilities of a pensioner, but it had the boardroom of an international conglomerate and the computing power of NASA. From his leather-clad chair at one end of the large glass-topped table that dominated the boardroom, Bobby felt certain that, should it be required, he would be fully capable of hiring, firing, ordering coffee and launching a manned mission to Mars, all without leaving his seat. Time would tell which, if any, of those actions he would be asked to perform, but Bobby was a realist, so if pushed, he'd have put money on the coffee.
Numerous touch-sensitive computer displays were embedded in the glass table-top, one for each person the table could seat, and, Bobby estimated, it could seat at least thirty. It would, he concluded, make the perfect location for a class of school children out on a day trip to learn about the heady world of business and undercover ophthalmology. Although he kept this opinion to himself on the grounds that it may not be strictly relevant.
Two large plasma screens were mounted on the wall at one side of the room, from where they beamed out a surprisingly jolly animated screensaver of a singing squirrel. Speakers were mounted at either side, but to Bobby's disappointment, they appeared not to be switched on. From the expression on the squirrel's face, however, he felt confident that the song in question was either ‘She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain’, or something by Coldplay.
A sound interrupted Bobby’s thoughts. It was the sound of Mavis Clutter dropping Polo mints onto the glass table-top. The two of them had been seated at that table, facing the plasma screens, for what felt like an eternity, but was in reality only five minutes. Time dragged when your only entertainment was musical vermin.
The room in which they sat was four floors below ground level, and they were alone. Ivor Snellen had escorted them down in the lift, accompanied them to the door, pointed them to their seats, and told them he would return shortly after seeing to some urgent business. The sound of flushing from the next room suggested that this business had been attended to, and sure enough, a few seconds later, Snellen returned.
“Mr Macula, Miss Clutter, sorry to have kept you,” he said, walking over to the boardroom table. “I expect you’d both like to know what you’re doing here. I realise it’s been a day of unexpected occurrences, and you both deserve an explanation.”
Mavis turned to Bobby. “Is he talking to us, love?” she asked.
Bobby nodded. Snellen continued.
“As I intimated earlier,” he said, “we have a problem. Not just us at the Oxford Office of Ophthalmic Health - ”
“The what?” queried Mavis.
“This place,” Bobby clarified.
“- but this entire nation,” Snellen continued, “and perhaps the world.”
He paused, possibly waiting for a sharp intake of breath, a horrified gasp, or even a round of applause. He received none. Mavis yawned.
“To explain further, I would like to introduce you to a very important person. The head of this organisation. The CEO. The President. The Big Cheese himself. Yes, you’ve heard about him in ophthalmology clinics up and down the country, you’ve seen his picture hanging in high street opticians, you’ve heard his monthly glaucoma phone-ins on the BBC World Service, and now you’re about to meet him in person. Mr Macula, Miss Clutter, please put your hands together for the one, the only, the Mr Big of undercover eyecare, Sir Roger Logmar.”
Bobby and Mavis both put their hands together. Mavis to stifle another yawn, Bobby to pray that he hadn’t made a terrible mistake by agreeing to leave his retinopathy screening clinic and drive halfway across the country to meet a man he’d never heard of.
The door opened in silence. Bobby expected to see tumbleweed enter and roll across the room. Instead, a man walked in. A surprisingly short man in glasses. Ivor Snellen bowed in front of him, and then offered a hand, which the man shook in a manner which suggested he might be a Freemason.
“Good evening,” said the man, nodding towards Bobby and Mavis. “My name is Sir Roger Logmar. I’m the head of this organisation. The CEO. The Pres-”
“We know,” interrupted Bobby.
“Good,” said the knight.
“Who did you say you are?” added Mavis.
“I’m the man who might just change your life,” replied Roger.
“Are you feet?” asked Mavis. “Because these arthritic spurs are playing merry hell with my heels, and just between you and me, I’m not sure these fit-flops are helping.”
Roger sensed that he might be losing his audience early on. He decided to leave questions for later, and press on with the matter in hand.
“My friends,” he said, “I need to address you both on a most serious matter.”
“Is it waterworks?” added Mavis.
“No -”
“Wigs?”
“If you’ll just -”
“You’ll not get me near a flu jab again, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Mavis firmly. “All that nonsense about it not giving you flu – you must think I came down in the last shower. One needle and I was chesty for weeks. And as for that swine flu – put me off bacon for a fortnight. No, I’m putting my foot down here. And that’s not as easy as it used to be. Don’t get me started on my corns, they’ll be the death of me, and I’ve told them that till I’m blue in the face. But will they listen? Will they buggery. No, this time it’s not up for discussion. I’ll take my chances with the germs, thank you very much. You save your concoctions for the simple folk. Try it out on this young doctor chap here -”
She motioned towards Bobby. He looked back, confused.
“- he’s a bit light on his feet, probably used to a few diseases, he’ll not mind a few sniffles, but me – I’m fine as I am, don’t you worry, and that’s the long and the short of it, subject closed. You can chit-chat to me about colds until the cows come home, but believe you me, I’m not one of your wet-behind-the-ears do-as-I-say, not-as-I-do, sheeple people.”
Sir Roger Logmar looked across at Ivor Snellen.
“Just get her out of here,” he said.
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