Chapter One

Bobby Macula picked up his pinhole occluder and walked slowly to the door of his dimly-lit room. Glancing at his clipboard, he looked up at the waiting room full of people and called out in a loud, yet tired voice.

“Gladys Smith?”

Fourteen people stared back at him in a manner which suggested he was speaking in a foreign language.

“Gladys Smith?” he repeated. Still nothing. He tried a different tack. “Is there anyone here for retinopathy screening?”

A middle-aged woman stood up. “Is that feet?” she said.

“No,” replied Bobby. The woman sat down. He looked at the sea of blank faces. “Diabetic retinopathy screening. Any takers?”

Fourteen people shook their heads. Bobby looked down at the next name on his list.

“Mavis Clutter?”

A lady in her seventies stopped shaking her head and stood up. “Do come in, Mrs Clutter,” said Bobby, gesturing towards the open door.

“It’s Miss Clutter, young man,” said the lady. “Are you married yourself?”

“Yes, I am,” he replied.

“Really?” she said.

“Yes,” he insisted.

“Well, it just goes to show,” she said, taking her coat off, “there’s someone for everyone”.

“Can I ask your date of birth?” enquired Bobby, hoping he’d got the wrong patient.

“One, two, three, four,” she said, like a toddler with a handful of sweets.

Bobby looked at his list. First of February, 1934. “That’s easy to remember,” he said.

“Just because I’m 75, doesn’t mean I’ve lost my marbles.”

“You’re 76.”

“And I’ve still got it up here,” she said, tapping her temple. “Now, where can I hang my coat?”

Bobby bristled. “You’ve been sitting quite happily in that waiting room for twenty minutes with your coat on. You don’t need to take it off now.”

“I like to be comfortable.”

“You’ll be two minutes. Put up with it”.

“I’ll put it up here then,” she said, pushing past the desk, and reaching for a hook on the wall. “Is this the x-ray machine?”

She prodded the fundus camera with her finger, leaving a large smudge on the lens. Bobby mentally shot her through the heart with a crossbow.

“Just take a seat over there, Miss Clutter,” he said.

The woman did as she was told, before deciding that to be truly comfortable, she’d need to remove her cardigan too. And hang it up. On the other side of the room. Before taking a different seat. By the time Bobby had wrestled her into the correct chair, and forced the occluder into her hand, she’d begun her maiden speech.

“I do get watery eyes a lot,” she said. “I presume that’s the cataracts, is it? And I’ve noticed that when I wear my reading glasses, I can’t see the TV so well. I expect that’s age. Do you think I should go for that laser eye surgery? The girl I saw last year – where’s she gone? She told me I had some kind of leak at the back of the eye. The right one I think. Could have been the left. I see that sometimes when I look at the sun. It’s like a fly darting across my vision. My husband sees it too.”

“I thought you weren’t married?” Bobby interjected. The woman ignored him.

“I’ll tell you one thing, though,” she continued. “Lucozade. Does you the power of good. Got to keep your blood sugars up when you have diabetes, otherwise it’s coma time. And you know what that means?” She drew a finger across her throat and made a sound like the Elephant Man slurping tea from a saucer. “Curtains,” she finished.

“Let’s hope so,” replied Bobby. “Now hold this, and start reading at the top of the chart.”

“Which chart?”

“The chart over there. The side that’s lit up.”

“I can’t see any chart.”

Bobby looked at her. “Keep both eyes open,” he said, helpfully.

“Do you know,” said Mavis, lowering the occluder from her nose, “I think I can see better without this thing.”

“I know,” replied Bobby, “that’s the point. Keep it there. And read out the letters.”

She peered through the hole. “I can see all of those, love,” she said.

“Just read them out for me.”

“I can read right to the bottom.”

“Just start at the top.”

“T.”

“Keep going...”

“It’s a bit misty after that.”

Bobby sighed. “Do you wear glasses?”

“Only for driving.”

“And have you got them with you?”

“They’re outside in the car,” she said.

“You didn’t drive to this appointment, did you?” asked Bobby. “The letter does state that you shouldn’t drive. The eye drops will make your vision blurry for a few hours.”

“It’s ok, dear,” she replied, “those drops don’t affect me. I find I can see better afterwards. I expect that’s the glaucoma, is it?”

Bobby ignored her and flipped down the pinhole attachment. “Try it through the little holes,” he said. “Is the chart any clearer?”

“No,” came the response.

“Try it first before you say that.”

“I’ve told you,” she replied, “it’s clearer without your plastic spectacles”.

Bobby took back the occluder and wrote 6/9 on his clipboard. There were advantages to working alone. “Ok,” he continued, “I’ll give you a couple of eye drops now...”

“I know, dear, I know. I’ve been doing this since 1975. First time I’ve seen a man though. Not that I’m prejudiced. Homosexuals have to work too. Of course, in my day, you were all locked up. But I’m willing to move with the times. You give me your eye drops and we’ll get on with the x-rays.”

Bobby wasn’t listening. He was mentally kicking her corpse with steel-capped boots and going through her pockets for money. Outwardly he smiled.

“You might feel this sting a bit,” he said. Here’s hoping, he thought.

* * *
Two minutes later, Mavis Clutter was back in the waiting room with onion eyes, garlic breath and the hood of her coat over her face. Bobby had told her it would help her pupils dilate.

Standing by his computer desk, Bobby cleaned the lens of the camera with a cloth which was at least 60% grease, before picking up his clipboard and making his way back to the door of his room. Eighteen faces looked up at him.

“Ivor Snellen?” he called.

A middle-aged man in dark glasses rose to his feet. “Hmmm...” thought Bobby. “Blind, uncool, or just trying to avoid the eye drops?”

He smiled politely. “Do step this way, Mr Snellen.”

Bobby retreated into his room. The man followed, and closed the door. He turned to look at the screener in front of him, then lowered both his glasses and his voice, and spoke in a darkly menacing tone.

“Bobby Macula,” he said. “I’m not one of your patients”.

Bobby met his cold, steely gaze with eyes that could have penetrated a dense fruitcake, and responded in the only way he knew. “Podiatry’s the next door along,” he said.

The man ignored him. “I’m from the Oxford Office of Ophthalmic Health,” he continued.

“Oooh,” said Bobby.

“That’s us,” said the man. “Mr Macula, we need your help.”