Chapter Six

Bobby Macula wasn’t entirely sure that the methods employed by the Oxford Office of Ophthalmic Health were always what one might call ‘proper’. Witnessing the way Ivor Snellen dragged 76-year-old Mavis Clutter out of the boardroom by her ankles, he wondered to what lengths the organisation might be prepared to go if faced with a genuine foe, rather than just a little old lady who wouldn’t shut up. He supposed that a special operations unit, whether it be linked to the British Army, the US Navy or the Royal College of Ophthalmologists, would be expected to bend the rules on occasion, and he had to admit that if he was going to be pulled along the floor on his stomach for a distance of twenty metres, then there were far worse places for it to happen than the deep shag pile carpet of the OOOH boardroom, but despite that, he felt slightly uncomfortable. Mentally at least. Physically, he was loving the vibrating massage function of the reclining leather chair.

Sounds of a slight scuffle came from the corridor outside the boardroom. Evidently, Mavis was putting up a bit of a fight. Her earlier declaration that she wasn’t one of the sheeple people appeared to ring truer than Bobby could ever have imagined. She clearly wouldn’t be led like a lamb to the slaughter. Not that Bobby hoped slaughter would be on the agenda. He found the old lady irritating at times, but they’d only met a few hours ago, and it would, he felt, be a shame if she died so early in their relationship. Particularly as he hadn’t yet obtained an accurate VA.

The noise from outside died down, and Ivor Snellen re-entered the room, his hair slightly tousled, and his neck-tie skew-whiff. A damp patch on his trousers suggested that Mavis Clutter’s Lucozade may have been spilt in the commotion, but given the ‘urgent business’ Snellen had recently attended to, Bobby couldn’t be sure. Pausing to check his reflection in a glass-framed eye chart on the wall, Snellen straightened his appearance and sat down.

By now, Sir Roger Logmar had taken a position behind a small, yet grandiose podium at the front of the room. He tapped the microphone which protruded from a shelf in front of him, and, satisfied by the resulting boom that it was indeed switched on, he spoke.

“Ok,” he said. “Let’s get on with this.”

Bobby turned up the vibration control on his chair, and settled down.

“Mr Macula,” said Sir Roger, “what you are about to hear is top secret. The details of what follows are known only to me, Ivor Snellen, the entire board of the Oxford Office of Ophthalmic Health, their wives, three or four mistresses, a couple of golfing buddies and the five hundred or so people we’ve already asked for help. Mr Macula, or may I call you Bobby..?”

Bobby looked doubtful.

“Bobby,” he continued, “those people all said no. Reasons varied, and now is not the time to go into the whys, the wherefores and the witch-hunts, but mostly they were just too damn busy working on their City & Guilds Diploma in Diabetic Retinopathy Screening to give two figs about our little problem.” Logmar looked rueful. “Bobby, there are a lot of damaged people out there. Good people, hard-working people, all driven to the edge of sanity by a relentless system which forces them to see patient after difficult patient, day after endless day, living their lives in permanent solitude and perpetual darkness, until they’re finally let out into the daylight for five precious minutes, only to be asked to explain why they still haven’t completed Unit 6. And just when they think the nightmare’s over, the work is done, and there’s a glint of light at the end of the long, dark tunnel, they realise it’s the 29th of the month, and they still haven’t done their online EQA grading.”

Bobby looked at his watch. “Is it Wednesday today?” he said.

“Thursday,” replied Roger.

“Dammit,” said Bobby.

“Exactly,” said Rog. “Mr Macula, you’re already failing in every possible department. The turtles of Droitwich may not have had a voice to complain, but the diabetics of East Anglia do. And the word on the street is that you’re letting down the world of retinal screening in a very big way.”

“Hang on just one moment,” Bobby retorted, “I’m not the one who’s just dragged a patient out of the room by her ankles. How dare you accuse me of letting the side down?! I spend all day, every day with pensioners, and I’ve only resorted to physical violence three, maybe four, times. Five if you include assault with a copy of the Dodson book on Diabetic Retinopathy. And frankly that’s too small to do any damage. Snellen here spends a couple of hours with one old lady, and he’s already getting out the knuckle-dusters.”

“I didn’t, Sir,” remarked Snellen, jumping in. “They remained in my pocket at all times. And you can check the cupboard next door – the snooker ball in a sock is still behind the emergency glass.”

“It’s ok, Ivor,” replied Roger, “nobody’s pointing the finger at either of you. We all know that sometimes the rules need to be bent a little. Who amongst us can honestly say that they’ve never skipped the VA of a patient with leg ulcers, just to get them out of the room, and then put on the notes that they didn’t speak English?”

Bobby and Snellen looked blank. “Just me then?” said Sir Roger. “Well, I’m making no apologies. That woman stank.”

“I think, Sir,” interrupted Snellen, “that if I may be so bold, we are straying slightly from the matter in hand. Mr Macula still has no idea why he’s here.”

“Is this some kind of disciplinary hearing?” asked Bobby.

“No,” replied Sir Roger. “Quite the opposite. This is a chance to redeem yourself, Bobby. To wipe the slate clean. To perform a full infection-control wipe-down on your career. Your indiscretions are many, but they’re not the end of the world. Our problem, however, might be. We don’t care that you don’t clean the chin rest after each patient, that you write down every visual acuity score as 6/9 just to save time, that you’ve been working on Unit 7 of the City & Guilds Diploma for eighteen months now and you still haven’t taken the online exam. All we care is that you’re a Retinal Screener, and you’ve got time on your hands.”

“Time on my hands?” questioned Bobby. “I’ve got a full book of patients tomorrow. I’m working all day in a remote clinic. Well ok, not all day. I’ve phoned the last six patients of the afternoon, told them the camera’s broken, and rebooked them into my colleague’s clinic, but that’s standard procedure for a Friday. I like to go bowling.”

“It’s ok, Mr Macula,” replied Sir Roger. “We’ve dealt with that.”

“You mean you’ve spoken to my boss?”

“In a roundabout way.”

“Meaning..?”

“We phoned the local paper and told them you’d stolen some Semtex and joined a jihad in the Middle East. Your boss will be reading the news in the morning. Trust me, he won’t be expecting you in work tomorrow. As far as he’s concerned, you’re halfway to Kabul with a suitcase full of explosives.”

“Oh,” said Bobby. “And that’s a good thing?”

“It is,” replied Roger. “And in a manner of speaking, it’s true. We do want you to wage war in the Middle East. The middle east of Essex. Basildon, to be exact.”

Bobby looked doubtful. “And what’s in it for me?” he enquired.

“The respect of Retinal Screeners past, present and future,” replied Sir Roger. “Plus all the tropicamide you can carry.”

“And,” Snellen chipped in, “a chap like you could carry quite a lot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Bobby.

Snellen looked sheepish. “I don’t know,” he replied.

Bobby sighed. The room was silent, save for the gentle hum of a vibrating massage function. “Ok,” he said, after a few seconds. “Tell me all about it.”