Chapter Ten

From his reclining leather seat at the OOOH boardroom table, Bobby Macula wondered if they were ever going to get to the point of all this. It was hours since he'd left East Anglia. By now, they would have discovered that he hadn't put the lens cap back on the fundus camera. A copy of the unsigned infection control record was probably being faxed to his boss. Germs would be multiplying on the unwiped chin rest. He hoped it would all be worth it.

“Bobby,” said Sir Roger Logmar, sensing on some deep emotional level that he was losing his audience again, “I'm about to come to the point of all this.”

“Thank God for that,” replied Bobby, impressed by the man’s insight.

“Snellen,” said Sir Roger, turning to his colleague, “the drum roll please.”

Ivor Snellen turned to a CD control unit set into the wall at the front of the room, and pressed the button marked 'Play'. The theme music from ‘Star Wars’ boomed out at full volume from the speakers on the wall. Snellen looked confused.

“My mistake,” said Sir Roger. “That’s the Mars music.”

“The what?” replied Snellen, no less confused.

“Don't worry about it,” said Sir Roger, “I'll e-mail you later. Try disc two.”

Snellen fiddled for a moment, and the music stopped.

“Is all this strictly necessary?” asked Bobby.

“We're setting a scene here, Bob,” replied Sir Roger. “You'll thank me for it later. Just bear with us for a moment.”

Snellen pressed a few more buttons and the PA system hummed back into life. A woman's voice sounded out from the speakers, talking with the clear, clipped tones of a continuity announcer.

“Subliminal Messages Volume Two,” the voice stated. “Track One: The Yes Man Drum Roll.”

“Ignore that bit,” said Sir Roger to Bobby.

The CD continued, and a recording of a drum roll began to play. In the background, Bobby could hear badly concealed voices whispering ‘Agree to anything’ and ‘Just say yes’. Sir Roger smiled at him optimistically.

“Bobby,” he said, “I’m about to ask for your help in a most important matter.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah...” replied Bobby, apathetically.

“Oh my God, it works!” cried Sir Roger. “Quick Snellen, get the contract!”

Bobby exhaled impatiently. “Right, that’s it,” he said, getting up. “I’ve had just about enough of this. I'm not agreeing to anything until you tell me exactly what this is all about. And if you don’t tell me right now, I’m leaving.”

Sir Roger Logmar looked crestfallen. He gazed pleadingly at the young retinal screener with puppy dog eyes, as Bobby’s reclining leather chair travelled slowly and unoccupied across the room, powered by a vibrating massage function which had been left on maximum power.

“You’re right,” said Sir Roger, after a few seconds’ pause. “Sit down, Bobby, and I’ll tell you everything.”

Bobby sat down on the square of deep shag pile carpet that, just moments earlier, had been occupied by his chair. Trying to maintain his dignity with a steely expression, he crossed his legs and took off his shoes, in a brave attempt to convince both Logmar and Snellen that he’d done it deliberately. The plan appeared to work.

“Ok,” said Sir Roger, “no beating about the bush, I’ll come straight to the point. The problem is this -”

His words were interrupted by a loud ringing which seemed to fill both the room and the heads of those in it, from every conceivable direction.

"Holy cotton wool spots!” shouted Sir Roger. “It's the Eye Phone!".

He ran over to the boardroom table, where the centrepiece – a bronze sculpture of an eyeball – had inexplicably started to flash. Pressing an ebony button secreted in the pupil, Sir Roger watched as a flip-top telephone handset popped out from the optic disc at the rear of the figure. He pulled, and the handset came away, attached by a white cord which, to all the world (and Bobby too), looked like an optic nerve. With a flick of Sir Roger’s wrist, the handset opened and the ringing stopped. He held the phone to his ear and spoke.

“You’re through to OOOH,” he said, in a gravely serious tone of voice that seemed somehow at odds with the words he spoke.

Bobby wondered if Sir Roger always sounded like an owl when he answered the phone. He watched as Logmar’s expression changed from expectant interest, to concern, then alarm, and finally impatience and disinterest as he tried to get the caller off the line.

“Yes... yes... right,” Sir Roger said, listening to the other side of the conversation, “I’ll call you back when we have an answer. Yes. Cow-coloured, I know. Any idea which breed? No. Exactly. Well, tell me as soon as you find out.”

He closed the handset and poked it back inside the optic disc.

“Your mother?” enquired Snellen.

“No,” answered Sir Roger. “It was Irma.”

“Irma..?” asked Bobby, instantly regretting the question.

“Irma Drusen,’ replied Sir Roger. “She’s an Eye Spy. One of the best we’ve got. When she’s working undercover, there isn’t a retinal screener in the entire country that can spot Irma. She’s been the rock of this organisation for many years; a towering colossus of undercover eye care; the first lady of the Oxford Office of Ophthalmic Health. I like to think of her as the OOOH matron.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. Sir Roger continued.

“She’s out there now, in the field.”

“With the cows?” asked Bobby.

“Mr Macula,” Sir Roger replied with deadly seriousness, “this threat is merely cow-coloured. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Remember it?” said Bobby, incredulously. “You haven’t told me anything remotely memorable so far. I’ve driven halfway across the country and sat here for the past hour ordering coffee, listening to musical vermin, and watching a middle-aged man duff up a pensioner.”

Bobby looked towards Snellen. He looked back indignantly.

“While you,” Bobby continued, turning towards Logmar, “show me pictures of Godzilla, drone on about grading software, and try to brainwash me into saying yes to something cow-coloured.”

“I wouldn’t call it brainwashing,” replied Sir Roger.

“I’m not even sure it’s cow-coloured,” added Snellen.

“Oh, it is, Ivor,” said Sir Roger, turning to his colleague. “Trust me, I’ve seen the reports. We’re as certain of that thing’s cow-colouration as we are of our ability to mine Lucentis from the surface of Mars.”

“Do what?” replied Snellen.

“Which reminds me,” Sir Roger continued, “have you filled in your sick leave form yet?”

“Right, that’s it,” shouted Bobby, jumping both in and up. “Either you tell me right now what you want me to do, or I’m walking straight out of that door, and I’m taking Mavis Clutter with me.”

“Then you’ll need a key for the broom cupboard,” said Snellen helpfully.

“Bobby, Bobby, Bobby...” said Sir Roger, trying to calm the situation, “let’s not be hasty. We’ve all been interrupted by trivial phone calls at inconvenient times.”

“I wouldn’t call Irma trivial,” said Snellen.

“It’s R2,” said Sir Roger. “A routine referral.”

“No, I mean the phone call,” Snellen clarified.

“Oh, I see what you mean,” Sir Roger replied.

The two gentlemen were interrupted by a scream. It was a noise of frustration, exasperation and anger. And it was surprisingly feminine, given the body from which it sprang. It emanated from the mouth of Bobby Macula. He’d had enough. And he didn’t care who knew it. Sir Roger Logmar took immediate, and decisive, action.

“Right,” he said. “Here’s the situation.”

Ivor Snellen looked on expectantly, wondering if he should offer Bobby another coffee. He decided against it, on the grounds that caffeine was likely to inflame the situation even further.

“Can I get you a herbal tea?” Snellen enquired, on the spur of the moment. The look he received back from Bobby made him regret his question.

“Bobby,” Sir Roger continued, “the advent of automatic grading software is not the only recent advance in the world of diabetic retinopathy screening. There is another, more secret, and far more concerning development. It is known as The D Generation.”

Sir Roger paused, wondering if he should get his PowerPoint slides back up on the screen. He decided against it.

“For years,” he continued, “a group of black hat opticians have been attempting to develop a method of accurate retinal screening without the need for pupil dilation. Traditionally, NHS screening programmes have had one key advantage over the average high street optician.”

“A better pension plan?” guessed Bobby.

“That,” said Sir Roger, “and the ability to routinely administer mydriatic eye drops without charging. As a result, the NHS has cornered the market in diabetic retinopathy screening, and to this day, approximately 86% of Britain’s diabetics use the National Health Service for all their retinal screening needs.”

“The other 14% DNA,” added Snellen.

“And they’re costing us a fortune in guide dogs,” agreed Sir Roger. “But that’s a whole other issue. We’re developing a new breed of all-seeing guide sheep that can work for a week and then be eaten for Sunday lunch, but we’re a long way from mass production.”

“And we’re not lambing till the spring,” added Snellen.

“But getting back to the point,” said Sir Roger, sensing a look of impatience on Bobby’s face, “there is a small, but influential, faction of opticians in this country who will not accept that status quo. They have recognised that for the patient, the most hated aspect of retinal screening is the tropicamide eye drops, and realised that if they could offer a service as efficient and accurate as the NHS, but without the need for any drops, then not only would patients flock to their local optician in droves, but they’d be willing to pay for the privilege too.”

“Never underestimate the price of avoiding pain,” added Snellen. “Mavis Clutter offered me a fiver not to hit her.”

“Exactly,” said Sir Roger. “Give people the choice of agony for free, or comfort in exchange for a few quid, and they’ll hand over the dosh every time. There are three million diabetics in this country. Charge a reasonable £9.99 for an annual retinopathy check, and that’s a yearly income of thirty million pounds. More, if you put ten percent of them on a six month recall. With an incentive like that, the opticians were bound to find a way.”

“And you’re telling me they have?” asked Bobby.

Sir Roger looked solemn. “Yes,” he said. “Over the past five years, they’ve invested millions in cutting edge research – much of it groundbreaking, but not all of it ethical. We’ve been monitoring their progress for years. At first, their focus was to develop a form of tropicamide that doesn’t sting, but Bobby, you can take it from me, that’s a physical impossibility, and always will be.”

Sir Roger glanced furtively towards Ivor Snellen. The two men exchanged a knowing look.

“When that early approach failed,” he continued, “they changed tack, and began to look for a fast method of retinal screening that required no pupil dilation whatsoever. It was a long road, but Bobby, when you have money to spare, time on your side, and you’re driven by a ruthless greed that causes you to cast aside your morals and consider any means available to you, no matter how unscrupulous, success is almost inevitable.”

“It’s how half the cabinet got elected,” added Snellen.

“And eventually,” said Sir Roger, “they found it.”

“The D Generation?” asked Bobby.

“Yes,” replied Sir Roger.

“What is it?” asked Bobby. “Some kind of camera?”

“If only it were that simple,” said Sir Roger with a grave expression. “Believe me, the most advanced and fiendishly clever ophthalmic camera that Topcon could ever invent, would be like a mere fluffy baby bunny rabbit compared to the D Generation. No, it is something far, far worse.”

Bobby sensed that Sir Roger Logmar was, at last, approaching the point of his story. The Director General of the Oxford Office of Ophthalmic Health fixed Bobby Macula with a stern and steely gaze, before continuing:

“After years of underground research, selective breeding and highly illegal experimentation, a small and secretive clique of black hat opticians have succeeded in creating a bio-organism capable of detecting diabetic retinopathy by sight alone. This creature, this ungodly freak of nature, this eye-watering aberration against all that is right, holy and ophthalmic, can sit on a swivel chair, look people in the eye, and punch a retinopathy grade onto a computer screen with one tentacled claw.”