Chapter Thirteen

Bobby brushed a few croissant crumbs from his lap and looked at his watch. It was almost midday. High noon for his career, he thought, or time for an early lunch? Considering his options for a moment, Bobby’s eyes came to rest on a framed photograph of Sir Roger Logmar which sat before him on the Director General’s desk. It depicted him standing on a large stage, waving to an enthusiastic audience of several thousand people, all cheering and applauding with gusto. Beneath, two words were printed in capital letters: ‘THE BOSS’.

Impressed by the power and influence of the man before him, and by the sheer love and admiration he garnered from so many people, Bobby found himself viewing Sir Roger in an entirely new, and wholly favourable, light. Before realising that he’d simply Photoshopped his face onto a picture of Bruce Springsteen.

As if sensing the wandering mind of his protégé, and the need for some urgent stimulation, Sir Roger Logmar stepped in. “Ivor,” he said, looking to the left at his right hand man, “get Bobby a drink.”

Bobby’s hopes were raised momentarily, and then instantly dashed as Snellen stood up, walked straight past the mini-bar, and made his way over to the ‘Mr Coffee-matic’ machine at the side of the room.

“Bobby,” Sir Roger said, looking back in his direction, “as I’m sure you’ve realised by now, the D Generation is the fourth incarnation of retinopathy screening bio-organism to be created.”

Bobby hadn’t realised, but he chose to keep quiet.

“The A Generation was the first,” Logmar continued, “and was duly followed by versions B and C. They had one thing in common.”

Bobby raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“They were crap,” said Sir Roger. “The A Generation was little more than a petri dish of microbes, a primordial soup, a mish-mash of genetic croutons and vegetable matter served up with a few silicon chips.”

Bobby was starting to feel hungry. He wondered if he should have opted for the early lunch.

“Things began to take shape with the B Generation,” Sir Roger continued. “For the first time, the opticians succeeded in creating a living, breathing creature, but it resembled a hamster and had the memory of a goldfish. It was cute to look at, but of little practical use. Nevertheless, we decided to stamp down on their research. Quite literally in fact. Irma takes size nine boots.”

Sir Roger paused as Ivor Snellen returned from the coffee machine with two polystyrene cups. He gave one to each of his companions, before returning to fetch a third for himself.

“Unfortunately,” said Sir Roger, “the opticians were not discouraged by the little ‘accident’ which had befallen their creation. They pressed on with a third generation, a far more ambitious organism, capable of genuine diagnosis and patient interaction. No photos exist of the creature, and video footage is thought to have been destroyed, but it was said to be comparable to a monkey with the face of a gerbil, if you can imagine such a thing.”

Bobby pictured his old geography teacher.

“The C Generation was at least partly successful,” said Sir Roger. “It possessed the ability to view the retinas of diabetic patients without pupil dilation, and to communicate what it saw. But it was hopelessly inaccurate. Pigment was referred as R3, new vessels as background retinopathy, and in one clinical trial, it classed a malignant melanoma as dust on the lens. Which is particularly worrying as they weren’t using cameras.”

Sir Roger took a sip of his coffee.

“How many sugars did you put in this, Ivor?” he said, a look of distaste on his face.

“One,” came the reply.

“Good God man, I’m not diabetic,” said Logmar. “I need at least three. And get me a biscuit while you’re over there.”

Snellen picked up two sachets of sugar, and a packet of gingernuts, before returning to his seat. He placed the supplies on Sir Roger’s desk.

“With you around, Snellen, it’s a miracle we don’t all hypo,” muttered Sir Roger, opening the biscuits.

Snellen ignored him. His boss was always grumpy when his blood glucose levels dipped.

“So,” said Sir Roger, speaking with his mouth full, “the C Generation was a failure, but it taught the opticians a great deal. They knew what could be done, and where they’d gone wrong, and they learnt from their mistakes. A year later they were back, and this time they meant business. The new and improved D Generation was everything we feared it would be. Fast, powerful, and freakishly accurate, it could glance at the eyes of a diabetic, and within seconds announce the results of a full disease grade. In clinical trials, it was never wrong. Not even once.”

“Rendering a second disease grade meaningless,” added Snellen, helping himself to a biscuit.

“Within weeks,” Sir Roger continued, “the opticians had built a simple touch-screen system, and trained the creature to use it. Even allowing for feeding, comfort breaks, and the use of a handler, it is estimated that the creature could screen the entire diabetic population of a town the size of Leamington Spa in just twelve hours. In the time it took a pensioner to walk into the room unaided, the creature could have their retinas analysed, accurately graded and the results letter sent out.

“And more importantly,” added Snellen, “they wouldn’t have time to take their coat off.”

Bobby looked impressed. “So why,” he said, “is all this such a problem? If you ask me, this is the way forward. Instant screening, instant results, no eye drops. It all sounds good to me. If I was diabetic, I’d go for it. Why isn’t this being rolled out across the country?”

“Because something went wrong,” replied Sir Roger, seriously.

“Very badly wrong,” added Snellen, unnecessarily.

“The opticians were on the verge of announcing their creation to the world. A press conference had been arranged; the first clinics had been booked; the creature was about to be unveiled to the media, and every NHS diabetic retinopathy screening programme in the UK was unknowingly on the brink of oblivion.”

“And..?” said Bobby.

“It started eating the patients,” replied Sir Roger.

“What?” Bobby asked, incredulously.

“The D Generation was bred to be more accurate,” replied Logmar, “but genetic engineering is not without its pitfalls. Supreme accuracy came at a cost. The opticians didn’t realise it at the time, of course, but their blinkered attempts to create perfection in one area, had led to mutation in another. A single defective gene. But one with devastating results.”

Sir Roger paused, grim-faced, before continuing:

“It developed a taste for diabetics.”

Bobby looked puzzled. “Why diabetics?” he asked.

“It has a sweet tooth,” replied Sir Roger. “The higher the blood glucose levels, the better. Show me an 18-year-old party girl who won’t take her insulin, and I’ll show you a woman who’ll be dead within a fortnight.”

Bobby swallowed hard. “But surely the creature’s not out there?” he said. “Surely the opticians destroyed it? They couldn’t let such a thing live, could they?”

“You have to understand, Bobby,” said Sir Roger, “that these opticians had invested millions in this plan, spent years on their research, and they were so close to perfection. They hadn’t come so far by being ethical. And they weren’t going to give up now, not with success so nearly in their grasp. Sure, there were those who backed the destruction of the creature, but there were more who felt it could be retrained, re-engineered, persuaded to eat salad. Weaned slowly off the sweetbreads of nephropathic diabetics.”

Bobby felt slightly queasy.

“The result was conflict. Discord in the ranks of opticians nationwide,” Sir Roger continued. “At least, amongst those who knew of the creature’s existence. Even now, there are many who don’t. Hundreds blind to the eye-watering vision of a few blinkered mavericks. But at the top, in the corridors of power and the hallowed halls of optometry, there was first unrest, and then escalating anarchy. And the outcome..?”

Sir Roger awaited an answer to his rhetorical question.

“The creature escaped,” he finished, providing it himself.

Bobby looked slightly alarmed.

“Escaped, my foot,” stated Snellen, dismissively.

“We don’t know the full circumstances, Ivor,” Sir Roger responded. “We have to assume it escaped, but I am not a naive fool. I am fully aware that there are those who may have wished to see the creature live, no matter what the outcome.”

“That thing was released,” said Snellen, “pure and simple. Someone didn’t want it destroyed, and decided to let it go, and now they’re sitting back, happily watching the genocide of Britain’s diabetic population.”

Bobby looked taken aback. He found diabetics annoying at times, but he didn’t wish them dead. At least, not all of them.

“Regardless of the circumstances,” said Sir Roger, “that creature is out there, right now, and it’s feeding. Word reached us some time ago that DNA rates in the Basildon & District Diabetic Retinopathy Screening Programme have gone through the roof. At the same time, the number of new cases of diabetes being diagnosed has fallen. With obesity levels rising all the time, there is only one explanation. The creature’s living it large in Essex.”

“And what do you expect me to do about it?” asked Bobby.

“Mr Macula,” replied Sir Roger, ominously, “that thing needs to be terminated with extreme prejudice.”

“Well, I can be extremely prejudiced at the best of times,” said Bobby, “especially against diabetics. And pensioners. I don’t like the blind much either. But I’m not sure it’s my problem. Retinal screening is just a job to me, not a vocation. Now, if it was bottoms, then we’d be talking. But eyes? I can take them or leave them. It’s no skin off my nose if the sugary people snuff it.”

Sir Roger Logmar looked back at the young screener with an unflinching stare.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “Bobby, look at you. You’re overweight, unfit, and both your parents have diabetes.”

“How do you know?” questioned Bobby.

“Facebook,” replied Sir Roger. “They’re both listed on ‘Fans of Metformin’. Your Mum poked the head of Novo Nordisk.”

“So?” came the curt response.

“Bobby, there’s a reason we let you lie in this morning,” said Sir Roger. “We did a fasting plasma glucose test while you slept.”

Bobby looked down. There was a small adhesive plaster in the crook of his arm.

“And?” he said, in a slight state of shock.

“It was one hundred and ten,” said Sir Roger, pulling out a pathology report from a drawer in his desk. “Bobby, you’re pre-diabetic. Impaired fasting glucose. And your days on this earth are numbered. If the D Generation isn’t stopped, you’ll soon be on its hit list. Maybe this year, maybe next, maybe not until the year after. But eventually your time will come. You’re on death row, Bobby, and the executioner’s waiting.”

Bobby turned pale.

“So why me?” he said. “There are five million diabetics in this country – minus the ones it’s already eaten – every one of those people has more of a vested interest in stopping it than I do.”

“Mr Macula, you’re unique,” said Sir Roger. “We need a modern day hero, a mighty warrior, a man who can. Or at least a man who tries. We’ve scoured this nation from top to bottom, and you’re the only one who can do it.”

“Why?” he asked.

“You know about eyes, retinal screening and diabetes. You can converse with people at every level, from pensioners all the way down to ophthalmologists. You’re not diabetic, so you’re immune from attack, but you will be, so you’re motivated. And you have a career that’s worth saving. You’re the only man who can do it.”

“What about Snellen?” asked Bobby. “What about you?”

“We can’t be bothered,” said Sir Roger. “And besides, it might be dangerous.”

Bobby was stunned into silence. He attempted to gather his thoughts amidst the chaotic whirlwind of all that he’d been told, and all that might lay ahead. His head swimming with thoughts of killer screeners, bloodsucking monsters, life, death and turtles, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a single moment of clarity. Truly, he had entered the eye of the storm, and at once, his world became both calm and clear. He took a moment to ground his emotions, then spoke quietly, but with purpose:

“So how does Mavis Clutter fit into all this?”

Sir Roger Logmar sat back in his chair and breathed deeply for a moment. He exchanged a look with Ivor Snellen, before turning back to Bobby and replying in a sombre, yet impassioned tone, with a single, earth-shattering word:

“Bait.”