Eyes of the Blind

by Alex Tresillian

  “I had to leave the house at the normal time,” Lindsey said. “Otherwise my parents would’ve known something was wrong.”

  “You should tell them,” Niall said again.

  “I don’t need the stress of knowing they’re worrying about me all the time,” Lindsey said.

  There was a cacophony of shoes on the hall floorboards and the workers left the house, without saying goodbye, slamming the door behind them.

  “I blame Hugo,” Niall said. With the freedom of the kitchen he made her a coffee, sat her down, asked for ten minutes to make himself presentable – which she laughed at – and then, with his dog fed and watered and he himself cleaned up, he sat down with Lindsey to ‘work on her problem.’

  “We can’t do anything until we know what I’m accused of and by whom,” Lindsey said.

  “Yes we can,” Niall said. “Because we can guess that they’re going to get some old biddy to say you intimidated her or threatened her or behaved improperly in some way.”

  “I never, ever –” Lindsey began.

  “I know that,” Niall said. “But there are two possibilities. One is, that somebody you went to spoke to their family and the family were really angry because they saw their inheritance slipping away; or maybe the old biddy herself suddenly thought better of it and decided in her head that you’d tricked her.”

  Lindsey started to cry.

  “Or,” Niall went on ignoring her, “for some reason BAB want to get rid of you and they’ve persuaded someone to make a complaint.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Lindsey sniffed.

  “Maybe,” Niall said patiently. “So let’s consider the first option. Don’t cry, there’s no point.”

  “You’d cry if you’d just lost your job.”

  “I did. Three days ago.”

  “God, why didn’t you say something?”

  “It wasn’t important. And it wasn’t like this. And you haven’t lost your job yet. Have BAB been pleased with your work?”

  “I thought they had.”

  “Juliette Warwick told me you were lovely,” Niall said. “So if they all rate you, they’re going to defend you. They’re going to back you and not the person making the complaint.”

  “I don’t know,” Lindsey said.

  “Can you think of anyone, ANYONE you’ve been to see in the last month who maybe was a bit iffy, or sent you away with a flea in your ear, or seemed like they didn’t want to be persuaded to part with their money?”

  “No,” Lindsey said quickly.

  “You didn’t think,” Niall said.

  “I’ve been thinking all night,” Lindsey countered. “There’s no-one. Everybody’s always absolutely lovely. And I always do it by the book.”

  “OK,” Niall conceded. “I believe you. Anybody say ‘I’ll need to talk to my son or daughter about it?’”

  “Maybe. I can’t remember every session word for word.”

  “You should record the conversations.”

  “We’re not allowed.”

  “But that’d give you evidence. They shouldn’t let you go on your own.”

  “They didn’t at first,” Lindsey said. “We used to go in pairs. But then the man I worked with left and they didn’t replace him.”

  “Why did he leave?” Niall asked.

  “He retired. I think he was ill, but he never said.”

  “OK,” Niall said. “Lindsey, I want to tell you my theory and I don’t want you to scoff and switch off until you’ve heard it all.”

  “Go on then,” she said.

  He told her about his interest in the transplant case, about his visit to Susannah Leman, his curiosity about the funding, about the emails Simon had found.

  “Don’t be offended, but when I came to talk to you it was because I wanted to find out more about the funding for the transplant surgery. I asked you about it and you talked quite openly about what good publicity it was. Who could’ve overheard that conversation?”

  Lindsey was quiet. He wondered which bit of what he’d said had upset her the most and how she was going to lash out.

  “I don’t really understand,” she said finally.

  “OK,” Niall said, trying to be patient. “What if it got out that BAB’s main interest in this transplant research was because it was good publicity? Because it actually raised more money than they gave to the research? How would that look? What if the girl who’s had the operation was only chosen because she had a rich Daddy who paid BAB for the privilege? What if they’ve diverted funds away from some of the important services they provide just to fatten up the goose that lays the golden egg?”

  “I’m being stupid, I know, but –”

  “Let’s say, for sake of argument, that something that might look dodgy is going on. They find out that I was at Moorfields talking to the girl. The next day I show up in Knightsbridge and talk to you. We’re overheard talking about the transplant. They think I’m in danger of getting somewhere and they decide to close down my channel of communication: i.e. you. It makes sense.”

  “I think you’ve been watching too much television.”

  He could tell that Lindsey didn’t buy his story any more than Simon did, and yet the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that he was on to something. ‘Journalist’s nose’, he called it. BAB was a sleeping dragon. He was a fly on its face. He had irritated it and it had soporifically attempted to swat him away. But flies could be infuriatingly persistent.

  FIVE

  Susannah woke and lay deliberately still, listening to the sounds of the hospital outside the ICU. They were distant, dreamy, which meant that a door must be closed. Was her mother in the room with her, or just outside, or had she sneaked off for breakfast, or one of the cigarettes Susannah wished that she wouldn’t smoke? This morning, if the operation had worked, she was going to see. Maybe not much at first, but she believed in Mr. Daghash, his gentle certainty, and she believed, even though a part of her mind told her that she shouldn’t, that she was eventually going to see properly. The concept was almost too much to take in. She would see this room, see the family she had loved by touch and sound alone, and that might be weird. She would see herself. She had no idea what she looked like. Whenever she had asked the question the answer had been a patronising, meaningless ‘You’re beautiful,’ which told her nothing. And yet there had been times, particularly during her adolescence, when she had been obsessed by her appearance, had wanted to lock herself in her room because she couldn’t be sure of how she looked. Perhaps she should get used to herself in photographs before she faced the mirror. Photographs, mirror – the epic vastness of the world that was opening up before her was just … mind-blowing. Sight, that so many millions took for granted and probably barely appreciated, that had been denied her since birth, was now waiting for her. Just waiting for her to open her eyes.

  She heard Amelia’s voice outside, and her mother’s, and then the door opened and her family came in with a nurse.

  “Hi,” she tried to say, but only a strange croak emerged from her parched throat. She wondered if she could have a drink. She had an excruciating pain in the front of her head and a feeling she described to herself as general fuzziness. Conversation was the last thing she wanted, but they were here for her. She had to try.

  “What a load of drips and tubes!” Amelia said. “That’s impressive, Susie.”

  She smiled weakly. The nurse – at least she presumed it was the nurse – pushed some contraption into her hand.

  “If the pain gets too much,” she said, “just push this. It increases the pain relief. But try to deal with it if you can.”

  Susannah tried to deal with it, but her head really hurt.

  “My head hurts,” she croaked. “And I’m thirsty.”

  A straw was pushed between her lips. Or it might have been a tube.

  “Water,” the nurse said brusquely. At least, it felt brusque in her fragile state.

  “Matthew Long’s outside. The journalist,” A
melia said. “He’s quite fit, Susie.” Susannah smiled again. “He’s going to come in for a bit once you’ve seen all of us.”

  “I might not see anything today,” Susannah said.

  “Of course you will,” Amelia said.

  A doctor came in and introduced himself to the family. Doctor Clarke. His voice was liquorice toffee. He said he was the consultant in charge of the after-care medication and support.

  “Mr. Daghash’s the genius who put it all together,” he said. “I’m the one now who has to make sure it works and goes on working.”

  Like some kind of remote control toy, Susannah thought. He had obviously met her father before and the two of them fell into conversation in subdued tones, as if loud noises might damage her. She realised they were waiting for Mr. Daghash, and with every minute that passed the tension increased. Her mother kept blowing her nose, which meant she must be crying already. Amelia reminded her of times when they were children and Susannah had pestered her elder sister to describe colours to her.

  “I wonder if you’ll recognise them from my descriptions,” she said. It was funny what had been important as a child. Because she heard other children say ‘What’s your favourite colour?’ she had needed to have an answer and settled on green, though she didn’t know why. Maybe the word had a gentleness, a freshness about it. She hadn’t thought about colours for years. Between them her mother and Amelia had guided her clothes shopping so that everything toned – it didn’t really matter what she wore. Now colours were going to launch themselves at her, cry out for recognition and understanding. Green grass, blue sky, white clouds.

  “Susie!” Mr. Daghash arrived. “Good morning. It’s a beautiful morning. You’ll need sunglasses if you go outside.”

  “Am I going out today?” Susannah asked.

  “Not home today,” Mr. Daghash said, “but maybe this evening a little walkabout in the hospital. We don’t want to risk any infections. You’re very vulnerable just now. The anti-rejection medication reduces your body’s ability to fight infections. And the London air isn’t good for eyes.”

  She felt hands on her head.

  “Now, Susie,” Mr. Daghash went on, “I’m starting to take the bandages off. I don’t want you to try to open your eyes until I tell you.”

  I don’t know how to open my eyes, Susannah thought. She felt the bandages removed, and she sensed light flooding into her head. It was weird. She thought it might be like dying, the light at the end of the tunnel.

  “Nurse,” Mr. Daghash said. Then she felt something cool and moist rubbing around where the bandage had been. “There’s a little encrustation,” Mr. Daghash went on. “We’re just wiping it away. Now...” She felt his fingers laid very gently, one on each eyelid, and as she did she became aware that there was something in each eye-socket which had not been there before. Something that was aware of the pressure from Mr. Daghash’s touch. “I’m touching your eyelids, Susie,” he said. “If you can, I’d like you to open them now, and then tell me exactly what you can see.”

  Susannah raised what she thought were her eyelids, but nothing happened.

  “That was the skin above your eyes. You’re raising your eyebrows at us,” Mr. Daghash said. He touched the eyelids again and something clicked inside Susannah’s brain. She opened them.

  She heard a gasp and a sob from her mother, and various reactions of astonishment and appreciation.

  “Well done. What do you see?” Mr. Daghash asked earnestly.

  “Light. Shapes. Dark bits. I don’t really know.” Susannah started to cry.

  “OK,” Mr. Daghash said patiently, kindly. “It’s a shock to your system. Now open your eyes again.” Susannah hadn’t realised she had closed them. “Can you see a dark shape straight in front of you?”

  Susannah stared in front of her. “Two. I can see two shapes.”

  “Right. That shape is my face. I’m right in front of you. I want you to try to concentrate on my face. Concentrate on that shape.”

  “Which one?” Susannah asked.

  “Either. They’re both me.”

  “Have you got two heads?”

  “No.” Mr. Daghash laughed. “You have two eyes.”

  “So will I see everything twice?”

  “No. You are experiencing what is called double vision. When you are more in control of the muscles in your eyes you will be able to pull them together and make one three-dimensional image. We hope.”

  Susannah concentrated hard on the shape to the exclusion of all else and gradually she became aware that there were details on it that she hadn’t seen at first.

  “Have you got dark hair?” she asked. Her mother sobbed again.

  “I have,” Mr. Daghash said gently. “It’s very dark brown. Some people would say it was black. Ladies and gentlemen”, he went on to the room at large, “the eyes are talking to the brain. The optic nerve is working. One of mankind’s giant leaps has been made.” He kept still, letting her focus on his face. She tried to turn the two images into one, she felt sure that if she could do that the whole room would make sense, but the shapes came and went. She closed her eyes again.

  “It’s tiring, isn’t it?” Mr. Daghash said.

  “I just feel I need to practise opening and closing,” Susannah said.

  “Fine,” Mr. Daghash said. “Whatever you feel.” She opened them again, and this time she thought she saw features on Mr. Daghash’s face. But it could have been her imagination.

  Once more, Hugo and Niall climbed the steps to the front door of the British Association for the Blind. He had rung, said he was researching a PhD in Attitudes towards Disability in Disability Charities and asked for an appointment with someone to go through a questionnaire with him. He had called himself Jamie Williams, the name of a boy he had detested at school, just in case, as Niall Burnet, his card was already marked. Lindsey thought he was being stupid, Simon asked him perfectly reasonably what exactly he thought he was going to find out. All he could say was that he needed as much inside information on BAB as he could get, and the only way to get inside information was to get inside. He had wanted to say that the PhD was about funding, but the others had convinced him that that might have put whoever was delegated to see him on their guard. He just had to hope that he didn’t bump into Juliette Warwick when he walked through the door. Lindsey had said if he got found out it would only make things worse for her than they already were. Niall had replied, unhelpfully, that that was impossible.

  And now he was inside, visible, vulnerable. Hugo seemed uncertain as to where to go but Niall kept urging him forward. Finally, he was relieved to hear a man’s voice asking him his business.

  “Hello, yes. My name’s Jamie Williams. I rang and made an appointment to speak to somebody about my PhD. Somebody in public relations, I think they said.”

  “Just a moment, Jamie,” the man said. Niall knew the blind world was a small world. Lindsey Spencer had a job at BAB. How many other people that he had known at school might be inches from him now? Sometimes he wished he didn’t have a habit of rushing into things – they always seemed simple, sensible and virtually inevitable at the planning stage, luring him into following them through without fully considering the risks or the likely outcomes.

  “You’ve got an appointment on the third floor,” the man said, returning.

  “Is that good or bad?” Niall asked. The man laughed by way of answer, and led him towards the lift. He hoped the third floor was a long way from HR, but he was a little disconcerted as to how far he would be from the main entrance and escape. The lift doors seemed to take an age to close (probably deliberately, to let the poor blind people blunder in and get their bearings) and then the contraption laboured asthmatically on its upward journey before announcing in a welcoming female voice, “Third floor. The doors are now open.” It was the first time in his life that Niall had felt patronised by a lift.

  It was quiet on the third floor, and their nameless guide led Hugo and Niall down a corridor into wh
at felt like the depths of the building. If Niall hadn’t felt the lift rising, he could have believed they were taking him to a dungeon.

  “Here we are,” the man said pleasantly, opening a door, “there’ll be someone to see you in just a moment.” He left without explaining the layout of the room at all.

  Which might just have been an oversight, but seemed deliberately inconsiderate. Niall explored, found a desk, a chair, a water dispenser, more chairs. He sat on one, and Hugo came and sat by his side. It was very quiet. What was he going to ask? What was he going to find out? Some general questions about disability, political correctness, positive discrimination; then maybe some teasers about money raised on people’s goodwill, on nudging their consciences and making them feel guilty for having five functional senses; then bring it round to the transplant. Attitudes towards such a high-profile, expensive operation. Did they think supporting the scientific battle against disability (of any kind) was the same as supporting the disabled? To raise people’s hopes of a future without blindness was not the same as helping them to cope in the world as blind people, convincing them that they had worth even without sight. Surely it sent a message that blindness was such a handicap that the best thing to do was to get a new pair of functioning eyes.

  And how would the answers get him any nearer finding out if there was skulduggery going on? OK, they probably wouldn’t. He was new to this. But he might get lucky, he might catch someone unawares and realise from something in their tone that they were covering something up.

  What? What did he really think was going on? It wasn’t a crime to support medical research, even if your motives were essentially selfish. He felt that the eye transplant operation had been stage managed. Which came first, the patient or the eyes? How was she chosen? Why a twenty-two-year-old girl and not a forty-year-old man? Or a fifteen-year-old boy? What about the family who had donated the eyes? Had they known what they were doing? But all the same, would anybody in the world see any of this as wrong? It had to be somebody, why not Susannah Leman? He would just sound jealous and bitter if he wrote about that. He was looking for a story that maybe, if he was going to be completely honest with himself, just wasn’t there. He should ditch blindness, leave BAB to its own arcane ways, go back to sport. Maybe there was a Doping in World Tiddlywinks scandal just waiting to break. He could bring it to light.