Eyes of the Blind

by Alex Tresillian

  She had thought long and hard about what to wear. Which was, in fact, absurd, when you considered the size of her wardrobe. Not provocative, but relaxed. Not too casual – it was a lunch date she’d asked for, after all – but not formal. Luckily, it being the ambiguous season between the end of winter and the beginning of spring, it was cold, so there was no question of there being any flesh on view. She had settled on a pair of white jeans and a jumper. She still hadn’t got much of an idea of what ‘looking nice’ meant, but she thought, following a long and still very inexpert battle with make-up, that she looked reasonably ‘nice’.

  As she waited for him to arrive, she thought over her plan of action. Make him believe she was taken in by his delusions of his own importance, thought he was personally responsible for her operation and for saving her from the evil Dr. Clarke. Then trip him up. Somehow. It was a bit unfinished.

  His car – something dark grey and very large – pulled up outside the house. Should she go out? No. Let him come to the door. She didn’t want to appear over-eager. She wanted to lead him just far enough that he would believe she was tempted by him, but that she was a good girl who was jealous of her honour. She left the front room so that he wouldn’t see her standing at the window and repaired to the kitchen to await the doorbell. A minute later she heard it, and, putting on her jacket, went to answer it.

  “Susannah.”

  “Miranda.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. Stupid of me. I promise it’s a mistake I shall never make again.” He was standing there in what she thought looked a very expensive coat (‘Why should I know what makes a coat look expensive?’ she wondered even as the thought was formed). She tried unsuccessfully to gauge his mood.

  “You look nice,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Miranda said smiling.

  “So. It’s already late. Shall we go?” he suggested.

  “Of course. I’m starving.”

  “Right.” He led the way to the car.

  “Where are we going?” Miranda asked, as he held the passenger door for her.

  “Given the hour, somewhere not far away,” Sullivan replied. “There’s a half-decent Indian restaurant about five minutes from here, if you fancy that.”

  “Oh yes,” Miranda said. “I always liked my mum’s curries.”

  Daniel Sullivan selected Drive and the car moved forward.

  “So,” Rebecca said, “what next?” They had moved from the kitchen to the living room, Niall having asked “Have you got any comfortable chairs in this house?” Rebecca had ensconced Niall in an armchair and had herself curled up on the sofa. As he had also reported that he was “ravenous” she had phoned for a pizza, which had not, as yet, arrived.

  “That’s the million dollar question,” Niall said. “A bit like “Are they your brother’s eyes?””

  “I think they are,” Rebecca said. “Part of me doesn’t want them to be, but really I don’t think I care any more. Only it certainly pisses me off that any operation involving one or more of Joe’s organs could have been deliberately sabotaged. So I do still feel a part of this, Niall.”

  “Good,” Niall said. “I’m glad.”

  “So?”

  “So. Roderick Leman. Who does he play squash with? Have you ever seen Daniel Sullivan?”

  “Not so as I would recognise him.”

  “I wonder if he looks like a squash player.”

  “Ask Faith.”

  “I don’t want to involve her any more.”

  “Take me to him then,” Rebecca suggested. “Or get me a picture.”

  “Then there’s still the question of who knocked Hugo down. That’s all gone very quiet. The police have never come back to us.”

  “No leads, presumably.”

  “Presumably.”

  “If you could find out where Mr. Leman plays squash I could go there,” Rebecca said suddenly. “Pretend to be finding out about joining. I’m guessing it’s some kind of sports centre. I don’t play squash but I do play badminton.”

  “OK,” Niall said.

  “Have you ever talked to the surgeon?” Rebecca asked.

  “Jamal Daghash?”

  “It’s a great name. I don’t know. He might have his suspicions. And he probably knew Damian Clarke better than anybody.”

  “You’re bright, aren’t you?” Niall said appreciatively.

  “Unquestionably,” Rebecca said.

  “Do you want to go out with me?” Niall asked.

  “I think Miranda would have something to say about that,” Rebecca said.

  “I’ve had more physical contact with you than I’ve ever had with Miranda.”

  “Because she probably doesn’t know how.”

  The conversation dried up.

  “Sorry,” Niall said eventually. “Forget I said it.”

  “If things were different, Niall, who knows?” Rebecca said. “Let’s just be friends. I’m liking that.”

  “Me too,” Niall said, truthfully.

  “So how about talking to the surgeon?”

  “I’m sure I could. He’s a bit of a jet-setter by all accounts. I’d have to pin him down.”

  “Which would be no problem to a tireless newshound like you.”

  “Course not.”

  “And you can be pretty certain that he wanted the operation to succeed,” Rebecca said.

  “True enough.”

  “So we’ve got a plan,” Rebecca said. “You go after the surgeon. Of course, there’s someone else we haven’t even thought about.”

  “Who?”

  “Penny.”

  “What’s it to her?”

  “Not the operation or the sabotage,” Rebecca explained. “Daniel Sullivan. She knows him. In the Biblical sense. Well, in the Mary Magdalene sense, anyway. We should ask her about him. No. You should ask her about him.”

  “Does she know anything about the eye transplant, and his connection to it?”

  “I don’t know what he’s told her. We don’t really talk about her extra-mural activities. She knows that I got upset because I thought I saw my brother’s eyes in Miranda’s face, and she knows I’ve been in contact with her and with you. More than that I couldn’t say.”

  “You’re right, though,” Niall said. “He may talk to her about stuff when they’re together. God, what a revolting thought.”

  “I know,” Rebecca agreed. “Penny’s extraordinary, but I think you’ll like her. And I don’t think her opinion of Daniel Sullivan is very different from yours.”

  “Understandably.”

  “I never know when she’s going to be around, though. Between her shifts at the hospital and her ‘private work’.”

  “If you can find out her shift pattern I can try and fit in with it,” Niall said.

  “OK. I’ll do that,” Rebecca said. “Should I tell her you want to speak to her?”

  “No,” Niall said quickly. “I’d rather just bump into her by accident. If she knows I’m looking for her she might in all innocence mention it to Sullivan, and, based on what happened to Damian Clarke, that would not be a good thing.”

  “My God!” Rebecca said, soaking up the implication.

  “Excuse me.”

  Faith looked up from her computer where she was making notes on one of her ‘charges’ – she didn’t like to think of them as patients. She saw a large-framed woman filling her office doorway.

  “Yes?” she said. “Can I help you?” She assumed the woman was lost and seeking directions. There was certainly nothing the matter with her eyesight, so she wasn’t in Moorfields for an appointment, but she might be a carer or a relative.

  “You are Faith Hodgkiss, aren’t you?” the woman asked.

  “Yes,” Faith said, scrapping her original analysis of the situation.

  “I would really like to talk to you, in confidence, if you have a moment,” the woman said.

  Faith sensed that presenting herself as a shrinking violet, as the woman was trying to do, went against the grain. Humilit
y did not sit comfortably on this woman, whoever she was. A parent, most probably, of a blind child, who had been given her name by someone she knew; a parent who was unhappy with the provision her child was getting from the local authority, and had been told that Faith was a useful ally if one wanted to take on the authorities for the sake of one’s child.

  “Come in, please,” Faith said.

  The audience granted, the woman’s manner changed. She became immediately bolder as she strode to the chair opposite Faith’s desk.

  “Thank you,” she said, sitting. “My name is Juliette Warwick.”

  Faith tried to place the name. She knew she had heard it. She scrapped her angry parent scenario.

  “I’ve just resigned as Human Resources Manager at BAB.”

  “Good Lord!” Faith said involuntarily. Niall’s descriptions of the woman from their encounters the previous autumn leapt into her head.

  “Yes, I’m sure you’ve heard all sorts about me,” Juliette said.

  “Well, not really,” Faith said. “How can I help you?”

  “I need to tell you something,” Juliette said.

  “OK,” Faith replied, intrigued.

  In a booth deep within the incongruously named Michael’s, Miranda chewed garlic naan bread and contemplated the array of dishes that had been ordered and put before her. Though she had never seen one of her mother’s curries, she felt sure they looked nothing like any of these.

  “Nothing too hot,” Daniel had said when ordering. “We want to taste what we’re eating, not blow our heads off.” In different company he might well have ordered the hottest dish on the menu, but Indian food had that range: choose wisely and it could be Leporello to your Don Giovanni, a positive aid in seduction; at the other end of the spectrum it could be the statutory twenty paces of a duel.

  “Now then,” Daniel said. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “Well,” Miranda said, calling up the script she had pre-planned, “you made lots of very kind offers at the beginning of all this, and I wasn’t really in the right mental state to appreciate them then. And lately I’ve been thinking about them a lot. You talked about showing me round BAB, you talked about even getting me a job. Then the other night all that business about Dr. Clarke came to light and I wanted to ask about him.”

  “I don’t know much about him,” Daniel said, “but by all means ask away.”

  Miranda helped herself to some spiced vegetables and pretended to think. “Was he always going to be the doctor in charge of my aftercare?”

  “Jamal Daghash would be more likely to be able to answer that,” Daniel said. “By the time I was involved, Damian Clarke was a part of the team. They were a double-act, Daghash and Clarke.”

  “Right,” Miranda said. “So,” she went on after a short pause, “had I already been chosen when you were first involved?”

  “No,” Daniel said. “When Jamal was looking for money from BAB there was a meeting involving the two of them, myself, and BAB’s director of finance.”

  “So do you know how I came to be chosen?” Miranda asked.

  “I’d love to say it was all down to me,” Daniel said, “but hand on heart I don’t have a clue. Again, Jamal might be your man.”

  “He never invited me for lunch.”

  “I rather think, my dear, that you invited yourself.”

  “I suppose I did. Sorry.”

  “I must say,” Daniel continued, “I’m glad to see you stepping out of the shadow of your minder, Mr. Burnet.”

  “Yes, well, he’s got his agenda,” Miranda said, “but I’m tired of that now. I’m not blind anymore. Suddenly we haven’t got so much in common.”

  “Trust me, you have NOTHING in common,” Daniel Sullivan said warmly.

  “I was just wondering,” said Miranda, returning to her theme, whether it might’ve been Damian Clarke who suggested me for the operation. I wondered whether he had some grudge against the family.”

  “My dear,” Daniel interrupted, “you mustn’t think it was personal. The man was sick.”

  “But why become a doctor if you didn’t believe curing people was man’s work?”

  “Who can enter the mind of the insane?” Daniel offered. “I imagine there was a huge difference in his mind between healing and ameliorating suffering on the one hand and opening the eyes of the blind on the other.”

  “It all seems so strange,” Miranda said.

  “I’m sure,” Daniel agreed. “But that’s all over now. You can start to think about a real future.”

  “Yes,” Miranda said. “And that’s why I want you to show me round BAB and get me that job.”

  “Well,” Daniel said. “One thing at a time. I’ll certainly give you a guided tour of the place. But to be honest, the best thing you could do for BAB at the moment is to raise your profile a bit. Agree to the interviews. Allow the photographs. Go on a few more chat shows. Recognise on air that without BAB there would never have been an operation.”

  “And the money will roll in,” Miranda concluded.

  “That could ultimately pay your salary, if BAB offers you a job,” Daniel added.

  “Fair enough,” Miranda said. “It’s funny to think of charities as being hungry for money, but they all are, I suppose.”

  “Because they want to do good with it.”

  “And paying your salary is doing good, is it?”

  Daniel smiled.

  “Would you rather we all worked for nothing?” he asked.

  “No. I wouldn’t be getting a free lunch then,” Miranda said coquettishly.

  “I will make it my personal mission,” Daniel declared, “to demonstrate to you that my salary is money well spent.”

  “OK,” Miranda said.

  She ate for a while and then asked,

  “Why did you decide to hold the press conference?”

  Daniel was in the act of swallowing red wine as the question was asked, and the choking that followed stripped him of any dignity he had managed to amass up to that point.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Went down the wrong way.”

  “I hate choking,” Miranda said.

  “Yes,” Daniel said. His voice had not yet recovered its timbre and his eyes were running. “You were asking about the press conference.”

  “Was I?” Miranda asked. “Oh yes.”

  “It was Duncan Clark who thought it was necessary,” Daniel said. “He thought it would put an end to gossip and speculation and draw a line under the whole business. I’m just relieved the whole sorry saga is at an end and you won’t have to go through any more trauma.” He reached across the table and put his hand over hers.

  “Thank you,” Miranda said.

  Niall was surprised to find Hugo disgruntled and alone when his taxi deposited him back at Faith’s. He had not given much thought as to how Miranda would spend her day, but he had certainly never factored in the possibility that she might have gone out. He had come to something of a decision during the ride from Rebecca’s: she was right – whether he liked it or not he did fancy Miranda. He did want a relationship with her. It was up to him to initiate it, and he had planned to get straight into that initiation before Faith got home from Moorfields.

  “Best laid plans,” he muttered to Hugo as he made himself a raspberry tea. Hugo, however, was not particularly responsive. He was still sulking because everyone had seen fit to leave the house without him. The habits of training and a lifetime and a generally forgiving nature meant, though, that he followed Niall into the living room and dutifully put his head on Niall’s lap.

  “So where’s she gone?” Niall asked, ruffling Hugo’s ears. He was tempted to phone her, but he was supposed to be out having a fun day with Simon, so to be calling her at three o’clock would destroy that illusion. On the other hand, it might show that he was missing her (which he was), and that might prepare the ground for what he hoped to achieve later. Then again, he would be pretending that he was out and thinking she was in, and if s
he then started to pretend she was in, what would he do then? And she would be bound to ask him how his day was going and what he was up to and, then, what, in fact, was he going to say? What was he going to say anyway? That he had been to Rebecca’s? That he was planning to keep going there until he bumped into Rebecca’s housemate? How could he? Miranda was very sensitive on the subject of Rebecca. He needed to get her past that, but that wasn’t something that could be achieved on the phone.

  “Let’s have a think,” he said to Hugo. “Number One, she went to work with Faith. Faith’s a sensitive soul and the two of them are joined at the hip at the minute, so she probably offered, knowing that otherwise Miranda would be alone all day.”

  Hugo didn’t respond.

  “But Miranda was showing no signs of getting up at 8.30, and Faith was already up and about and getting ready to leave not long after I did. And there was no talk of it last night.”

  Hugo sighed.

  “Number Two, she called her mum. Hasn’t seen her for a while. Suggested they spent the day together. Or, Two (A), her mum called her. Missing her. Her blind daughter is suddenly her sighted daughter and now she never sees her.”

  Niall paused as he processed these thoughts. It sounded a plausible scenario. Why had he just assumed that she would stay at home? Why hadn’t he even asked her what she was going to do with her day? Because he had been angry with her then and wanting to punish her for not agreeing with him. So it was his own fault.

  “Number Three – there is no number three,” he declared conclusively.

  He picked up his phone. If she was shopping with her mum it would be OK to call her. He could say he’d got bored with Simon’s school in Finchley and got a taxi home. He selected her number and rang it.

  The phone was switched off.

  “Or maybe she’s just got no signal,” he said to Hugo.