Pure
Fiel a Verdad
- Joined
- Dec 20, 2001
- Posts
- 15,135
Neonlyte is one of lit's best.
This quite a captivating piece, a first chapter.
I placed a mark ##### at 2/3 of the chapter, 6600 words, in case people's time is limited.
NOTE: This is entirely a dialogue; picture a radio play; there two voices (only), which will be recognized as to gender. Previously, at the time of the first critiques, one voice was put in italics, by agreement with the author. Italics are now removed in accordance with his wish.
# (one mark) is a section divider.
Author's Questions:
1. Can you start a novel with thirty pages of dialogue?
2. Are the characters identifiable?
3. Is it clear there are two sexes?
4. Does it read 'true' within the context of a novel.
Synopsis
Ob is a blind paraplegic.
A. Patel is Ob's personal therapist employed by the Therapy Institute, a charitable organisation pioneering neuro-genetic technology.
The Institute is headed by a Professor Fingleton.
Ob, despite a severe handicap, has a brilliant conceptual mind and photographic memory. Ob is aware that the current research has strategic military implications, and is not willing to allow military use to ‘lock away’ the technology and deny it to the blind and others in similar situation.
The first chapter is written from Ob’s world; deliberately, no external information is given; I’m trying to reinforce the notion of utter dependency on others to live as near a normal life as possible. I deliberately do not specify gender. There is a note as to gender, at the end.
The remaining chapters are ‘traditional’, except when these two characters are alone ‘on stage’.
The story deals with the power struggle to prevent the technology being reserved for military application. Ob has designed a gene trigger that activates neural centres; the effect would be to allow an aircraft to be flown pilot-less, with the pilot ‘at home’ effectively flying the plane neurologically. Once you remove a pilot from a plane, it can fly many times faster (and is cheaper) – the premise is ‘whoever controls the skies, controls the world's dwindling oil supplies’.
The sub-plot is the emotional struggle between Ob and A., just how do they come to terms with their relationship. Can you reconcile yourself to living with a paraplegic, where is the boundary between love and compassion? It should be obvious from the first chapter that Ob has delayed telling the news to force A to choose.
Oh, and when Ob was a teenager, a staff nurse at the Institute indulged in extra-curricular sex with Ob. Fingleton has photographs and will use them to blackmail Ob to continue working on the project, which Fingleton is negotiating to sell to a CIA backed company.
--------
OB SEEN
Oblivion
n 1: the state of being disregarded or forgotten 2: total forgetfulness; “he sought the great oblivion of sleep.”
Preamble / Introduction
“Let me read you this from the Guardian Editorial:
“ ‘ This extraordinary announcement demonstrates man’s potential to overcome adversity; against all the odds, this gifted and extremely talented individual has achieved a remarkable breakthrough in neuro-technology.
“ ‘There is a lesson hear…’
“They spelt ‘hear‘ wrong, typical Guardian:
“ ‘There is a lesson hear for all mankind, the will to succeed will surpass all obstacles, overcome every hurdle placed in its path providing the infrastructure is there to support initiative. Government cutbacks in education, research and development and medicine will only serve to damage Britain’s ability to pioneer projects like PulsePen and deprive brilliant individuals from realizing their potential or force them to relocate to a country prepared to invest in the future.
“ ‘The wider debate in the country over the issue of euthanasia should acknowledge the impossibility of predicting the future of any individual blah blah blah...’
“That’s good Ob, don’t you agree.”
“Yeh, though I wouldn’t mind going to the US, I’m sure we would have better funding there. The Therapy Institute has some good people and does good work but is not really a research base. I know the Prof. is trying to build on that side of things, but I can’t help but think that I could make more progress in a fully funded R&D environment.”
“Don’t forget the support the Institute has given you, PulsePen wouldn’t even be possible without the pioneering neurology work undertaken here. Ok, in the end you needed Format but the Institute has played a big role. Anyway, you are absolutely forbidden to go anywhere without me so don’t even think of it until I’ve finished my PhD.
“I’m just going read you this bit from the Times, then, we need to get ready for the reception.
“ ‘The Prime Minister praised the unveiling of the PulsePen neuro-scripter…’ ”
“Neuro-scripter? Where the fuck did they get that from.”
“Ob, I thought we had agreed you would not use that type of language anymore. Come on, we have gone past that, act your age. Don’t you dare swear in front of the Prime Minister; otherwise you will have me to deal with. Are you listening to me?
“Let me continue with this.
“ ‘The Prime Minister praised the unveiling of the PulsePen neuro-scripter and the team that developed the technology, the Prime Minister said, ‘This announcement opens a new phase in neuro-technology, one that Britain can justifiably be proud to be leading. It is testimony to the dedication and hard work and of countless people working to overcome insurmountable obstacles. It demonstrates the value of focused research funding, the skill and resources of our finest medical institutions and technology companies and emphasizes the importance of my governments decision our to make education the number one priority in Britain so that more young people can be given the opportunity to excel in their chosen field of endeavor.
“ ‘But more than that, I would like to pay tribute to a remarkable individual that I will have the privilege of meeting tomorrow. To overcome punishing disability and develop a technology that will enhance the lives of thousands of people across the world is an astonishing feat and one that we, as a nation, can look upon with pride.’
“Praise indeed, and right from the very top. Are you happy now?”
“Well, apart from him turning it into a Party Political broadcast, and making it sound as if the government funded PulsePen, and that I’m the product of the British education system, and the whole idea that I was doing this on behalf of Britain. Yeh, I suppose I’m pretty happy.”
“What do you expect, it’s an election year. The government will claim credit for anything that makes them look good to the electorate, I expect that is the whole reason he is coming down here. I don’t suppose he really wants to meet with you at all.”
“Oh great, thanks for the confidence boost, I’m just a photo op am I?”
“Well yes, what did you expect? Don’t be daft, he personally insisted on meeting with you, he is very impressed, so we need to make a good impression. Come on, I have to get you ready.”
“I don’t want to go. I’m really nervous about meeting people. They stare at me, I won’t know what to say.”
“Ob, we’ve been through all this time and again. People want to meet you. Say thank you for what you have achieved. It’s an honor; you have earned it. Anyway how could you possibly know people stare at you?”
“I can feel their eyes, I’ve told you this before, I can sort of sense people staring. I’m intuitive; you know that. Anyway, they talk too loud, they think they are whispering, but I can hear them, they seem to think I’m deaf as well as blind.”
“Ob, people will say things. You are an amazing talent; people are shocked when they see you. That don’t mean to be rude, it is just that what you have achieved is so far beyond their comprehension, they blurt out the most appalling platitudes. You know how it works; we have spent weeks going through this. You have to push what ever you hear out of your mind, it is said without thought and is of no consequence. I can tell you, with most of those people if you played back to them what they had said, they would be mortified, so don’t pay any attention.”
“No word on my Mother.”
“No Ob. I’m truly sorry. We have tried everything we can think of to trace her. The police have made enquiries, we tried to trace her through her social security number, she doesn’t want to be found. You know, in the end you have to respect that. She made her decision twenty years ago. Walked out of the hospital and never looked back. You understand how it must have been for her. She would never have been able to take you home and she must blame herself for your condition…”
“Yeh, I know. She didn’t know what the tablets would do. But if she could see me now she wouldn’t have to blame herself anymore. When my house is finished she could come and live with me.”
“Ob, it’s not going to happen. You have to face up to that. It’s not going to happen. Hopefully she is happily married raising a family somewhere. She made a mistake with tragic consequences. We have to allow people to move on from that. We are allowed to make mistakes; sometimes the result is too appalling to contemplate; painful. We learn and we move forward. I’m sure she thinks about you. With all the attention you are receiving she may just put one and one together. Even so, it would take remarkable courage on her part to show up after all this time; almost as much courage as it took to leave you in the first place.”
“How do you mean?”
“No one willingly abandons a baby. There is an emotional bond that is almost beyond comparison. Your mother must have been out of her mind with guilt and remorse; unmarried, and facing an impossible future, trying to raise a severely handicapped child. She probably didn’t even think that you would spend most of your early years in hospital. She fled, it broke her heart to do so, but she fled. For her, it was the only choice, she didn’t see any other way. You cannot blame her for that. She did what she thought was best for you. Yes, for you. She knew you would have a much better chance than if she had to raise you single-handed. As it turned out, she was right, you have had the best of care and attention.”
“Yes, but I’m lucky. I have this gift. What about all the others like me?”
“Well that is why you developed PulsePen, for others like you, look at as a down payment on your bill.”
“What if he tries to shake my hand? What’s he going to do, stick his arm up my gown?”
“Ha ha, very funny. At the most he will give you a patronizing squeeze on the shoulder, at least, that is what he has been told to do. Don’t under any circumstances call him a patronizing bastard when he does it.”
“Oh this’ll be fun; I’ve got to sit in my wheelchair and be mauled by the leader of my country. Once, ok. He can do it once. More than once and he gets called names.”
“Don’t you dare embarrass me; there will lots of media taking pictures, you will sit still, smile and behave yourself. You’re not fifteen any more.”
“It’s alright for you, you’re not the one that is being groped.”
“Can you lean forward, I need to get you dressed.”
“What am I wearing?”
“Midnight Blue cotton tunic; looks great with your blond hair, there, lean on me, let me… let me get this under you. You are getting heavy, you need to go on a diet.”
“I want to wear my shades, I don’t feel comfortable with people looking at my eyes.”
“Ok.”
“Blimey. Oh great day. The therapist agreed with me without a protracted argument. Finally she is learning. I have to make a note of this:
Oblivion. Note. Bold. 24pt. Write. Historic day. Therapist agrees with Ob. End. Oblivion.
“Did the computer get that?”
“Yes! You’ve got it well trained.”
“So I can wear my shades?”
“I said yes didn’t I? You look good, Spunky, ready to take on the world.”
“Yeh, but do I look sexy? Am I in the running for paraplegics’ pin-up of the month? That’s what’s important; I can hear them now, thousands of wheel chairs descending upon the Institute searching for the blue shirted sexy one.”
“Yes, you look sexy, satisfied? Let’s get you to the lift.”
#
“I’m not expected to demonstrate PulsePen am I, ‘cos it doesn’t always behave when I’m nervous.”
“We’ve been through this. There’s a video in the press packs. All you have to do is be on your best behavior and smile.”
“You will stay with me won’t you. Don’t leave me alone.”
“Of course I’ll stay with you. I promise I won’t leave your side. It will be all right, maybe forty minutes tops. Then I’ll get you out of there. Don’t be nervous, I’m nervous enough for both of us. Not every day I meet the Prime Minister.”
Fifty minutes later.
“That wasn’t so bad. He’s a nice chap, our Prime Minister.”
“Yeh. I especially liked the bit where he asked me if I could hear him.”
“Oh give him he a break, he’s a busy man. He forgot which bits of your body actually work. Good heavens, even I forget sometimes. You should have seen Professor Fingleton’s face when he asked you to explain how you came to have the name Ob, what did you tell him, I wasn’t close enough to hear?”
“I told him the truth, how I was left in a toilet for three hours and no one noticed and decided there and then that I was Oblivion. Still, he even managed to turn that to his advantage, going on about how his government was putting more money into hospitals ‘to ensure British hospitals provide the finest quality of service’, a consummate politician. Nice guy though, told me to call him Tony, said if I ever needed anything, to call his office. I could do with a new stereo, I’ll give him a call.”
“You know that is not what he meant. I could see you enjoyed it. That’s his special skill, charming people. I’m sure there is much more to him, you don’t get to be leader of the country just by being charming.
“Ob, I have to go back down, talk to journalists from specialist publications. Will you be ok by yourself?”
“Yes, I’m going to write up the diary. I ought to record this for prosperity. Never know if I’ll meet a Prime Minister again. Don’t I get a kiss for behaving myself?”
“Yes you do, and a hug.
“How’s that.”
“Blimey, that felt like you meant it.”
“I always mean it when I kiss you, don’t be ungrateful. Though Lord knows what would happen if someone saw me, still, I suppose you are a special case.”
“In that case… ”
“No Ob. Don’t go there. I am not, as you once so gallantly put it, sleeping with you in the interest of scientific research. Now behave, I’ll come and see you before I go home.”
Chapter One
Four Years Later.
“That’s enough! Look you; I can’t take any more of this. If you are not going to make the effort, I am not prepared to put in the work. I’ve really just about had it! What’s got into you? This last few weeks you have become impossible!”
“Rather a misappropriate use of words don’t you think. Look: just one things I can’t do is look.”
“Yes… well, I’m not going to apologise. I don’t know why I am bothering with you? There was a time when this project meant everything to you, now you simply don’t seem to care whether we can resolve the problems or not. I can’t work with you when you are in this mood, you are an ungrateful self-centred bastard. Yes, bastard. Don’t look so shocked.”
“How do you suppose that works exactly, looking shocked. I’ve never seen a shocked expression; how do imagine I know how to ‘look’?”
“I don’t know and frankly I’m beyond caring. I just don’t know why I am wasting my time. If you don’t want to do this, say so; then I can spend my time with people who are grateful and gracious for the help I can give them.”
“It’s because I’m sexy. I’m vulnerable.”
“Oh grow up! What is it with you? You have a great mind; why don’t you use it to achieve something instead sitting there feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Thank you for those few words of encouragement. I feel a whole lot better.”
#
“I’m sorry Ob, I shouldn’t have said that. You make me so angry when you are in this kind of mood. This is important work; you should treat it seriously. If we can get this prototype to work, it opens a complete new playing field. We need to succeed with this.”
“So, just what do you imagine is going to happen? We get a breakthrough and you wheel me out onto a stage in front of the media so they can photograph these piss arsed dinky things hanging from my shoulders and say ‘how clever… such a pity… ”
“If that’s all that’s stopping you, I’ll get you a jacket!”
“Yeh, that’s just what you want, then you and the Institute can take the credit for my work, get up in front of the media so you can show ‘your project’ and everyone can say how brilliant you are; then you can finish that fucking PhD and call yourself Dr. Fucking Brilliant!”
“How dare you! You think I do this for my benefit. That’s it Ob, I’m out of here.”
“Come on, admit it. I’ve been ‘your project’ for what, eight, nine years. I remember when you first came to see me at the hospital, you were a student, you came with a group of others…”
“How can you remember that? I never spoke to you.”
“The spices give you away. Announce you every time you enter a room. So used to them now I hardly smell them, but that first encounter with the sub-continent is firmly imprinted.
“Any way, you didn’t have an opportunity to talk; Professor Finger up his Arse likes the sound of his own voice too much; ‘Who can tell me something about this subject.’ What happened to the prick who said, ‘Severely incapacitated.’ He must be the Head of teaching college somewhere? Running a research unit? Bright boy.”
“Professor Fingleton gives you great support, the Institute has invested years of work and research with you.”
“Oh come on; every time we get one bit of technology to work, even half decently, Fingleton try’s to take all the credit, announces a world-class innovation that will change the lives of thousands. He’s a parasite. He feeds his ego on the hard work done by me, and tens of unrecognised programmers and technicians, and makes it sound like it is his invention. Who gets the royalties on PulsePen? Format and me. Whose names are on the patent? Format and me. Where is Fingleton’s name? Nowhere. Yet, that prick took it upon him to announce PulsePen to the world trying to get the spotlight. Did you know that nearly cost us the patent? I could have lost half my income.”
“What?”
“If you announce an invention before a patent is processed, you effectively place the knowledge into the public domain, so you don’t get a patent. Fingers managed to get the whole thing arse upwards as usual and thankfully no damage was done.”
“I didn’t know that Ob, I’m sorry. Professor Fingleton can be a bit impulsive. He means well, he’s only trying to keep the Institute on the front pages, it helps with the funding.”
“Calling me a fucking ‘subject’, I could have killed him. He is a user; uses anything to his own end. The only difference between you and Fingers is that he uses both of us; you only use me.”
“That’s not true, I don’t use you to advance myself.”
“No? Let me see, now what is the title of your doctorate thesis? Yeh, I looked it up on the Internet, hacked into the University files. Took me all fucking day even using PulsePen, but it was worth it just to hear the extent of your duplicity. Do you want to hear the computer crank it out for you? Nah, I’ll remind you - ‘Overcoming Oblivion’ – catchy title, aiming for the best sellers list are you? Sub-heading - ‘The developing relationship between neural technology and therapy’. You even put my fucking handle in the title! But that’s ok ‘cos you are not ‘using me’. How many other ‘subjects’ do you have who go by Oblivion? Jesus, why didn’t you talk to me about this? I’ll tell you why. After eight years of working with me, you regard me, as your property. Maybe not consciously, but never the less that is how your subconscious acknowledges me. You’ve become a mirror image of Fingleton, I’m a ‘subject’, something to be studied, evaluated, and written up.
“Yeh, I’m a freak, even if I were physically normal I would still be a freak. You can’t imagine what goes on inside my head. I visualise, ironic that – visualise, patterns of code to solve complex data handling problems, but I can’t project it, write it. Sure, PulsePen helped, but it’s still too slow. I’ve so much work to do yet I spend my time checking up on the stunts you and the Institute are pulling.”
“Ob, is this what is bothering you, my thesis, your work. You have been off the wall today.”
“No, they are both just symptoms of the same thing. I’m being used and get fuck all in return. You should try my life. Put a silk ribbon across your eyes; tie your hands and feet together behind your back. Spend a day like me. Then you might begin to work out how to write that doctorate thesis to advance understanding.”
“We’ve done that, you and me, when I first started to work with you.”
“Yeh, but it was just a fucking game to show you were on my side, win me over. Pretend that now you know what it is like to be incapacitated, how long did you last, less than an hour. Then you had to go take a piss. You have no comprehension of my life, how I live. Nothing in my life is spontaneous. Everything has to be organised down to the tiniest detail. I can’t even shit without humiliating myself. Try visualising that, every time you want to use the toilet, some stranger comes and cleans you up. Christ, it would be bad if it were a member of your own family. I used to just sit there waiting until a member of staff remembers they left me on the toilet or someone bothers to notice the warning light. Once, when I was seven, I was left there for hours, the nurse that took me forgot and went off duty, they had no warning light back then. I’m sat there crying my fucking eyes out and no ones listening.”
“I know, you told me, you tell everyone. That is when the precocious child decided to christen itself Oblivion.”
“Do you know why I tell that story over and over, a seventeen year old story? How many ‘stories’ have happened in my life? How many memorable days? I live a life of isolation, always have, and probably, always will. That’s fine, it allows me to work, to advance my knowledge and my skills. But that is all there is, nothing else. No trips to a restaurant or a pub, no holidays in Spain, no family to regale me with tales. Half a dozen things of significance have happened in my life; that is all I have to tell people. I could bore you for hours with the finer details of programming, I can recite for you the hex code for all the computer safe non-dithering colours, but I can’t tell you about life or experiences, or the day it rained and the bottom fell out of the shopping bag; the best I can do, is me stuck in a toilet, scared, frightened and lost. I tell the story to remind me not to take anything for granted.”
“Ob I don’t know what to say, I can see your feeling low, something is bothering you. At least you have Helen and Molly around to look after you.”
“They are not here all the time. Last week, Molly was ill; the agency sent a replacement, a guy, said his name was Jimbo. His breath stunk, whisky I think, probably his breakfast. Patronising bastard. He scared the shit out of me. Made me realise just how vulnerable I am. Ok, there are safety devices throughout the house, the computer will pick up my voice from any room and call for help, but can you imagine a complete stranger cleaning you. Looking at you. I tell you, I’ve had as much as I can bear. This is not living.”
“Ob, I’ll talk to the agency…”
“I’ve done that. They are going to train up a relief person to come in from time to time with Helen and Molly so ‘we can get to know one another’. That will be great, another round of piteous drivel to endure.”
#
“About the thesis Ob. You knew I would be writing up the work I have done with you. I should have told you about the title, discussed it with you. I spend half my time working with you, somehow I just assumed you knew…”
“No you don’t, you come here two or three mornings a week. Oh… of course, you write me up when you get back to the Institute. I keep forgetting the Institute still regards me as a patient. What is it, case notes, observations, lecturers; ‘Ob is blind, has tiny stunted arms and legs that don’t work properly, however an exceptional brain makes Ob kind of freakish and worth talking about.’ Do you have pictures of me? Do you show them slides? You do don’t you. I heard that sharp intake of breath.”
“Christ Ob. What’s got into you. You know how it works. The Institute looked after you when you were young, there were pictures taken. Sometimes photos are used to inform. Your face is never shown.”
“Oh it gets better. Just show them the bits that don’t work, black out the fucking brilliant brain! Are their cameras in here, in my home? I wouldn’t know would I. All the fucking techy’s that have trampled through here installing stuff all over. Are there cameras, ‘cos sometimes I swear I can hear a little servo whirring away focussing in on me.”
“There are no cameras.”
“You expect me to believe you? Jesus, Jesus Christ. This is a fucking disaster. I thought I could trust you. I thought you liked me. You are the closest thing I have to a family; I was fifteen, you were the first one to treat me like a person, to talk with me about my emotions and feelings. They were kind enough at the hospital but I was just another chore to them, someone to be carried or pushed from place to place, washed, cleaned, fed.
“I was going mad in that place before you came along. You cannot imagine what it was like, a brain that retained virtually every piece of information fed to it and no way to formalise the ideas welling inside. In another generation, I would have been locked away, maybe not even allowed to survive birth. In those days, under Pickford, the Institute was on the look out for people like me, the early days of making computers ‘accessible’ to the handicapped, they needed bright handicapped people to work with. Remember that little joystick that I used to work with my mouth. Christ it was slow work but at least I could begin to access stuff I wanted to listen to; to learn. Then Fingleton appeared, upped the ante, concentrated learning ‘cos he recognised there was a programmer inside my head. Forgot the rest, how to live, how to relate to people. I guess that’s why in the end they forced you on me. My outrageous behaviour was becoming an embarrassment. Teach me manners. Now you turn out to be just like them, using me for your ends. Well fuck you, fuck the Institute. You can all clear out of my life.
“The Institute's new device will never fucking work, and you get cross with me because I’m not putting in the effort. I told everyone at the outset that it will not do what you want it to. They insisted that we try their approach first, fine, I’m happy to help, but Jesus it wont do what Fingleton wants it to do; ever. It’s not because it’s Fingers baby, though God knows how he ever managed to come up with the idea, you can’t order colour in the way that he expects if you have never seen colour. The principle is sound, it’s an extension of PulsePen technology, but where PulsePen ‘learns’ through picking up the neural signals, this is trying to do the thing in reverse. Sure I can think a colour, say blue, but I can’t then synthesis the neural signal I receive as ‘blue’ because I have no idea what ‘blue’ is. With letters, numbers, I know what they do, I don’t need to ‘see’ them; they form together in a logical order that make words or numerical strings. A goes with P goes with P, L and E and makes apple. I don’t need to visualise an apple to know what the letters represent. You send me a round green shape and tell me its an apple and what I’ll see is A, P, P L and E. Colours have no logical order so sending me signals to try to synthesis an image can’t work, I have no idea how to form an image that I cannot visualise. It may have some benefit to formally sighted people but even that will be marginal. Fingers thinks its the processing power that needs boosting which just shows he knows shit all about anything, we have to find a way to write the signals onto the optic nerve so that it can ‘paint’ the image, and we are not even close. Sure, one day I will ‘see’ an image and you will tell me it’s blue and I will believe it’s blue, I might even remember that signal means blue. What then?”
“But it works with sighted people, surely there is a way to make it work for blind or partially sighted people. It’s just the first step Ob. Then we can improve the technology.”
“Yes, for the reason I’ve explained, sighted people ‘know’ how to synthesise the signal, we don’t. Getting an image in, is a long way from their objectives, they have barely succeeded with the easiest part and that will have no benefit for the people the Institute is supposed to by working for, the disabled and blind. We have been working with this for two years. I’ve never ‘seen’ anything that makes sense or even appears the same twice. Its arse about face. If you want people like me to ‘see’ colour or images, find out how to ‘write’ to the optic nerve, then work the technology. I told him that at the outset, but he knows best. Well I’ve had enough. I’m not wasting my time with this, I need to work on stuff that is going to produce results.
#
“I never gave you or the Institute permission to use photographs of me. I want a legal undertaking that photographs of me will never be used without my formal consent. I’ll talk to my solicitor this afternoon. Don’t take that tone…”
“What tone?”
“I can hear you, after all this time, you still don’t really get it, I can hear your body. For me, the way you draw breath is the same as facial expressions for you. I know your tone from the way you breathe, suck in air; you expanded your chest, ready to tear into me.
“Just say you were me; I’m going to show naked pictures of you, to a lecture room full of strangers. I assume I’m naked otherwise they wouldn’t be able to see the dinky little arms and the twisted legs. So how do you feel, there you are projected, twenty feet across, naked as the day you were born for everyone to stare at, everything on view. You are a shit! And to think I once imagined myself in love with you.”
“Ob…”
“No, don’t say anything. I would like you to leave now.”
#
“Ok Ob, that’s probably for the best, before one of us say’s something they will really regret; I don’t think anything will be served by trying to progress this now, best we leave things for the moment, give us both time to reflect. I’ll see you on Thursday as usual.”
#
“I may not be here on Thursday, I’m thinking of going away.”
“What are you talking about? You can’t go away. Who would look after you?”
“Hey, I can do just what ever I want to do. I don’t need your fucking permission to do anything.”
“Ob it’s not that simple, you need a great deal of specialist care and assistance, you can’t just take off for a few days.”
“Watch me.
#
“It’s all been taken care of, I’ll have twenty-four hour carers and all my special needs have been taken into account. They are professional people, they know what they are doing.”
“Who are? What’s going on?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll arrange access so you can finish your doctorate, that’s all you are concerned about.”
“Ob, don’t think that. I care about you and your welfare. I want to see you make something of your life, God knows you have drawn enough short straws, but you are brilliant in the work that you do, I want to see you have more and bigger success.”
“Fine words. Now everything is better is it? You care. You don’t care enough to spend time with me outside of working hours. When was the last time you called round to cook me a meal? I’ll tell you, June 14th 2001, and that was only because it was my twenty-first birthday. You gave me hope that there was life outside being institutionalised. Instead, I sit here night after night alone with my thoughts while you’re off screwing with someone.
“You care. You care about you and that fucking doctorate and climbing the slippery pole at the Institute. You climb on me to reach the first rung.
“There are others who care, who are prepared to go the extra mile to make sure I live as near to full life as possible and in return they will help me realise the potential locked inside my head. I’m not prepared to waste more time on prissy little projects that have no future, and that includes you.
“When will you admit that I am no more than a means to an end to you, I’m just a job, work that you do. Sure there was a time when you were pleased to be seen with me, you, on your mission, rescuing Ob from oblivion. Proud to have your photo taken with me, you told me I looked good. Photograph well do I, if you crop round the shoulders? Spunky, remember you used to call me that when I had my short blond hair and wore dark glasses, looked like I could take on the world. Where has all that gone, that passion to make something of me. I’ll tell you where it’s gone, it’s in the drive to make the Institute financially secure. Monies drying up, the government and corporations are drawing in the purse strings. They fucked up over PulsePen and missed out because Fingers didn’t believe I could work the algorithms so Format stepped in and picked up the gravy. Now he’s scrambling, pinning everything on Neuroptic and it isn’t going to cut it. He’s squeezing you, to squeeze me, no matter how much pressure he applies it is not going to do what he expects it to. Someone has to realise that and take the right decision. Well count me out. I can see what’s coming. I cost the Institute tens of thousands each year, when the shit hits the fan it’s not dropping on me, I’ll be long gone. There’s nothing and no one to keep me here.”
“You are getting things out of context. Ob, things happen outside of your home, life goes on. I know you don’t like me to talk about it, I respect your wishes but you have to understand, I started a serious relationship four years ago, I know how much that hurt you and that’s why you don’t want me talk about it. Maybe we should, might help you get a perspective on things. Relationships happen, you can’t time these things or say ‘not just now, try again in three years’. It was important to me. Is that still what’s bothering you? Do you want to talk about it?”
“Are you still screwing each other?”
“No, it didn’t work out, we finished months ago.”
#
“So why don’t you come round. Like you used to do.”
“It’s not that easy. You can’t just turn the page and start over. You and me, we had something really special. I know I hurt you, hurt you deeply. I didn’t want that to happen again the next time I got into a relationship.”
“So you’re saving me from myself, how noble.
#
“You have no idea what goes on here at night. Helen and Molly, my night time angels; sometimes I’m sure there is more than just the two of them here. It’s difficult ‘cos they talk all the fucking time, I’m sure it’s just to cover any extra noise. I think they bring people in to look at me like I’m some kind of circus freak. People look at me, and others like me, and make sweeping assumptions. No matter how clever I am or become, the first impression when people see me will always be disgust or pity, closely followed by compassion. Few people want to get to know me, to find out what goes on inside my head, but many are content to stare. That is what I feel at night sometimes, people staring. I can’t explain why; it is as if I have somehow compensated for blindness by sensing the actions of others. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. They forget, this house is where I spend my life, I know every millimetre of this house, it’s sounds, smells, the way air moves through when certain doors or windows are opened. I’m sure there have been others here beside Helen and Molly.”
“Ob, your imagining things. Helen and Molly are sweet kind ladies, they wouldn’t bring anyone to the house without your permission. Look, would you like me to come round? I’ll read to you, like we used to do.”
“No, tonight’s bath night, there’s no telling what time they will be finished with me.”
“Tell me what’s really bothering you, what’s going on. All this today is just is just a camouflage for what’s really nagging at you. Why are you talking about moving?”
“I can’t tell you, I’ve signed a confidentiality agreement.”
“You’re joking. Ob, tell me you’re joking.”
“No, I’m serious. This move is part of what’s bothering me. It’s also you, the realisation that this is coming to an end and the slow dawning that actually it finished an eon ago, I was just to dumb to notice. Still, as you said ‘life goes on’. I should have moved after PulsePen. I stayed out of love for you. Big mistake. Big, big mistake.
#
“No, don’t touch me. Your piety only serves to enhance my resolve to move on. It’s like a millstone your presence; it’s suffocating me. I’ve been slowly drowning these past four years.
#
“It took me an age to work out why we hit it off so well. Why you were able to give me the confidence to develop this curious brain of mine. Your intonation, the touching and games we played helped draw us close. You were kind, but not pitying, strong when I needed strength more than anything to pull me up from the downward spiral that had become my life. You gave me hope; taught me to imagine what could be, not dwell on what was. But more than that, I came to realise it was you who stopped the silence that screamed inside my heart.
#
“I never stop wondering what you look like. I can’t touch you, or stroke your skin. I long to hold you, embraced you to me, but have no imagination of how that might feel, how you might feel. The person I imagine as you, cannot be anything like you. What I ‘see’, when I think of you is an amalgam of shared experiences, memories, not really an image of a person. Even when you describe yourself to me, what you are wearing, colours, I can only reference you to other descriptions, books, stories that I’ve heard; things I hear on the radio. The words are irrelevant; they carry a meaning but as far as I am concerned, their illuminative power is hidden in the dark depths of the ocean; and yet words are all I have. My world is constructed out of words whose value is worthless.
“You have given to me more love than I have any right to expect, yet at the same time, I expect more, I need more than that. I know that is utterly selfish. I cannot participate in love; the very notion terrifies me. I could never share the experiences of being in a complete relationship; I need more than I can ever give in return and cannot place that burden upon you or anyone.
“What upsets me most is that I cannot spontaneously give of myself; I cannot even buy you the simplest gift. Ok , I send you flowers on your birthday, I have no idea what I’m buying, I ask the florist to describe them to me, she says ‘they’re red roses, what you asked for’, not understanding my need.
“Each day the guilt of dependency grows heavier, it’s dragging me down to the point that I no longer see the path ahead. I have to go. Start afresh; lose the weight of the years with you, the Institute. You must see that, I have been given so much by you and them, I cannot repay the debt, won’t repay it in the way that Fingleton wants, he’s wrong, doesn’t see the end game. Once we had a tremendous argument, really spitting mad, Fingleton told me that it was unfair that I had this brain. We both knew what he meant. Of course, he tried to cover his tracks, joked that his mouth was running ahead of his head. But we both knew, he would rather I were a supercomputer that he could program at whim, the fact that I can inhabit this pathetic body and think almost insults him.”
###### [possible stopping point]
“Ob we can wor…”
“No we can’t. We can’t work this out. The Institute, Fingleton, their difficulties are coming to a crisis. I’m not hanging around hoping for a solution. Fingers has taken the Institute out on a limb, it’s doing work outside it’s remit, the next Board Meeting will be crucial to the survival of Fingleton’s projects, big changes are imminent.”
“Why? What do you know? If you have heard something, you have to tell me.”
#
“Listen, I’ll tell you this out of loyalty to you and so that you can be prepared. Please understand that my decision to move on is entirely personal, there is a linkage between moving and the Institutes difficulties but it is not the link you might imagine, even if I could agree with Fingleton over the direction of the project, I would still move on. There is something going on, with Fingleton and the Institute. I am not sure what exactly, but Format and I are pretty sure it is not good news.
“We, that is, Format, have been negotiating to licence the Institutes gene patent, we have a product in development, the gene patent is vital. In all of these types of negotiation, there are backward and forward steps, they try to learn what we are working on, we try to avoid telling them. Recently, negotiations ceased, the Institute is not willing to grant a licence. We don’t know why.
“As you know, the Institute is running into serious financial difficulties, they have initiated a major evaluation of their cost base; they are looking for ways to cut expenditure. The biggest saving would be to cancel the Neuroptic programme. That would effectively finish Fingleton’s career.
“Two of the board members came to see me last week. There are concerned that Fingers is running out of control, the level of funding required, to advance his neural technology ambitions, far exceed the sums that the Institute can raise. The next step would be to bring in a commercial partner; that would cause legal nightmares. The charitable foundation that underpins the Institute expressly forbids entering into commercial activity. There are ways around that, for example, granting licences, as Format wants with the gene patent. Some board members are extremely worried that Neuroptic technology will not work, it already consumes a significant part of the budget, and no end is in sight. I understand that the Charity Commissioners are asking difficult questions about the expenditures, taking the line that this work is commercial research and development activity and outside the scope of charitable status. Any change in charitable status could subject the Institute to a substantial local tax bill, possibly backdated, compounding the problem. On top of that, of the Board and Trustees are worried that the therapeutic work of the Institute is being sidelined.
“One of the people that came to see me even suggested Fingers would take Neuroptic to the point where he would ‘jump ship’ with the technology. Ludicrous idea on the face of it, the work belongs to the Institute, but not so stupid if the Institute resolves not to continue with the research. You can see the scenario, Fingers approaches a corporation, the corporation buys the rights for peanuts since the Institute can have nothing more to do with it because of the pressure the Charity Commissioners are putting on them.
“We think that is exactly what is going on, it is the only logical explanation for his action. He has found someone willing to buy the Institutes neuro-technology division and with that purchase, is the gene patent. That is why they have stopped negotiating. You see, the thing is, Neuroptic does not do what Fingleton wants it to do, it actually does something else, we think who ever has approached him knows the true value of Neuroptic and is looking to control its future potential. Fingleton doesn’t yet realise he is being led, he needs quick results on Neuroptic to persuade his buyers, who, at the same time, are not letting on that they have other applications in mind.
“That is why he is putting so much pressure on you, and me. He has to get some quick success, before the Board asks him to resign.”
“Ob, that’s not going to happen, Fingleton may be many things, but he is not stupid.”
“No, your wrong, don’t you see. As far as Neuroptic is concerned, Fingers is as blind as I am. Away back, when we were developing PulsePen, he wanted optical feedback built into the device. You know how PulsePen works, converts neural impulses to letters and numbers. It’s a huge leap forward, once you have gone through the tedium of teaching it what your thinking. It improves my speed of work with computer by a factor of at least 10. Fingers wanted to utilise a feedback to stimulate the optic nerve into recognising the character being ‘projected’, it’s a brilliant idea, but it couldn’t be done. At the time, we were struggling trying to get PulsePen to do the basics. There was a row; Format effectively cut the Institute out of the project, difficult for me ‘cos I still lived there. We struggled for two years; he set up a parallel unit to work on Neuroptic.
“Neuroptic is a great idea, but that is all it is ‘an idea’ and that is where it will remain until someone serious gets there hands on the work. Fingletons approach is just wrong. And that is where he is being blind. What he is trying to do is to get me to see what you can see. I can’t do that, I may never be able to do that, we simply don’t know how to write the information onto the optic nerve. However, what I might be able to do is learn my own image vocabulary, combinations of shapes, light and shade that represent meaningful data to me but may be nonsense to the next blind person. He looks at the problem too empirically, dogs don’t see colour, only black white and shades in between, it is believed cats only clearly see moving objects. No two sighted people see the same. Every persons perspective is different, their height and the space between their eyes is different, the way light is refracted through the eye is different, the colour rendering is different. Who says I have to see what you see, you don’t see what Fingleton sees, and your Mum sees something completely different again, yet you all look at a ginger cat and say, it’s a ginger cat. There is no reason for me not to receive an image that I come to know represents a ginger cat, it doesn’t actually have to be your ginger cat.
“And this is his problem. What he has can’t work, not now, not for many years. The Institute won’t wait that long. Fingers has realised that I’m right. So what does he do next? He can’t go to the board and say ‘sorry, we’ve wasted all that money, it’s not going to work’.”
“That’s why you haven’t told us about this move, you were afraid what Fingleton might do to keep you here. Without you on hand, the board will throw him out. What did you tell the people who came to see you? Did you rubbish the project?”
“No, I told them that the project had great potential. I also told them it would take years and tens of millions of research investment.”
“Christ. What did they say?”
“They didn’t say anything for a few moments, I guess they were mouthing words to one another, I can sort of hear when people do that. Then they thanked me for my time and wished me all the best.”
#
“How far have you progressed with this moving plan?”
“Don’t worry about that now.”
“I am worried. How could you not tell me? Ob. You tell me everything, why haven’t you talked to me about this?”
“Because… you would have talked me out of it. You would have been nice to me for a few days, I would have felt safe, and the whole bloody cycle would have started over. It can’t go on, I can’t go on living like this, in a vacuum, I need more than this. Moving, starting over, scares the hell out of me but not as much as continuing to live like this. No, I’ve made my decision.”
“When is this happening?”
“Soon.”
“Soon, like when? What about your medical treatment, will they have facilities for you, staff and carers?”
“Everything is ready. I’m going to a medical research unit attached to a University. Purpose built accommodation, twenty-four hour carers and all the research resources I need to do my work. Let’s not talk about this, the decision’s made. There’s stuff I need to talk through with you.”
“Ob this is madness. You can’t just take off. Your life, your home is here. Everything you have, everything you have been working with is here.”
“That’s an illusion. What you think of as my life, it’s just an illusion. I carry my life in my head; the rest is seventy kilograms of worthless tissue. Your perception of life holds no parallel to mine. I measure in words and imagine what you see and experience; you cannot begin to comprehend the void that is my life.
“I remember one time when you took to the countryside. It was wonderful day, spring air heavy with the smell of life. You remember the songbird, a Lark, high above our heads shrilling its joy; you told me it was diverting our attention from its nest on the ground, to me, it cried freedom, happiness, singing its heart out just for you and me. I asked you to describe it; you did your best trying hard to relate it to things that I knew, but there is no way you can describe a bird for me. I have no understanding of its size, for me, size is analogous to weight. I can’t hold anything, except the smallest object gripped between the one finger I can control, and my thumb. I can’t measure the size of anything, but if you place it on my stomach or my thighs, I feel its weight and sometimes I can perceive its size.
“When you talked about the bird having feathers, I understood the concept; I know the dynamics that enable a bird to fly. But I will never be able to visualise a feather, not if you spoke till the end of your days could I ever visualise a feather. Like colour, it is just a description measured against other descriptions, a Lark is brown, a Blackbird is black, and the Robin has a red breast. When I think of a Lark, I think of a sound, music, the smell of the grass, wind in my hair and the noise of the trees; and a memory of a special day. It should be enough but it isn’t. It is something I have to deal with, I cannot be the person I want to be or have the things I want to have.
#
“You have given me so much and yet I still sometimes think it would have been better if we had never met. In showing me how to be a person, you showed me how to love. That whole spine tingling, heart stopping whirlwind that rips through me when I hear your car approach and wait for your footsteps in the hall, your cheery greeting, a kiss on the cheek, the spices on your breath and smell of your body. I can hear what clothes you are wearing as you move round the room and immediately know what the weather is like. When you sit close to me, I can feel your warmth, hear the way you breathe through your nose and that funny ‘phut’ sound you make with your tongue when you are concentrating.
“I crave your touch; the way you rub my thigh when things work out. From the moment you arrive, part of me is waiting for you to leave knowing you will caress my cheek and kiss me tenderly. And then four years ago, I sat here waiting. It was a Sunday, you used to come most Sundays and cook for me, would always tell me if you couldn’t come; we would listen to music, talk about anything but work; you read to me. I checked the talking clock on the computer every two minutes, panicked, started hyperventilating, imagining you in an accident. When I called your number, someone else answered, I disconnected the call.
“For the next twelve months or so, I waited for you to return; it took me that long to realised you had moved on. So you see the problem, I don’t need to paint it any clearer. I need to love you for everything you have given me, not hate you for not returning my love. It’s time for me to move on.
“Don’t cry, this is for the best. I didn’t mean all those things I said earlier. My anger is with Fingleton, not you, you are just a convenient conduit. You need to think about your future at the Institute, I certain there will be changes and you are so much Fingleton’s protégée you could pick up some of the flak. I don’t want you to use photographs of me ever. My solicitor will be in touch with the Institute today, all photographs, negatives and video must be handed over.”
“Fingleton… he won’t agree to that.”
“Well, he will just put another nail in his coffin. You realise that if I take legal action I won’t be able to keep you out of it.”
“Ob, stop, stop. I can’t take all this in. Why are you talking like this. Ok, ok… I understand your hurt. I know I hurt you. Believe me when I say that the last thing I would ever want to do is hurt you. You know in your heart that I love you; you are a very, very special person in my life. Why didn’t you tell me? We need to be talking this through, not you disappearing off somewhere.”
“That’s part of my life is closed, I’m not re-opening it. I’ve dealt with it, I’m moving on.”
“No Ob, you haven’t dealt with it, you’re running away from it. It won’t disappear just because you turn away. We need to talk. I’m going to re-schedule appointments so we can spend some time together. Look, I have to get back to the Institute, I’m going to be late for a meeting as it is. Promise me you will call me tonight. Promise.”
“I’ll call. If you want to see me, be prepared to travel.”
“When are you going?”
“Friday.”
“Christ Ob. This is crazy. Where are you going? You’ve got to tell me where you are going.”
“I can’t do that, there’s too much at stake, if you mention this conversation to Fingleton, you will never see me again.”
“Why are you so afraid of Fingleton?”
“I can’t explain, not now. It’s… it’s probably nothing, just me being hypersensitive. There are things that have happened that I’m not proud of… I don’t know how much Fingleton knows or what he might do with the information if he does know. You have to go now. I’ll call you, I promise.”
“That doesn’t sound like nothing. Has this something to do with your behaviour before I came to the Institute? You were frightened and scared witless then. You were wild, made peoples lives hell. Ob, that was ten years ago, people admire and respect you for what you have achieved despite your circumstances. Nothing in your past can hurt you. Fingleton wouldn’t dream of dragging that up again, if not least, it would reflect bad on him. Listen to me , ok. Don’t you go anywhere before we talk. I know you have made your mind; I’m not going to try to talk you out of anything. Christ, I above anyone know how difficult it is to get you to change your mind once it is set. But Ob, we have to talk. About you, and me, and what ever this nonsense is with Fingleton. You can’t take off with this weighing on you, trust me, we will talk this through and get things straight in you mind. I have to go. Call me ok.”
[[chapter end]]
=====
For those who have not guessed, Ob is a male; A. is a female.
This quite a captivating piece, a first chapter.
I placed a mark ##### at 2/3 of the chapter, 6600 words, in case people's time is limited.
NOTE: This is entirely a dialogue; picture a radio play; there two voices (only), which will be recognized as to gender. Previously, at the time of the first critiques, one voice was put in italics, by agreement with the author. Italics are now removed in accordance with his wish.
# (one mark) is a section divider.
Author's Questions:
1. Can you start a novel with thirty pages of dialogue?
2. Are the characters identifiable?
3. Is it clear there are two sexes?
4. Does it read 'true' within the context of a novel.
Synopsis
Ob is a blind paraplegic.
A. Patel is Ob's personal therapist employed by the Therapy Institute, a charitable organisation pioneering neuro-genetic technology.
The Institute is headed by a Professor Fingleton.
Ob, despite a severe handicap, has a brilliant conceptual mind and photographic memory. Ob is aware that the current research has strategic military implications, and is not willing to allow military use to ‘lock away’ the technology and deny it to the blind and others in similar situation.
The first chapter is written from Ob’s world; deliberately, no external information is given; I’m trying to reinforce the notion of utter dependency on others to live as near a normal life as possible. I deliberately do not specify gender. There is a note as to gender, at the end.
The remaining chapters are ‘traditional’, except when these two characters are alone ‘on stage’.
The story deals with the power struggle to prevent the technology being reserved for military application. Ob has designed a gene trigger that activates neural centres; the effect would be to allow an aircraft to be flown pilot-less, with the pilot ‘at home’ effectively flying the plane neurologically. Once you remove a pilot from a plane, it can fly many times faster (and is cheaper) – the premise is ‘whoever controls the skies, controls the world's dwindling oil supplies’.
The sub-plot is the emotional struggle between Ob and A., just how do they come to terms with their relationship. Can you reconcile yourself to living with a paraplegic, where is the boundary between love and compassion? It should be obvious from the first chapter that Ob has delayed telling the news to force A to choose.
Oh, and when Ob was a teenager, a staff nurse at the Institute indulged in extra-curricular sex with Ob. Fingleton has photographs and will use them to blackmail Ob to continue working on the project, which Fingleton is negotiating to sell to a CIA backed company.
--------
OB SEEN
Oblivion
n 1: the state of being disregarded or forgotten 2: total forgetfulness; “he sought the great oblivion of sleep.”
Preamble / Introduction
“Let me read you this from the Guardian Editorial:
“ ‘ This extraordinary announcement demonstrates man’s potential to overcome adversity; against all the odds, this gifted and extremely talented individual has achieved a remarkable breakthrough in neuro-technology.
“ ‘There is a lesson hear…’
“They spelt ‘hear‘ wrong, typical Guardian:
“ ‘There is a lesson hear for all mankind, the will to succeed will surpass all obstacles, overcome every hurdle placed in its path providing the infrastructure is there to support initiative. Government cutbacks in education, research and development and medicine will only serve to damage Britain’s ability to pioneer projects like PulsePen and deprive brilliant individuals from realizing their potential or force them to relocate to a country prepared to invest in the future.
“ ‘The wider debate in the country over the issue of euthanasia should acknowledge the impossibility of predicting the future of any individual blah blah blah...’
“That’s good Ob, don’t you agree.”
“Yeh, though I wouldn’t mind going to the US, I’m sure we would have better funding there. The Therapy Institute has some good people and does good work but is not really a research base. I know the Prof. is trying to build on that side of things, but I can’t help but think that I could make more progress in a fully funded R&D environment.”
“Don’t forget the support the Institute has given you, PulsePen wouldn’t even be possible without the pioneering neurology work undertaken here. Ok, in the end you needed Format but the Institute has played a big role. Anyway, you are absolutely forbidden to go anywhere without me so don’t even think of it until I’ve finished my PhD.
“I’m just going read you this bit from the Times, then, we need to get ready for the reception.
“ ‘The Prime Minister praised the unveiling of the PulsePen neuro-scripter…’ ”
“Neuro-scripter? Where the fuck did they get that from.”
“Ob, I thought we had agreed you would not use that type of language anymore. Come on, we have gone past that, act your age. Don’t you dare swear in front of the Prime Minister; otherwise you will have me to deal with. Are you listening to me?
“Let me continue with this.
“ ‘The Prime Minister praised the unveiling of the PulsePen neuro-scripter and the team that developed the technology, the Prime Minister said, ‘This announcement opens a new phase in neuro-technology, one that Britain can justifiably be proud to be leading. It is testimony to the dedication and hard work and of countless people working to overcome insurmountable obstacles. It demonstrates the value of focused research funding, the skill and resources of our finest medical institutions and technology companies and emphasizes the importance of my governments decision our to make education the number one priority in Britain so that more young people can be given the opportunity to excel in their chosen field of endeavor.
“ ‘But more than that, I would like to pay tribute to a remarkable individual that I will have the privilege of meeting tomorrow. To overcome punishing disability and develop a technology that will enhance the lives of thousands of people across the world is an astonishing feat and one that we, as a nation, can look upon with pride.’
“Praise indeed, and right from the very top. Are you happy now?”
“Well, apart from him turning it into a Party Political broadcast, and making it sound as if the government funded PulsePen, and that I’m the product of the British education system, and the whole idea that I was doing this on behalf of Britain. Yeh, I suppose I’m pretty happy.”
“What do you expect, it’s an election year. The government will claim credit for anything that makes them look good to the electorate, I expect that is the whole reason he is coming down here. I don’t suppose he really wants to meet with you at all.”
“Oh great, thanks for the confidence boost, I’m just a photo op am I?”
“Well yes, what did you expect? Don’t be daft, he personally insisted on meeting with you, he is very impressed, so we need to make a good impression. Come on, I have to get you ready.”
“I don’t want to go. I’m really nervous about meeting people. They stare at me, I won’t know what to say.”
“Ob, we’ve been through all this time and again. People want to meet you. Say thank you for what you have achieved. It’s an honor; you have earned it. Anyway how could you possibly know people stare at you?”
“I can feel their eyes, I’ve told you this before, I can sort of sense people staring. I’m intuitive; you know that. Anyway, they talk too loud, they think they are whispering, but I can hear them, they seem to think I’m deaf as well as blind.”
“Ob, people will say things. You are an amazing talent; people are shocked when they see you. That don’t mean to be rude, it is just that what you have achieved is so far beyond their comprehension, they blurt out the most appalling platitudes. You know how it works; we have spent weeks going through this. You have to push what ever you hear out of your mind, it is said without thought and is of no consequence. I can tell you, with most of those people if you played back to them what they had said, they would be mortified, so don’t pay any attention.”
“No word on my Mother.”
“No Ob. I’m truly sorry. We have tried everything we can think of to trace her. The police have made enquiries, we tried to trace her through her social security number, she doesn’t want to be found. You know, in the end you have to respect that. She made her decision twenty years ago. Walked out of the hospital and never looked back. You understand how it must have been for her. She would never have been able to take you home and she must blame herself for your condition…”
“Yeh, I know. She didn’t know what the tablets would do. But if she could see me now she wouldn’t have to blame herself anymore. When my house is finished she could come and live with me.”
“Ob, it’s not going to happen. You have to face up to that. It’s not going to happen. Hopefully she is happily married raising a family somewhere. She made a mistake with tragic consequences. We have to allow people to move on from that. We are allowed to make mistakes; sometimes the result is too appalling to contemplate; painful. We learn and we move forward. I’m sure she thinks about you. With all the attention you are receiving she may just put one and one together. Even so, it would take remarkable courage on her part to show up after all this time; almost as much courage as it took to leave you in the first place.”
“How do you mean?”
“No one willingly abandons a baby. There is an emotional bond that is almost beyond comparison. Your mother must have been out of her mind with guilt and remorse; unmarried, and facing an impossible future, trying to raise a severely handicapped child. She probably didn’t even think that you would spend most of your early years in hospital. She fled, it broke her heart to do so, but she fled. For her, it was the only choice, she didn’t see any other way. You cannot blame her for that. She did what she thought was best for you. Yes, for you. She knew you would have a much better chance than if she had to raise you single-handed. As it turned out, she was right, you have had the best of care and attention.”
“Yes, but I’m lucky. I have this gift. What about all the others like me?”
“Well that is why you developed PulsePen, for others like you, look at as a down payment on your bill.”
“What if he tries to shake my hand? What’s he going to do, stick his arm up my gown?”
“Ha ha, very funny. At the most he will give you a patronizing squeeze on the shoulder, at least, that is what he has been told to do. Don’t under any circumstances call him a patronizing bastard when he does it.”
“Oh this’ll be fun; I’ve got to sit in my wheelchair and be mauled by the leader of my country. Once, ok. He can do it once. More than once and he gets called names.”
“Don’t you dare embarrass me; there will lots of media taking pictures, you will sit still, smile and behave yourself. You’re not fifteen any more.”
“It’s alright for you, you’re not the one that is being groped.”
“Can you lean forward, I need to get you dressed.”
“What am I wearing?”
“Midnight Blue cotton tunic; looks great with your blond hair, there, lean on me, let me… let me get this under you. You are getting heavy, you need to go on a diet.”
“I want to wear my shades, I don’t feel comfortable with people looking at my eyes.”
“Ok.”
“Blimey. Oh great day. The therapist agreed with me without a protracted argument. Finally she is learning. I have to make a note of this:
Oblivion. Note. Bold. 24pt. Write. Historic day. Therapist agrees with Ob. End. Oblivion.
“Did the computer get that?”
“Yes! You’ve got it well trained.”
“So I can wear my shades?”
“I said yes didn’t I? You look good, Spunky, ready to take on the world.”
“Yeh, but do I look sexy? Am I in the running for paraplegics’ pin-up of the month? That’s what’s important; I can hear them now, thousands of wheel chairs descending upon the Institute searching for the blue shirted sexy one.”
“Yes, you look sexy, satisfied? Let’s get you to the lift.”
#
“I’m not expected to demonstrate PulsePen am I, ‘cos it doesn’t always behave when I’m nervous.”
“We’ve been through this. There’s a video in the press packs. All you have to do is be on your best behavior and smile.”
“You will stay with me won’t you. Don’t leave me alone.”
“Of course I’ll stay with you. I promise I won’t leave your side. It will be all right, maybe forty minutes tops. Then I’ll get you out of there. Don’t be nervous, I’m nervous enough for both of us. Not every day I meet the Prime Minister.”
Fifty minutes later.
“That wasn’t so bad. He’s a nice chap, our Prime Minister.”
“Yeh. I especially liked the bit where he asked me if I could hear him.”
“Oh give him he a break, he’s a busy man. He forgot which bits of your body actually work. Good heavens, even I forget sometimes. You should have seen Professor Fingleton’s face when he asked you to explain how you came to have the name Ob, what did you tell him, I wasn’t close enough to hear?”
“I told him the truth, how I was left in a toilet for three hours and no one noticed and decided there and then that I was Oblivion. Still, he even managed to turn that to his advantage, going on about how his government was putting more money into hospitals ‘to ensure British hospitals provide the finest quality of service’, a consummate politician. Nice guy though, told me to call him Tony, said if I ever needed anything, to call his office. I could do with a new stereo, I’ll give him a call.”
“You know that is not what he meant. I could see you enjoyed it. That’s his special skill, charming people. I’m sure there is much more to him, you don’t get to be leader of the country just by being charming.
“Ob, I have to go back down, talk to journalists from specialist publications. Will you be ok by yourself?”
“Yes, I’m going to write up the diary. I ought to record this for prosperity. Never know if I’ll meet a Prime Minister again. Don’t I get a kiss for behaving myself?”
“Yes you do, and a hug.
“How’s that.”
“Blimey, that felt like you meant it.”
“I always mean it when I kiss you, don’t be ungrateful. Though Lord knows what would happen if someone saw me, still, I suppose you are a special case.”
“In that case… ”
“No Ob. Don’t go there. I am not, as you once so gallantly put it, sleeping with you in the interest of scientific research. Now behave, I’ll come and see you before I go home.”
Chapter One
Four Years Later.
“That’s enough! Look you; I can’t take any more of this. If you are not going to make the effort, I am not prepared to put in the work. I’ve really just about had it! What’s got into you? This last few weeks you have become impossible!”
“Rather a misappropriate use of words don’t you think. Look: just one things I can’t do is look.”
“Yes… well, I’m not going to apologise. I don’t know why I am bothering with you? There was a time when this project meant everything to you, now you simply don’t seem to care whether we can resolve the problems or not. I can’t work with you when you are in this mood, you are an ungrateful self-centred bastard. Yes, bastard. Don’t look so shocked.”
“How do you suppose that works exactly, looking shocked. I’ve never seen a shocked expression; how do imagine I know how to ‘look’?”
“I don’t know and frankly I’m beyond caring. I just don’t know why I am wasting my time. If you don’t want to do this, say so; then I can spend my time with people who are grateful and gracious for the help I can give them.”
“It’s because I’m sexy. I’m vulnerable.”
“Oh grow up! What is it with you? You have a great mind; why don’t you use it to achieve something instead sitting there feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Thank you for those few words of encouragement. I feel a whole lot better.”
#
“I’m sorry Ob, I shouldn’t have said that. You make me so angry when you are in this kind of mood. This is important work; you should treat it seriously. If we can get this prototype to work, it opens a complete new playing field. We need to succeed with this.”
“So, just what do you imagine is going to happen? We get a breakthrough and you wheel me out onto a stage in front of the media so they can photograph these piss arsed dinky things hanging from my shoulders and say ‘how clever… such a pity… ”
“If that’s all that’s stopping you, I’ll get you a jacket!”
“Yeh, that’s just what you want, then you and the Institute can take the credit for my work, get up in front of the media so you can show ‘your project’ and everyone can say how brilliant you are; then you can finish that fucking PhD and call yourself Dr. Fucking Brilliant!”
“How dare you! You think I do this for my benefit. That’s it Ob, I’m out of here.”
“Come on, admit it. I’ve been ‘your project’ for what, eight, nine years. I remember when you first came to see me at the hospital, you were a student, you came with a group of others…”
“How can you remember that? I never spoke to you.”
“The spices give you away. Announce you every time you enter a room. So used to them now I hardly smell them, but that first encounter with the sub-continent is firmly imprinted.
“Any way, you didn’t have an opportunity to talk; Professor Finger up his Arse likes the sound of his own voice too much; ‘Who can tell me something about this subject.’ What happened to the prick who said, ‘Severely incapacitated.’ He must be the Head of teaching college somewhere? Running a research unit? Bright boy.”
“Professor Fingleton gives you great support, the Institute has invested years of work and research with you.”
“Oh come on; every time we get one bit of technology to work, even half decently, Fingleton try’s to take all the credit, announces a world-class innovation that will change the lives of thousands. He’s a parasite. He feeds his ego on the hard work done by me, and tens of unrecognised programmers and technicians, and makes it sound like it is his invention. Who gets the royalties on PulsePen? Format and me. Whose names are on the patent? Format and me. Where is Fingleton’s name? Nowhere. Yet, that prick took it upon him to announce PulsePen to the world trying to get the spotlight. Did you know that nearly cost us the patent? I could have lost half my income.”
“What?”
“If you announce an invention before a patent is processed, you effectively place the knowledge into the public domain, so you don’t get a patent. Fingers managed to get the whole thing arse upwards as usual and thankfully no damage was done.”
“I didn’t know that Ob, I’m sorry. Professor Fingleton can be a bit impulsive. He means well, he’s only trying to keep the Institute on the front pages, it helps with the funding.”
“Calling me a fucking ‘subject’, I could have killed him. He is a user; uses anything to his own end. The only difference between you and Fingers is that he uses both of us; you only use me.”
“That’s not true, I don’t use you to advance myself.”
“No? Let me see, now what is the title of your doctorate thesis? Yeh, I looked it up on the Internet, hacked into the University files. Took me all fucking day even using PulsePen, but it was worth it just to hear the extent of your duplicity. Do you want to hear the computer crank it out for you? Nah, I’ll remind you - ‘Overcoming Oblivion’ – catchy title, aiming for the best sellers list are you? Sub-heading - ‘The developing relationship between neural technology and therapy’. You even put my fucking handle in the title! But that’s ok ‘cos you are not ‘using me’. How many other ‘subjects’ do you have who go by Oblivion? Jesus, why didn’t you talk to me about this? I’ll tell you why. After eight years of working with me, you regard me, as your property. Maybe not consciously, but never the less that is how your subconscious acknowledges me. You’ve become a mirror image of Fingleton, I’m a ‘subject’, something to be studied, evaluated, and written up.
“Yeh, I’m a freak, even if I were physically normal I would still be a freak. You can’t imagine what goes on inside my head. I visualise, ironic that – visualise, patterns of code to solve complex data handling problems, but I can’t project it, write it. Sure, PulsePen helped, but it’s still too slow. I’ve so much work to do yet I spend my time checking up on the stunts you and the Institute are pulling.”
“Ob, is this what is bothering you, my thesis, your work. You have been off the wall today.”
“No, they are both just symptoms of the same thing. I’m being used and get fuck all in return. You should try my life. Put a silk ribbon across your eyes; tie your hands and feet together behind your back. Spend a day like me. Then you might begin to work out how to write that doctorate thesis to advance understanding.”
“We’ve done that, you and me, when I first started to work with you.”
“Yeh, but it was just a fucking game to show you were on my side, win me over. Pretend that now you know what it is like to be incapacitated, how long did you last, less than an hour. Then you had to go take a piss. You have no comprehension of my life, how I live. Nothing in my life is spontaneous. Everything has to be organised down to the tiniest detail. I can’t even shit without humiliating myself. Try visualising that, every time you want to use the toilet, some stranger comes and cleans you up. Christ, it would be bad if it were a member of your own family. I used to just sit there waiting until a member of staff remembers they left me on the toilet or someone bothers to notice the warning light. Once, when I was seven, I was left there for hours, the nurse that took me forgot and went off duty, they had no warning light back then. I’m sat there crying my fucking eyes out and no ones listening.”
“I know, you told me, you tell everyone. That is when the precocious child decided to christen itself Oblivion.”
“Do you know why I tell that story over and over, a seventeen year old story? How many ‘stories’ have happened in my life? How many memorable days? I live a life of isolation, always have, and probably, always will. That’s fine, it allows me to work, to advance my knowledge and my skills. But that is all there is, nothing else. No trips to a restaurant or a pub, no holidays in Spain, no family to regale me with tales. Half a dozen things of significance have happened in my life; that is all I have to tell people. I could bore you for hours with the finer details of programming, I can recite for you the hex code for all the computer safe non-dithering colours, but I can’t tell you about life or experiences, or the day it rained and the bottom fell out of the shopping bag; the best I can do, is me stuck in a toilet, scared, frightened and lost. I tell the story to remind me not to take anything for granted.”
“Ob I don’t know what to say, I can see your feeling low, something is bothering you. At least you have Helen and Molly around to look after you.”
“They are not here all the time. Last week, Molly was ill; the agency sent a replacement, a guy, said his name was Jimbo. His breath stunk, whisky I think, probably his breakfast. Patronising bastard. He scared the shit out of me. Made me realise just how vulnerable I am. Ok, there are safety devices throughout the house, the computer will pick up my voice from any room and call for help, but can you imagine a complete stranger cleaning you. Looking at you. I tell you, I’ve had as much as I can bear. This is not living.”
“Ob, I’ll talk to the agency…”
“I’ve done that. They are going to train up a relief person to come in from time to time with Helen and Molly so ‘we can get to know one another’. That will be great, another round of piteous drivel to endure.”
#
“About the thesis Ob. You knew I would be writing up the work I have done with you. I should have told you about the title, discussed it with you. I spend half my time working with you, somehow I just assumed you knew…”
“No you don’t, you come here two or three mornings a week. Oh… of course, you write me up when you get back to the Institute. I keep forgetting the Institute still regards me as a patient. What is it, case notes, observations, lecturers; ‘Ob is blind, has tiny stunted arms and legs that don’t work properly, however an exceptional brain makes Ob kind of freakish and worth talking about.’ Do you have pictures of me? Do you show them slides? You do don’t you. I heard that sharp intake of breath.”
“Christ Ob. What’s got into you. You know how it works. The Institute looked after you when you were young, there were pictures taken. Sometimes photos are used to inform. Your face is never shown.”
“Oh it gets better. Just show them the bits that don’t work, black out the fucking brilliant brain! Are their cameras in here, in my home? I wouldn’t know would I. All the fucking techy’s that have trampled through here installing stuff all over. Are there cameras, ‘cos sometimes I swear I can hear a little servo whirring away focussing in on me.”
“There are no cameras.”
“You expect me to believe you? Jesus, Jesus Christ. This is a fucking disaster. I thought I could trust you. I thought you liked me. You are the closest thing I have to a family; I was fifteen, you were the first one to treat me like a person, to talk with me about my emotions and feelings. They were kind enough at the hospital but I was just another chore to them, someone to be carried or pushed from place to place, washed, cleaned, fed.
“I was going mad in that place before you came along. You cannot imagine what it was like, a brain that retained virtually every piece of information fed to it and no way to formalise the ideas welling inside. In another generation, I would have been locked away, maybe not even allowed to survive birth. In those days, under Pickford, the Institute was on the look out for people like me, the early days of making computers ‘accessible’ to the handicapped, they needed bright handicapped people to work with. Remember that little joystick that I used to work with my mouth. Christ it was slow work but at least I could begin to access stuff I wanted to listen to; to learn. Then Fingleton appeared, upped the ante, concentrated learning ‘cos he recognised there was a programmer inside my head. Forgot the rest, how to live, how to relate to people. I guess that’s why in the end they forced you on me. My outrageous behaviour was becoming an embarrassment. Teach me manners. Now you turn out to be just like them, using me for your ends. Well fuck you, fuck the Institute. You can all clear out of my life.
“The Institute's new device will never fucking work, and you get cross with me because I’m not putting in the effort. I told everyone at the outset that it will not do what you want it to. They insisted that we try their approach first, fine, I’m happy to help, but Jesus it wont do what Fingleton wants it to do; ever. It’s not because it’s Fingers baby, though God knows how he ever managed to come up with the idea, you can’t order colour in the way that he expects if you have never seen colour. The principle is sound, it’s an extension of PulsePen technology, but where PulsePen ‘learns’ through picking up the neural signals, this is trying to do the thing in reverse. Sure I can think a colour, say blue, but I can’t then synthesis the neural signal I receive as ‘blue’ because I have no idea what ‘blue’ is. With letters, numbers, I know what they do, I don’t need to ‘see’ them; they form together in a logical order that make words or numerical strings. A goes with P goes with P, L and E and makes apple. I don’t need to visualise an apple to know what the letters represent. You send me a round green shape and tell me its an apple and what I’ll see is A, P, P L and E. Colours have no logical order so sending me signals to try to synthesis an image can’t work, I have no idea how to form an image that I cannot visualise. It may have some benefit to formally sighted people but even that will be marginal. Fingers thinks its the processing power that needs boosting which just shows he knows shit all about anything, we have to find a way to write the signals onto the optic nerve so that it can ‘paint’ the image, and we are not even close. Sure, one day I will ‘see’ an image and you will tell me it’s blue and I will believe it’s blue, I might even remember that signal means blue. What then?”
“But it works with sighted people, surely there is a way to make it work for blind or partially sighted people. It’s just the first step Ob. Then we can improve the technology.”
“Yes, for the reason I’ve explained, sighted people ‘know’ how to synthesise the signal, we don’t. Getting an image in, is a long way from their objectives, they have barely succeeded with the easiest part and that will have no benefit for the people the Institute is supposed to by working for, the disabled and blind. We have been working with this for two years. I’ve never ‘seen’ anything that makes sense or even appears the same twice. Its arse about face. If you want people like me to ‘see’ colour or images, find out how to ‘write’ to the optic nerve, then work the technology. I told him that at the outset, but he knows best. Well I’ve had enough. I’m not wasting my time with this, I need to work on stuff that is going to produce results.
#
“I never gave you or the Institute permission to use photographs of me. I want a legal undertaking that photographs of me will never be used without my formal consent. I’ll talk to my solicitor this afternoon. Don’t take that tone…”
“What tone?”
“I can hear you, after all this time, you still don’t really get it, I can hear your body. For me, the way you draw breath is the same as facial expressions for you. I know your tone from the way you breathe, suck in air; you expanded your chest, ready to tear into me.
“Just say you were me; I’m going to show naked pictures of you, to a lecture room full of strangers. I assume I’m naked otherwise they wouldn’t be able to see the dinky little arms and the twisted legs. So how do you feel, there you are projected, twenty feet across, naked as the day you were born for everyone to stare at, everything on view. You are a shit! And to think I once imagined myself in love with you.”
“Ob…”
“No, don’t say anything. I would like you to leave now.”
#
“Ok Ob, that’s probably for the best, before one of us say’s something they will really regret; I don’t think anything will be served by trying to progress this now, best we leave things for the moment, give us both time to reflect. I’ll see you on Thursday as usual.”
#
“I may not be here on Thursday, I’m thinking of going away.”
“What are you talking about? You can’t go away. Who would look after you?”
“Hey, I can do just what ever I want to do. I don’t need your fucking permission to do anything.”
“Ob it’s not that simple, you need a great deal of specialist care and assistance, you can’t just take off for a few days.”
“Watch me.
#
“It’s all been taken care of, I’ll have twenty-four hour carers and all my special needs have been taken into account. They are professional people, they know what they are doing.”
“Who are? What’s going on?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll arrange access so you can finish your doctorate, that’s all you are concerned about.”
“Ob, don’t think that. I care about you and your welfare. I want to see you make something of your life, God knows you have drawn enough short straws, but you are brilliant in the work that you do, I want to see you have more and bigger success.”
“Fine words. Now everything is better is it? You care. You don’t care enough to spend time with me outside of working hours. When was the last time you called round to cook me a meal? I’ll tell you, June 14th 2001, and that was only because it was my twenty-first birthday. You gave me hope that there was life outside being institutionalised. Instead, I sit here night after night alone with my thoughts while you’re off screwing with someone.
“You care. You care about you and that fucking doctorate and climbing the slippery pole at the Institute. You climb on me to reach the first rung.
“There are others who care, who are prepared to go the extra mile to make sure I live as near to full life as possible and in return they will help me realise the potential locked inside my head. I’m not prepared to waste more time on prissy little projects that have no future, and that includes you.
“When will you admit that I am no more than a means to an end to you, I’m just a job, work that you do. Sure there was a time when you were pleased to be seen with me, you, on your mission, rescuing Ob from oblivion. Proud to have your photo taken with me, you told me I looked good. Photograph well do I, if you crop round the shoulders? Spunky, remember you used to call me that when I had my short blond hair and wore dark glasses, looked like I could take on the world. Where has all that gone, that passion to make something of me. I’ll tell you where it’s gone, it’s in the drive to make the Institute financially secure. Monies drying up, the government and corporations are drawing in the purse strings. They fucked up over PulsePen and missed out because Fingers didn’t believe I could work the algorithms so Format stepped in and picked up the gravy. Now he’s scrambling, pinning everything on Neuroptic and it isn’t going to cut it. He’s squeezing you, to squeeze me, no matter how much pressure he applies it is not going to do what he expects it to. Someone has to realise that and take the right decision. Well count me out. I can see what’s coming. I cost the Institute tens of thousands each year, when the shit hits the fan it’s not dropping on me, I’ll be long gone. There’s nothing and no one to keep me here.”
“You are getting things out of context. Ob, things happen outside of your home, life goes on. I know you don’t like me to talk about it, I respect your wishes but you have to understand, I started a serious relationship four years ago, I know how much that hurt you and that’s why you don’t want me talk about it. Maybe we should, might help you get a perspective on things. Relationships happen, you can’t time these things or say ‘not just now, try again in three years’. It was important to me. Is that still what’s bothering you? Do you want to talk about it?”
“Are you still screwing each other?”
“No, it didn’t work out, we finished months ago.”
#
“So why don’t you come round. Like you used to do.”
“It’s not that easy. You can’t just turn the page and start over. You and me, we had something really special. I know I hurt you, hurt you deeply. I didn’t want that to happen again the next time I got into a relationship.”
“So you’re saving me from myself, how noble.
#
“You have no idea what goes on here at night. Helen and Molly, my night time angels; sometimes I’m sure there is more than just the two of them here. It’s difficult ‘cos they talk all the fucking time, I’m sure it’s just to cover any extra noise. I think they bring people in to look at me like I’m some kind of circus freak. People look at me, and others like me, and make sweeping assumptions. No matter how clever I am or become, the first impression when people see me will always be disgust or pity, closely followed by compassion. Few people want to get to know me, to find out what goes on inside my head, but many are content to stare. That is what I feel at night sometimes, people staring. I can’t explain why; it is as if I have somehow compensated for blindness by sensing the actions of others. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. They forget, this house is where I spend my life, I know every millimetre of this house, it’s sounds, smells, the way air moves through when certain doors or windows are opened. I’m sure there have been others here beside Helen and Molly.”
“Ob, your imagining things. Helen and Molly are sweet kind ladies, they wouldn’t bring anyone to the house without your permission. Look, would you like me to come round? I’ll read to you, like we used to do.”
“No, tonight’s bath night, there’s no telling what time they will be finished with me.”
“Tell me what’s really bothering you, what’s going on. All this today is just is just a camouflage for what’s really nagging at you. Why are you talking about moving?”
“I can’t tell you, I’ve signed a confidentiality agreement.”
“You’re joking. Ob, tell me you’re joking.”
“No, I’m serious. This move is part of what’s bothering me. It’s also you, the realisation that this is coming to an end and the slow dawning that actually it finished an eon ago, I was just to dumb to notice. Still, as you said ‘life goes on’. I should have moved after PulsePen. I stayed out of love for you. Big mistake. Big, big mistake.
#
“No, don’t touch me. Your piety only serves to enhance my resolve to move on. It’s like a millstone your presence; it’s suffocating me. I’ve been slowly drowning these past four years.
#
“It took me an age to work out why we hit it off so well. Why you were able to give me the confidence to develop this curious brain of mine. Your intonation, the touching and games we played helped draw us close. You were kind, but not pitying, strong when I needed strength more than anything to pull me up from the downward spiral that had become my life. You gave me hope; taught me to imagine what could be, not dwell on what was. But more than that, I came to realise it was you who stopped the silence that screamed inside my heart.
#
“I never stop wondering what you look like. I can’t touch you, or stroke your skin. I long to hold you, embraced you to me, but have no imagination of how that might feel, how you might feel. The person I imagine as you, cannot be anything like you. What I ‘see’, when I think of you is an amalgam of shared experiences, memories, not really an image of a person. Even when you describe yourself to me, what you are wearing, colours, I can only reference you to other descriptions, books, stories that I’ve heard; things I hear on the radio. The words are irrelevant; they carry a meaning but as far as I am concerned, their illuminative power is hidden in the dark depths of the ocean; and yet words are all I have. My world is constructed out of words whose value is worthless.
“You have given to me more love than I have any right to expect, yet at the same time, I expect more, I need more than that. I know that is utterly selfish. I cannot participate in love; the very notion terrifies me. I could never share the experiences of being in a complete relationship; I need more than I can ever give in return and cannot place that burden upon you or anyone.
“What upsets me most is that I cannot spontaneously give of myself; I cannot even buy you the simplest gift. Ok , I send you flowers on your birthday, I have no idea what I’m buying, I ask the florist to describe them to me, she says ‘they’re red roses, what you asked for’, not understanding my need.
“Each day the guilt of dependency grows heavier, it’s dragging me down to the point that I no longer see the path ahead. I have to go. Start afresh; lose the weight of the years with you, the Institute. You must see that, I have been given so much by you and them, I cannot repay the debt, won’t repay it in the way that Fingleton wants, he’s wrong, doesn’t see the end game. Once we had a tremendous argument, really spitting mad, Fingleton told me that it was unfair that I had this brain. We both knew what he meant. Of course, he tried to cover his tracks, joked that his mouth was running ahead of his head. But we both knew, he would rather I were a supercomputer that he could program at whim, the fact that I can inhabit this pathetic body and think almost insults him.”
###### [possible stopping point]
“Ob we can wor…”
“No we can’t. We can’t work this out. The Institute, Fingleton, their difficulties are coming to a crisis. I’m not hanging around hoping for a solution. Fingers has taken the Institute out on a limb, it’s doing work outside it’s remit, the next Board Meeting will be crucial to the survival of Fingleton’s projects, big changes are imminent.”
“Why? What do you know? If you have heard something, you have to tell me.”
#
“Listen, I’ll tell you this out of loyalty to you and so that you can be prepared. Please understand that my decision to move on is entirely personal, there is a linkage between moving and the Institutes difficulties but it is not the link you might imagine, even if I could agree with Fingleton over the direction of the project, I would still move on. There is something going on, with Fingleton and the Institute. I am not sure what exactly, but Format and I are pretty sure it is not good news.
“We, that is, Format, have been negotiating to licence the Institutes gene patent, we have a product in development, the gene patent is vital. In all of these types of negotiation, there are backward and forward steps, they try to learn what we are working on, we try to avoid telling them. Recently, negotiations ceased, the Institute is not willing to grant a licence. We don’t know why.
“As you know, the Institute is running into serious financial difficulties, they have initiated a major evaluation of their cost base; they are looking for ways to cut expenditure. The biggest saving would be to cancel the Neuroptic programme. That would effectively finish Fingleton’s career.
“Two of the board members came to see me last week. There are concerned that Fingers is running out of control, the level of funding required, to advance his neural technology ambitions, far exceed the sums that the Institute can raise. The next step would be to bring in a commercial partner; that would cause legal nightmares. The charitable foundation that underpins the Institute expressly forbids entering into commercial activity. There are ways around that, for example, granting licences, as Format wants with the gene patent. Some board members are extremely worried that Neuroptic technology will not work, it already consumes a significant part of the budget, and no end is in sight. I understand that the Charity Commissioners are asking difficult questions about the expenditures, taking the line that this work is commercial research and development activity and outside the scope of charitable status. Any change in charitable status could subject the Institute to a substantial local tax bill, possibly backdated, compounding the problem. On top of that, of the Board and Trustees are worried that the therapeutic work of the Institute is being sidelined.
“One of the people that came to see me even suggested Fingers would take Neuroptic to the point where he would ‘jump ship’ with the technology. Ludicrous idea on the face of it, the work belongs to the Institute, but not so stupid if the Institute resolves not to continue with the research. You can see the scenario, Fingers approaches a corporation, the corporation buys the rights for peanuts since the Institute can have nothing more to do with it because of the pressure the Charity Commissioners are putting on them.
“We think that is exactly what is going on, it is the only logical explanation for his action. He has found someone willing to buy the Institutes neuro-technology division and with that purchase, is the gene patent. That is why they have stopped negotiating. You see, the thing is, Neuroptic does not do what Fingleton wants it to do, it actually does something else, we think who ever has approached him knows the true value of Neuroptic and is looking to control its future potential. Fingleton doesn’t yet realise he is being led, he needs quick results on Neuroptic to persuade his buyers, who, at the same time, are not letting on that they have other applications in mind.
“That is why he is putting so much pressure on you, and me. He has to get some quick success, before the Board asks him to resign.”
“Ob, that’s not going to happen, Fingleton may be many things, but he is not stupid.”
“No, your wrong, don’t you see. As far as Neuroptic is concerned, Fingers is as blind as I am. Away back, when we were developing PulsePen, he wanted optical feedback built into the device. You know how PulsePen works, converts neural impulses to letters and numbers. It’s a huge leap forward, once you have gone through the tedium of teaching it what your thinking. It improves my speed of work with computer by a factor of at least 10. Fingers wanted to utilise a feedback to stimulate the optic nerve into recognising the character being ‘projected’, it’s a brilliant idea, but it couldn’t be done. At the time, we were struggling trying to get PulsePen to do the basics. There was a row; Format effectively cut the Institute out of the project, difficult for me ‘cos I still lived there. We struggled for two years; he set up a parallel unit to work on Neuroptic.
“Neuroptic is a great idea, but that is all it is ‘an idea’ and that is where it will remain until someone serious gets there hands on the work. Fingletons approach is just wrong. And that is where he is being blind. What he is trying to do is to get me to see what you can see. I can’t do that, I may never be able to do that, we simply don’t know how to write the information onto the optic nerve. However, what I might be able to do is learn my own image vocabulary, combinations of shapes, light and shade that represent meaningful data to me but may be nonsense to the next blind person. He looks at the problem too empirically, dogs don’t see colour, only black white and shades in between, it is believed cats only clearly see moving objects. No two sighted people see the same. Every persons perspective is different, their height and the space between their eyes is different, the way light is refracted through the eye is different, the colour rendering is different. Who says I have to see what you see, you don’t see what Fingleton sees, and your Mum sees something completely different again, yet you all look at a ginger cat and say, it’s a ginger cat. There is no reason for me not to receive an image that I come to know represents a ginger cat, it doesn’t actually have to be your ginger cat.
“And this is his problem. What he has can’t work, not now, not for many years. The Institute won’t wait that long. Fingers has realised that I’m right. So what does he do next? He can’t go to the board and say ‘sorry, we’ve wasted all that money, it’s not going to work’.”
“That’s why you haven’t told us about this move, you were afraid what Fingleton might do to keep you here. Without you on hand, the board will throw him out. What did you tell the people who came to see you? Did you rubbish the project?”
“No, I told them that the project had great potential. I also told them it would take years and tens of millions of research investment.”
“Christ. What did they say?”
“They didn’t say anything for a few moments, I guess they were mouthing words to one another, I can sort of hear when people do that. Then they thanked me for my time and wished me all the best.”
#
“How far have you progressed with this moving plan?”
“Don’t worry about that now.”
“I am worried. How could you not tell me? Ob. You tell me everything, why haven’t you talked to me about this?”
“Because… you would have talked me out of it. You would have been nice to me for a few days, I would have felt safe, and the whole bloody cycle would have started over. It can’t go on, I can’t go on living like this, in a vacuum, I need more than this. Moving, starting over, scares the hell out of me but not as much as continuing to live like this. No, I’ve made my decision.”
“When is this happening?”
“Soon.”
“Soon, like when? What about your medical treatment, will they have facilities for you, staff and carers?”
“Everything is ready. I’m going to a medical research unit attached to a University. Purpose built accommodation, twenty-four hour carers and all the research resources I need to do my work. Let’s not talk about this, the decision’s made. There’s stuff I need to talk through with you.”
“Ob this is madness. You can’t just take off. Your life, your home is here. Everything you have, everything you have been working with is here.”
“That’s an illusion. What you think of as my life, it’s just an illusion. I carry my life in my head; the rest is seventy kilograms of worthless tissue. Your perception of life holds no parallel to mine. I measure in words and imagine what you see and experience; you cannot begin to comprehend the void that is my life.
“I remember one time when you took to the countryside. It was wonderful day, spring air heavy with the smell of life. You remember the songbird, a Lark, high above our heads shrilling its joy; you told me it was diverting our attention from its nest on the ground, to me, it cried freedom, happiness, singing its heart out just for you and me. I asked you to describe it; you did your best trying hard to relate it to things that I knew, but there is no way you can describe a bird for me. I have no understanding of its size, for me, size is analogous to weight. I can’t hold anything, except the smallest object gripped between the one finger I can control, and my thumb. I can’t measure the size of anything, but if you place it on my stomach or my thighs, I feel its weight and sometimes I can perceive its size.
“When you talked about the bird having feathers, I understood the concept; I know the dynamics that enable a bird to fly. But I will never be able to visualise a feather, not if you spoke till the end of your days could I ever visualise a feather. Like colour, it is just a description measured against other descriptions, a Lark is brown, a Blackbird is black, and the Robin has a red breast. When I think of a Lark, I think of a sound, music, the smell of the grass, wind in my hair and the noise of the trees; and a memory of a special day. It should be enough but it isn’t. It is something I have to deal with, I cannot be the person I want to be or have the things I want to have.
#
“You have given me so much and yet I still sometimes think it would have been better if we had never met. In showing me how to be a person, you showed me how to love. That whole spine tingling, heart stopping whirlwind that rips through me when I hear your car approach and wait for your footsteps in the hall, your cheery greeting, a kiss on the cheek, the spices on your breath and smell of your body. I can hear what clothes you are wearing as you move round the room and immediately know what the weather is like. When you sit close to me, I can feel your warmth, hear the way you breathe through your nose and that funny ‘phut’ sound you make with your tongue when you are concentrating.
“I crave your touch; the way you rub my thigh when things work out. From the moment you arrive, part of me is waiting for you to leave knowing you will caress my cheek and kiss me tenderly. And then four years ago, I sat here waiting. It was a Sunday, you used to come most Sundays and cook for me, would always tell me if you couldn’t come; we would listen to music, talk about anything but work; you read to me. I checked the talking clock on the computer every two minutes, panicked, started hyperventilating, imagining you in an accident. When I called your number, someone else answered, I disconnected the call.
“For the next twelve months or so, I waited for you to return; it took me that long to realised you had moved on. So you see the problem, I don’t need to paint it any clearer. I need to love you for everything you have given me, not hate you for not returning my love. It’s time for me to move on.
“Don’t cry, this is for the best. I didn’t mean all those things I said earlier. My anger is with Fingleton, not you, you are just a convenient conduit. You need to think about your future at the Institute, I certain there will be changes and you are so much Fingleton’s protégée you could pick up some of the flak. I don’t want you to use photographs of me ever. My solicitor will be in touch with the Institute today, all photographs, negatives and video must be handed over.”
“Fingleton… he won’t agree to that.”
“Well, he will just put another nail in his coffin. You realise that if I take legal action I won’t be able to keep you out of it.”
“Ob, stop, stop. I can’t take all this in. Why are you talking like this. Ok, ok… I understand your hurt. I know I hurt you. Believe me when I say that the last thing I would ever want to do is hurt you. You know in your heart that I love you; you are a very, very special person in my life. Why didn’t you tell me? We need to be talking this through, not you disappearing off somewhere.”
“That’s part of my life is closed, I’m not re-opening it. I’ve dealt with it, I’m moving on.”
“No Ob, you haven’t dealt with it, you’re running away from it. It won’t disappear just because you turn away. We need to talk. I’m going to re-schedule appointments so we can spend some time together. Look, I have to get back to the Institute, I’m going to be late for a meeting as it is. Promise me you will call me tonight. Promise.”
“I’ll call. If you want to see me, be prepared to travel.”
“When are you going?”
“Friday.”
“Christ Ob. This is crazy. Where are you going? You’ve got to tell me where you are going.”
“I can’t do that, there’s too much at stake, if you mention this conversation to Fingleton, you will never see me again.”
“Why are you so afraid of Fingleton?”
“I can’t explain, not now. It’s… it’s probably nothing, just me being hypersensitive. There are things that have happened that I’m not proud of… I don’t know how much Fingleton knows or what he might do with the information if he does know. You have to go now. I’ll call you, I promise.”
“That doesn’t sound like nothing. Has this something to do with your behaviour before I came to the Institute? You were frightened and scared witless then. You were wild, made peoples lives hell. Ob, that was ten years ago, people admire and respect you for what you have achieved despite your circumstances. Nothing in your past can hurt you. Fingleton wouldn’t dream of dragging that up again, if not least, it would reflect bad on him. Listen to me , ok. Don’t you go anywhere before we talk. I know you have made your mind; I’m not going to try to talk you out of anything. Christ, I above anyone know how difficult it is to get you to change your mind once it is set. But Ob, we have to talk. About you, and me, and what ever this nonsense is with Fingleton. You can’t take off with this weighing on you, trust me, we will talk this through and get things straight in you mind. I have to go. Call me ok.”
[[chapter end]]
=====
For those who have not guessed, Ob is a male; A. is a female.
Last edited:
