Execution Plan. Patrick Thompson
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it. Of course, I kept everything. I didn’t like to throw anything away. Perhaps it was something to do with my parents.
II
I have these spots in front of my eyes. I get more of this sort of thing these days. It’s because I’m getting old. Things are closing down. Non-essential services are being run down. Manpower is being diverted elsewhere.
Perhaps it’s not that. Perhaps it’s a brain tumour pushing my eyeballs out of shape.
I go to the doctor. I say I have spots on front of my eyes. He refers me to an optician. Opticians do eyes, he explains. Perhaps it’s eyestrain, he tells me.
You didn’t think it was a brain tumour, did you? he asks.
No, I tell him. Never even thought about it. Never even crossed my mind.
He knows I’m lying. Everyone lies to him. We don’t make anything of it.
I go to see the optician. He makes me read things I can’t read. He tries different lenses out.
Suddenly I can read all of the rows on his chart.
He tells me one eye has a focal length half the focal length of the other. One of them is round. The other is egg-shaped. That’ll need correcting. He can do that with lenses. That’s what he does.
He does me a prescription for lenses. I choose some frames. It’s risky doing that before I can see properly, but I don’t have a choice. I don’t want computer programmer frames. I don’t want trainspotter frames. I want to choose good frames, right now.
They’ll be ready in a week. In a week I go and get them. I put them on. I can see everything. I don’t look a lot like a computer programmer. I don’t look much like a trainspotter. I can get away with it. I can carry it off.
I go outside and read things. I read road signs. I read everything, because now I can.
I wonder how one eyeball got egg-shaped. What made it do that? Was it happier that way?
I think about brain tumours. Perhaps a brain tumour has pushed one of my eyeballs out of shape.
I have these spots in front of my eyes.
And now I can see them really clearly.
III
I didn’t want bifocals. I could see things clearly without my specs if they were close to me. I could see everything within a few feet perfectly with my unaided eyes. I could see the monitor when I programmed or played games. With them on, I could see everything else. Switching from one to the other, just after I put them on or took them off, there would be a moment while my eyes readjusted and focussed. My left eye was more short-sighted than my right eye, and they had to get used to working together.
Sometimes, in the moments while my eyes got their act together, I would see things. Dots crawling up the walls, shadows, nothing substantial. After I blinked once or twice, it’d be gone.
Not long before the end of 1999, with autumn feeling very like winter and a freezing wind blowing through Dudley, getting in through the gaps between door and jamb, I was trying to finish a game I’d been playing. It was the first in what was to become a very successful series, and it had got me frustrated almost to the point of throwing the keyboard through the window.
I kept killing off the lead character. Whatever I tried, she fell to death on one or another of what seemed to be a million sets of spikes. My reactions weren’t good enough for that sort of game any more. I turned off the PC two hours later than I’d planned to, having got nowhere. I put on my spectacles and looked out of the window, to give my poor battered eyes some relief.
From the front window of my flat, there’s a view down Dudley High Street. I can see about half way down it, as far as Woolworth’s and one of the grisly butcher shops. It was about one in the morning and the market was empty. The red and white stripes of the awnings wouldn’t settle in my vision. A woman walked into view at the far end of the High Street. She was carrying a pair of guns, one in each hand. She looked cartoonish, and not all that well rendered. She looked a little like the character I’d been unwittingly dropping into spiked pits for the last few hours, but not enough like her to infringe anyone’s copyright. I had a very careful imagination, apparently.
She wasn’t real. I knew that. She was some sort of hallucination. She walked under the awnings of the market, went out of sight for a moment, and then reappeared close to the statue of Duncan Edwards.
Duncan Edwards was a footballer, and one of Dudley’s famous sons. There is a statue of him on the High Street, up on a pedestal, poised on the verge of kicking a metal football. There is a road named after him, too. On one side of the road is a sign saying:
DUNCAN EDWARDS CLOSE.
On the other side is a sign saying:
NO BALL GAMES.
The woman with the guns snuggled up to the statue, having suddenly leapt ten feet up to it from a standing start. Not something most people would be able to manage, but easy enough for a video-game character of course.
She looked woodenly around and then clocked me. She span around the pedestal and down to the floor, hitting the ground running. She was heading for my flat.
My flat is on the second floor, two floors removed from Dudley. Completely removed from Dudley would have suited me fine just then. She vanished from my point of view, being too close to the front of the building for me to get a fix on her. She wasn’t real, I reminded myself. Something was going on. I wondered whether it was my eyes or my brain that had broken down.
It all seemed to be over. I couldn’t see her.
Then, making me jump about half a mile, she flew to the top of the nearest lamppost, appearing to spring from nowhere. She levelled both of her guns in my general direction and hurled herself at me in a tight somersault. She hit the window firing, her muzzle flashes lighting her but not the surrounding environment.
As she came through the window, which failed to shatter, she lost integrity, becoming disassociated pixels and stray flashes of light. The pixels faded, the flashes went out. The last to go were the three pairs of pixels which had mapped the centres of her eyes, the barrels of her guns, and the tips of her pointed breasts. Then that strange new constellation also faded and she was gone.
I felt unreal, which seemed unfair. She was the faux video-game character. I had spent too long at the keyboard, I thought. I’d have to give myself a day off. There was no point in overdoing it and risking my health. I took off my glasses and tried to think calmly. I squeezed the bridge of my nose between forefinger and thumb. I tried to be detached and rational.
It was difficult. You can get hallucinations for several reasons. You can get them by taking the right – or the wrong – chemicals. Cheese is mildly hallucinogenic. Bram Stoker is said to have written Dracula after nightmares brought on by too much cheese. Which is apt, as modern vampires are overwhelmingly cheesy. Psylocybin mushrooms are well known for their psychotropic effects in some circles.
The problem was that I didn’t do that sort of drug. I smoked the occasional joint, and that was all.
Tiredness could make you see things. I had been tired, after too many late nights trying to finish games. That didn’t even feel like a good reason to be tired. It wasn’t as though I’d been searching for the cure for cancer. I didn’t think that I’d been tired enough to see things that weren’t there.
The only other reason I could think of for having hallucinations was that my brain was misfiring. Perhaps some neurones were doing the wrong thing. Perhaps my visual cortex was dissolving. What were the symptoms of brain tumours? From my limited medical knowledge – gathered from all of those drama series about doctors that seemed to light up the lives of the BBC programme planners – there would be headaches and the illusionary smell of roses. I didn’t have headaches and the only thing I could smell was the fishmongers.