Tunnel Vision

Part Two: On the Lookout

If you are near to the dark

I will tell you 'bout the sun

You are here, no escape

From my visions of the world

You will cry, all alone

But it does not mean a thing to me...

Aura, (.hackSIGN)

Reg had been paired with Sam for the duration of the shift. Sergeant Boyden – at June's request – had been at the duty roster with a red pen following the accident, and had changed everyone's assignments to cover Des' absence. Both walked the beat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Sam was reflecting on the massive bollocking that they'd both been given by Sergeant Boyden. Instead of going out on the beat, Sam and Reg had by mutual agreement decided to remain inside the station to talk to everyone they could find, in order to find out if the brick-thrower had been sighted near the canteen.

Sam hadn't previously thought of Reg as the sort of person to break rules, but when a message had come through on Reg's PR requesting their whereabouts, Reg had responded by making up a false location. Then when they were ordered to attend a burglary on Loftus Street, he had accepted the call, borrowed Sam's mobile phone and had used it to ask Cass Rickman – on the neighbouring beat to the one they were supposed to be patrolling – to take the call instead. Sam had been shocked by Reg's behaviour, but had not said anything. Officers covered for their mates and looked out for them, and Sam knew that Reg and Des were close friends, but surely Reg would never break the rules to such an extent? Yet he had, and when Sergeant Boyden had caught them out on his way to the canteen for lunch – and had proceeded to give them the telling-off of the century – Reg had argued that nobody else was bothering to find the people responsible. Boyden had been so astonished by normally-amiable Reg's retort that he had let them go with no further punishment, apart from the parting warning:

"I know you're both friendly with Des, but the sergeants are looking into this, and you two aren't. You're going out on the beat where you belong, and if I find either of you around 'ere again outside of refs, I'll 'ave you!"

However, this hadn't stopped Reg from talking to two boys riding their bikes outside the station as he and Sam were walking out, though the boys hadn't seen anything untoward except coppers. Nor had it prevented Sam from asking a woman waiting at the number 39 bus stop opposite the station if she had seen anything – only to realise, much to his embarrassment, that the woman had a guide dog.

Still, this did not dissuade the pair. Sam felt that he owed it to Des to find the person responsible. If Des hadn't pulled him out of the way, it would have been him lying on the operating table...or on a slab. He couldn't repair Des' torn face, but he could catch the person who was responsible for the broken window.

Reg knew that Des would want the brick-thrower caught. He wanted the brick-thrower caught. Such acts of destruction disgusted him – so pointless, and so dangerous. Des just hated that sort of thing full stop. The sooner the person who had smashed the window was caught, the better it would be. No one who hurt a copper deserved to get away with it, and the fact that it was his best mate who had been hurt made Reg even more determined to see that justice was done – no matter what he had to do to ensure this.

They knocked on the doors of the houses opposite the station, but nobody answered them, even when they called through the letterbox. Neither of them spoke of giving up the search. They were both certain that they could catch the person responsible, and to give up would be like giving up on the PC lying on the operating table as they walked.

June finally received a call from the hospital at about 1pm. Sam and Reg both breathed a sigh of relief when June put an announcement out over CAD telling everyone that Des was out of theatre and that the operation had been a success. Des was still asleep, but would be fine for visiting the next day. The pair were the first to ask to visit, and June did not refuse them.

"I'm keeping an eye on those two," Matt Boyden told her later when she mentioned it to him in the canteen. "I caught 'em in the nick asking the FME if she'd seen anyone 'anging around outside, yet Reg'd been giving radio reports to CAD saying they were attending a burglary on Loftus Street!"

"What?" June asked incredulously. "Reg giving false radio reports? No...he wouldn't do that!"

"Well, we can't blame Des this time. I think Sam put 'im up to it. Sam's blaming 'imself for this a bit, and I think it's rubbed off on Reg. Reg was even arguing with me when I was telling 'em off!"

"Must be. It couldn't be anything else. Reg just wouldn't do that sort of thing on his own. I could have a talk with them next time I see them."

"Would you? I did tell the pair of 'em that we were looking into it and not to go off investigating it themselves, but I think my warning went in one ear and out the other with both of 'em."

"All right. I can hardly blame them, though."

"I know, but 'ave a talk with 'em anyway, yeah? They'll listen to you."

"Really?" June said wryly, then left him to his tea.

On her way out of the canteen she turned at the doors and regarded the broken canteen window, now covered with brown cardboard. Its presence gave the whole canteen an air of decrepit decay. She sighed, thinking of the PC lying in the recovery ward of St. Hugh's, then left the canteen.

Des had a splitting headache. In fact, he wished that someone would just chop his head off and be done with it, as it was where all the pain was. His eyes, his head, his face, they all hurt. It was an effort to string thoughts together – his head felt like cottonwool – but he managed to work out that he was lying in a bed with his eyes shut. He didn't feel able to open his eyes at the moment; it was if they had been weighted shut. They hurt too much, anyway. It wasn't severe pain like the horrific knife-digging that he'd experienced before – now a dim but scary memory – it was just a scratchy, itchy pain that he really wanted to get rid of, but it was too much of an effort to lift up his arms to rub his eyes. Every part of him seemed seized by lethargy, and it took a massive effort just to stay awake. He didn't know how much time had passed – a lot of things were very hazy. He remembered the pain. Oh yes, he remembered the pain. He just wasn't sure why he'd had it in the first place. Something had been broken, Des was aware of that, but he didn't know what. He wasn't exactly certain where he was, either. It felt like the morning. But it couldn't be the morning – the morning had already gone...unless it was the next day. What had happened in between? Had he fallen asleep? He couldn't have done, the sergeants would've gone mad. Something had happened. What?

He heard a creaking a short distance away, then a clatter. Something went phwoosh a few seconds later. He'd heard that sound so many times, but he couldn't place it. His brain wouldn't work properly. Des was half tempted to go back to sleep, he certainly felt like it, but he wanted to view his surroundings and work out where he was. However, to do that he had to open his eyes, and he didn't feel that he had the energy to carry out such a simple feat. He lay still for a short while longer, then decided that using up the little energy he had was a better alternative to lying in darkness doing nothing. He opened his eyes.

The scratchy pain intensified as he moved his eyelids, then subsided. Nothing changed. The darkness was still there. He started to panic. He was blind, he couldn't see...then he became aware of the sensation that something touched his face around his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Finally his half-conscious brain interpreted the information, allowing him to come to the conclusion that there was something over his eyes. So he wasn't blind after all. He presumed it was some sort of bandage. He slowly reached up and brushed his fingers over it, confirming his assumption, but a slight pain in his arm made him pause the movement. Something was wrapped around his arm over the wrist. He moved his other hand over and touched the wrapping, feeling the coarse material – that was a bandage as well. The tip of his index finger collided with something raised, causing another pain in his arm. He explored the surface of it gently until he encountered what felt like a thin, smooth string attached to it, running away from his wrist. Then he suddenly realised what it was – he was hooked up to a drip. So he was in a hospital?

The clattering invaded his hearing again, louder now, interrupting his train of thought. It appeared to be approaching from his left...or maybe the right – it was tricky to place the direction sounds were coming from because of the echoes in what was obviously a quiet room with a lot of space. He heard the sound of footsteps on hard ground, previously masked by the racket of the clattering. Someone was approaching him. The clattering stopped, but the footsteps continued. There was the clink and swish of what sounded like a shower curtain. There was a short pause, then someone spoke.

"Des? I s'pose you're a Des, nobody ever likes being a full name nowadays. Are you awake?"

It got through to Des' muzzy head that the voice was a bright, chirpy Scouse one. The tone of the voice indicated that the speaker was female. He tried to respond. It took a lot of effort, but he managed an incoherent 'yzzzzt'.

"Oh well, you're vaguely alive, that'll do me. Bit groggy?"

Des tried to muster up a more concentrated attempt at speech.

"Kinda..."

"Oh!" the voice exclaimed. "You're from Liverpool like I am! You've had a general, it's hardly surprising you're a bit zonked."

"Where'm'I...'m'I in hosp'tal?"

"Yep – Bed Z-ninety-two, a cubicle, Opthalmic ward three, G corridor, Allendale Wing, Saint Hugh's Hospital, Canley, London, Britain, the United Kingdom, the World, the Solar System, the Galaxy, the Universe. Enough detail?" the Scouser laughed, slightly breathless after divulging this torrent of information.

"T'much, re'ly," Des mumbled.

Suddenly he remembered what the phwoosh sound was – the sound of hospital double doors opening and closing. He'd heard it so many times when he'd been at St. Hugh's on police business. It was different actually being the one in the bed. So he'd been injured in some way, then – something to do with whatever it was that had been broken. The nagging question at the back of his mind started nagging again, interrupting his thoughts and reminding him that it needed to be answered.

"Why can't I see?" he asked.

"You've got a bandage over your eyes. You've had a keratoplasty/vitrectomy, according to your chart, so it's hardly surprising. It's to stop you rubbing at your eyes, 'cause from what I've heard from other post vitrectomy patients, it itches like hell."

"Oh, right..." Des said uncertainly.

He understood very little of the jargon the nurse had used, but in stubborn fashion he refused to admit it. However, the nurse picked up on this and attempted to explain further.

"It's an eye operation," she said. "Drains out the vitreous humour from your eye through the sclera. You've had other stuff done as well – but I'm not really allowed to explain it all; I'm only a lowly junior nurse. It's the consultants that are s'posed to tell you. I'm just the trolley-jockey."

The nurse descended into a very spot-on impression of Manuel the waiter from the comedy Fawlty Towers.

"Ah know naaaaszing!"

Des couldn't help but smile at this, in spite of his confusion over the nurse's earlier use of medical jargon, but he winced as his face started hurting. The voice suddenly became contrite.

"Sorry, shouldn't've made you smile, it's pulling at the stitches on your face. Not advisable for you to talk a lot either, or do any shouting. Good thing really, I already have to put up with Brian Moany-Guts in the bed next to yours and Tanya Screech-Owl on the other side of the ward. At least you've got some sort of sense of humour. Sorry, I'm jabbering again," she scolded herself. "If I annoy you, tell me to shuddup," she added cheerfully. "I get like that with the non-sighted patients because they like people talking to them, so I do it to everybody."

"S'ok. If you're pissing me off, I'll letcha know. You know a lot for a 'lowly junior nurse'."

The nurse chuckled.

"I know nothing, Desmond Thaddeus Taviner," she said mysteriously, then burst out laughing.

Des knew that she'd caught sight of his look of horror. How did she know?

"It's on your chart!" she told him.

"Oh, no," he groaned. "They didn't...tell me they didn't..."

"I could tell you that, but it'd be fibbing. It's hospital regulations. There might be another Des Taviner admitted into hospital one day – they don't want to get the patient notes mixed up, so the middle name goes on there as well. Thaddeus isn't that bad. Better than Emmeline, which is mine. Antonia Emmeline Carr sounds like one of those evil Tiny Tears dolls, whereas Desmond Thaddeus Taviner sounds like a great philosopher!"

"I'm no good at philosophy. I'll just have to hope anyone visiting doesn't look at it! Antonia Emmeline's alright, I've heard worse names."

"I prefer being a 'Toni' – sounds more wild, fits me better!" she said, then added as an afterthought, "There can't be a worse name than mine, surely – "

"Reginald Percival Hollis."

There was a short, disbelieving silence.

"Reginald Percival – you're kidding me!" the Scouser said in disbelief, then saw that he wasn't. "Oh dear - poor lad must've been well teased at school!"

"He's proud of his name. Writes it on everything he can!"

"Oh, well, I s'pose that's different."

"Like I said, yours isn't that bad."

"Thanks, but flattery gets you nowhere when it comes to hospital food!"

"Eh?"

"'Tis brekkie-time! I'm trolley-jockey, remember? Just as well it's all cold stuff, the amount of time I spend yakking to patients. Then again, nobody else in here right now is awake at nine am, I have to wake them up myself or they miss breakfast and they moan. So, whaddaya want?"

A thought occurred to Des with regard to food.

"I can't see. How can I eat?"

"Well, the doctor's doing the post-op rounds once she's gotten all her junk together. She'll take your bandage off. You've had keratoplasty, which isn't a major op, and the vitrectomy doesn't affect your vision, so there's no reason why the bandage can't stay off, as far as I know, but don't quote me on it! I assume they will leave it off, though, especially as they'll want to check to make sure you're accepting the corneas."

"Accepting? Eh?"

"That's keratoplasty. The doctor can explain it more than I can, I just look up the op names in my medical dictionary when I do the trolley rounds or get the patient to explain it to me if they've been in a while. I'm just nosy about those sorts of things. Anyway, your chart says that foodwise you're allowed anything with no vinegar or lemon in it, so that means you can have anything on the trolley. I won't be back with it till lunchtime, so if you want anything, choose it now and eat it when the doc takes your bandage off."

Des wasn't feeling very hungry, but he knew that he ought to have something.

"Watcha got?" he asked.

The voice suddenly changed to a broad Cockney accent similar to those of the stall traders of Canley Market.

"Laaavely muesli, top quality, straaaaight from the kitchen; cornflakes, onnne hundred percent Kellogg's; best bread'n'marmalade this sidea Canley, fulla goodness, and ya won't find Cheerios better'n ours! Plus, any cereal ya choose has freeee milk wivvit. In fact, alla it's free! What better bargain c'n ya find? Ya also gedda free drinka ya choice – water, orange juice or apple juice, or tea/coffee, but they both taste the same," she lapsed back into a normal Scouse voice. "The coffee is lethal, you've been warned! Interested?"

Des laughed, wincing as his stitches pulled.

"You know the stuff sold on the market," he said. "No amount of talking can hide the fact that it's horrible."

"Dammit! Knew it wouldn't work!" the voice said in amusement. "Oh well, you'll just have to lump it like everyone else. The doctor's just come in, Brian Moany-Guts in the next bed is waking up so he'll want his brekkie. Choose something!"

Des thought for a few seconds.

"Cornflakes'n'coffee," he said.

"Magic word?" the nurse asked.

"Please, or yuk?"

Scouse laughter.

"I had the word beginning with 'P' in mind, but I'll accept either, seeing as 'yuk' is the best word to describe the coffee! You're mad to have the coffee, it's better off for cleaning pipes rather than your insides, but if you feel like setting your recovery back four weeks then that's just great. Are you a lefty or a righty?"

"Politics is a waste of time," Des said with a wry grin – he was enjoying the banter and never missed the opportunity to wind somebody up.

"Right joker you are!" Toni commented with amusement. "I meant: what hand do you use for writing?"

"Left."

"Okiedokes!"

There was a clatter of crockery, the sound of something being poured. Des could smell the coffee – it was very strong, but he hoped it would clear out the last of the anaesthetic from his body. More sounds – crunchy cornflake noises, then a tinkling noise – probably the cornflakes hitting the cereal bowl – followed by the slosh of milk. He heard the crockery being placed on something close to him, then a quiet creak. The smell of coffee became stronger – it was closer to him.

"Des," Toni said. "Everything's on the table in front of you, be careful when moving your arms up because they're under the table itself, you don't want to lose the lot. Bowl's in the middle, spoon on the left just next to the bowl, coffee at about eleven o'clock with the handle sticking out to the left – it's only three-quarters full so you don't spill it – and there's a few paper-towels on the right side of the bowl if you have any accidents – "

A loud Essex voice from Des' right interrupted her.

"Oi, Toni, love, there's other poor starving blokes who need a bit of TLC, y'know!"

"Moan, moan, moan, that's all you do, Brian!" Toni teased, increasing her voice volume to reach the man in the cubicle next to Des'. "Patience – I'm on my way!"

"Starving blokes don't have 'patience' in their vocabulary, love!" Brian shot back.

Toni snorted, ignored the comment and addressed Des again.

"The doc is on the other side of the ward and she's working her way round, so you're last I'm afraid, Des. Be nice to her – she's putting in your eye-drops! Try and drink your coffee before it goes cold. Keep your head up as well, you're on floater watch. See ya at one!"

The trolley clattered away and the curtain rings clinked. Des carefully sat upright, resting against the two pillows that had been stacked up behind his head. He wondered how big the ward was, and how long the doctor would take to get around to him. He wished that Toni had spoken to him for a bit longer, but she was obviously busy. In the meantime, he had food to eat. He wasn't particularly enthusiastic about eating – in fact he felt slightly ill – but he had asked for what was in front of him, and he felt obliged to eat it. He slowly moved his left hand up until it came into contact with the underside of the table, then moved it back till he reached the side. He found the top surface of the table and got the bearings of everything. It was exactly as had been described to him.

Trying to find his mouth with a spoon he couldn't see was a tricky business. It frustrated him – it was like learning to eat all over again. It was slow, and keeping the spoon at the right angle to stop everything falling off was what seemed like an impossible feat. Several times Des tried to eat the contents of an empty spoon, and each time he had to stop, locate the lost spoonful and mop it up. In the end he gave up, because although the cornflakes were nice enough, they were just too hard to eat, and his nausea had increased. The coffee also was nice and strong, though very thick, but again the nausea made it too much to manage. Toni's trolley was now a distant clatter, and he heard the curtain rings move. Someone walked up to his bedside.

"Hello, Des," the person said. "I'm Doctor Harrow."

She had a Brummie accent, definitely.

"Did you enjoy your breakfast?" she asked.

"Only ate a coupla mouthfuls. It was too hard to eat, and I felt sick," Des said. "I still do," he added as an afterthought. "Guess it's the anaesthetic."

"The nausea will pass – it's just the after-effects of the anaesthetic," the doctor assured him. "There's a sick-bowl on your bedside table to your right if you need it, but I doubt that will be the case – it's only mild and doesn't last long. At least you ate a bit of your breakfast – patients under general anaesthetic aren't usually hungry when they wake up, but I saw Antonia working her usual persuasive tactics and impressions. We're very lucky to have her on the ward – our resident ray of sunshine. Now then, you'll want the bandage off?"

"Yeah, if that's allowed."

"I'd say so. I'll have to tell you a few things to keep a lookout for when I take off the bandage, though."

"Ok."

"Right, if you have anything obscuring your vision in any way – any black shadows or things floating in your line of sight or periphery vision, tell me straightaway. And if you see any flashes of light in odd places, I want to know. I'm going to take your bandage off now. Things will be very blurry at first, but your sight will improve as the day goes on. We're keeping you in for the rest of today to monitor you for any signs of infection, but you can go home this evening if all is well. We're just making sure all the glass is out. You may feel a bit of discomfort while I'm doing this – nothing really bad, it's just the stitches in your eyes from the vitrectomies, but if the ones in the front of your eyes hurt, tell me asap, and also if the light hurts your eyes."

Des felt the doctor's firm hands unwrapping the bandage around his eyes. As the layers grew less, the darkness started to get lighter. He blinked. Then the bandage was gone.

The light hit him – bright, white, dazzling him. The long period of darkness that had preceded it meant that his eyes took a few seconds to adjust and he squinted to block the light out. When he thought that he could look again, he opened his eyes. A blurry, blobby person in a white coat was peering into his face, startling him.

"It's ok, Des, it's only me," Doctor Harrow said. "Can you see any detail? Can you see my face?"

Des tried to focus on her, but he couldn't make out any distinguishing features except light and dark shading blurring together on her face. It was like looking into a fishbowl full of water – everything was badly distorted and bent.

"No...I can't..." he said dejectedly.

"Don't worry, this is normal – you've had a corneal graft in both eyes. We matched the donor corneas as best we can but it's not an exact fit, so your brain needs to adjust your eye muscle movements to cope with the changed light refraction. I'd only be worried if your cornea was starting to cloud, which it isn't, and if the light was hurting your eyes, which it doesn't appear to be. After the lunch trolley's been round I'll be in to see another patient, so I'll check your eyes again when I've seen her. There's still a chance you might reject the corneas later on today, hence the second check, but if they don't reject today then it'll be fine. If you suddenly don't like looking at light or it seems like someone's put a lace curtain over your eyes, call one of the duty nurses and they'll page me. And watch out for any floaters – shadows, dark blobs hovering when you look at things – and any flashes of light."

"What exactly have I been operated on for?"

The doctor paused.

"Well, when you came in, you were a real mess. You had severe blood loss, a long sliver of glass lodged in your right eye – miraculously you haven't damaged the retina, but there's a chance of it detaching now you've had the vitrectomy, hence the floater watch – and you had badly lacerated corneas. We couldn't save them, so we cut them out and grafted a new set onto your eyes."

The events of the previous day hit Des with a jolt. He remembered it now...the kid about to throw the brick; pulling Sam out of the way, and the glass slamming into his face...

"The glass..." he said hesitantly. "God, the glass - the window broke. The glass hit me in the face...the pain was unbelievable...but Sam...I jerked him out the way..."

"So your sergeant told me on the phone," said Doctor Harrow. "Your colleague – Sam – was very lucky not to end up with serious brain haemorrhage."

Des stopped and thought about this for a moment. Would Sam have been killed if Des hadn't thrown him out of the way? The answer was difficult to find, and he was still too fatigued to focus on anything that required a large amount of thought.

"I s'pose..." he said. "The operation, did it last long?"

"Your blood transfusion didn't, nor did the keratoplasty – that's a very straightforward operation. Tying off the severed vessels in your face and stitching the cuts took about an hour, and your right eye had a prolapsed iris – that took about forty minutes of careful handling to fix. The vitreous haemorrhages were a bit trickier to deal with. We couldn't see if the retina had been damaged because of the blood. The back of your eye consists of the vitreous humour, which is a jelly-like liquid that keeps your eye the right shape, the retina, which is the light sensitive bit that is responsible for sight, and the choroid, which is full of blood vessels. What happened was that the sliver of glass went into your sclera – that's the white bit of your eye – through the vitreous humour, and broke a few blood-vessels in the choroid at the side. The blood went into the vitreous humour, and we couldn't see if the glass had damaged the retina or not, so after we extracted the glass we drained the vitreous humour out of both your eyes, as your other eye had haemorrhaged as well. We've replaced it with clear liquid, and your eyesight won't be affected by that at all. In all you were in theatre for about three hours. If your corneas reject, I'm afraid we'll have to re-operate and put a new set on."

"Will I still be able to see if that happens?"

"Yes, though there's a higher risk that you may reject the second set. Also if we have to operate again there may be an increased chance of detachment, but hopefully that won't happen. You're hi-risk enough as it is. The crucial thing is that you let me know as soon as possible if you see floaters or flashes."

"Ok..."

"I think that's everything you need to be told. Do you understand all of that?"

He didn't, but the last thing he wanted was to appear stupid in front of the doctor. However, there was still one last, important question that he wanted to ask.

"Will I get all my sight back?"

Doctor Harrow paused, thinking. Des waited hopefully for an answer.

"If nothing goes wrong, there's no reason why you shouldn't regain full twenty/twenty vision. You're a police officer, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Des replied, immeasurably relieved by the doctor's response to his question.

"You'll be able to go back on full duties after about six weeks. Your cornea sutures can come out in about three or four. Try and avoid too many sudden movements. You had no retinal detachment during the operation, so we didn't put in a gas bubble, but there's the possibility of it happening later, so you must follow those instructions. You don't want to end up having to lie face down for three weeks, do you?"

"No."

"I don't blame you. Your facial stitches can come out in about three weeks. You'll have scars, unfortunately. There's betadine painted on them, so I'm afraid you're not a pretty sight. I'm going to put some antibiotic eye drops in your eyes, now. It might sting a bit."

Des was immediately wary.

"A bit?" he asked suspiciously.

"Well, it will sting. It's better than you getting an infection – if that happens you may lose part or all of your sight."

Des gave in. It stung – a lot. However, a few minutes later the doctor wished him a good morning and left, leaving the cubicle curtains open as Des had asked her to. Des studied what he could see of the ward. It was quite airy and large...well, it seemed large, but he wasn't really that sure of distances. He could see a few empty, blurry beds on the opposite side of the room, with their blankets neatly piled up on the end. A square shaft of light was splashed across his bed, and when he looked as far to the right as he could without moving his head, he could just glimpse the sill of the window across the empty bed next to his. There was a small terracotta pot of chrysanthemums on the sill – they were either yellow or white, but they were too far away for him to be able to identify which.

He wondered what the time was. He instinctively brought his arm up to look at his watch, but it was absent from his blurred wrist, now covered by a bandage and the drip needle entering his arm. He assumed the watch must be in the bedside drawer, but he realised that there was no point in getting it out because he wouldn't be able to focus on the numbers. He wished that he had something to do, but what could he do? He couldn't read, couldn't watch the television because there wasn't one in the ward...was he even allowed out of bed? The doctor hadn't said, though he supposed that it would come under the category of 'sudden movements'. He hadn't really thought to ask, and he didn't want to jeopardise his recovery by going for a walk. He hated being bored but there wasn't a lot he could do about it except occupy his mind with thinking, as he did on obbos. Someone was bound to come past and talk to him eventually. He was half hoping that Antonia – Toni – would return. She had been nice enough, and he also wanted to know what she looked like. He suddenly realised that his previous feelings of nausea had disappeared, and he smiled to himself. It was one thing to look on the bright side about. He allowed his mind to wander, and his eyes gradually closed without him even realising it...

Des became aware that someone was close by, watching him. He opened his eyes. Everything was still blurry, and his eyes ached. He couldn't see anyone in his line of sight, but someone was definitely there.

"Whosat?" he queried.

"June. I'm sitting by your bed."

"Oh...hello, sarge. I can't look at you, I'm s'pose to keep still if I can. I can't really see you anyway."

"You're the patient, Des, you know what's best. There isn't a lot for you to look at, at the moment. Sam, Cass, Reg and Polly are on their way, they'll be up here in about ten minutes, so you're bound to have a few flowers to brighten things up. How are you?"

Des wasn't fond of flowers, but his limited field of vision was so dull and featureless that he was somewhat glad that there'd soon be colour, however blurry, to brighten it up.

"Alright...sore," he replied.

"I'm not surprised, considering you've just had glass extracted from your eyes and face."

"And a dozen other things done to me. I probably look like Frankenstein's monster."

"It isn't that bad."

"Tell the truth, sarge. How bad do I look?"

"Honesty, white-lies or bare-faced lies?"

"First one."

"If you're sure – it's not nice. Ok, you've been painted with antiseptic all over your face, so I'm afraid you look like you've had an accident with a triple-decker Marmite sandwich."

"Ten outta ten for tact, sarge," Des said dryly.

"I'm being honest. You've got stitches on your forehead in a couple of places, but they aren't too bad. Lots of small cuts, a few big ones on your left cheek with stitching, one across your nose – that's been stitched, and a large one on your right that has quite a lot of stitches. Good enough picture?"

"Bad enough y'mean."

"Well, it depends how you look at it. It could've been worse, Des. No doubt the surgeon's explained what you've had done. You could've been permanently blinded."

"And Sam could've been killed."

"I know. He's very grateful for what you did. He wanted to see you first, but I jumped the queue to see if you were okay to be visited."

"Fit to be visited?"

"Well, I didn't know how much you'd been told."

"What?"

"Well, last night a doctor rang the station and told me everything that they were operating on you for. She used lots of hospital jargon, but I've a friend who's an ophthalmologist and she explained it all to me. You know what operations you've had?"

"Yeah, and that I might have to have the grafts redone if they go wrong. And I have to look out for floaters."

"You do know everything then."

"Why wouldn't I?'

"Never mind. Sam and the others will all be in any minute, so I'll get out of the cubicle to give them some room."

"Y'c'n stay if ya want, sarge," Des said, then looked at the curtains.

Someone had obviously shut them while he was asleep, but with them open he knew there'd be plenty of room for everyone around his bed.

"Open the curtains, then everyone c'n stay."

"Oh, alright then."

Des heard June get up from her chair, and he saw her distorted shape walk past him and open the curtains.

"There's only supposed to be two people visiting at a time, but Polly knows the duty nurse on this ward and she talked her into letting us all in," June said, smiling as she remembered the triumphant looks on the others' faces at getting around the hospital rules. "If it'd been a general ward it would've been a different story, but so long as we don't make too much noise we're all allowed to visit. Dave and Tony will be around next time."

Des didn't really feel like being visited at that particular moment – he half-wanted to go back to sleep and let the cool darkness ease his sore eyes, but he knew that the presence of his mates from the nick would cheer him up so he did not protest.

"That's great," he replied, smiling carefully so as not to pull his stitches.

"They've just entered the ward, Des," June told him, then called out to the others. "Over here, you lot!"

Des greeted Sam, Polly, Reg and Cass as they clustered around his bed. He couldn't see their individual features, but he was able to distinguish between them by heights and hair colour, as well as accent. Polly and Cass tutted over his stitches.

"Aw, Des, you look like you've been in a massacre!" Polly said sympathetically. "June said your vision would be affected by the transplant. Can you see me?"

"Yeah, but you look like the female version of Mr. Blobby," Des told her, grinning.

"Thanks a bunch!"

"Yeah, we all know you watch it in secret, Des!" Reg teased, putting his bag of grapes on Des' bedside table.

"Just like you watch the Teletubbies, Reg," Des retorted.

They'd only been talking to him for a minute or so and already he felt a lot more cheerful. He laughed and joked with them as they filled him in on the snippets of gossip he missed, then they arranged their presents on his bedside table.

"I've got you some chocolates to make up for the hospital food!" Cass laughed.

"It's not that bad, actually," Des replied. "Then again, I haven't had lunch yet..."

"I bet you've been eyeing up the nurses," Polly said jokingly, placing her Get-Well card with the others. "Found any you like?"

"I wouldn't know! I've only seen one nurse, or rather heard her – I had a bandage over my eyes when the breakfast trolley came round, but she's a Scouser as well. Does good impressions. Oh, yeah, and I've met the doctor, but I can't see faces, only outlines."

"Just as well, or you'd be after them like a shot!" June said.

"Sarge!" he protested.

"Des!" June shot back, laughing.

The others laughed. Sam was glad that Des wasn't depressed by what had happened. He was sure that he'd never have forgiven himself if Des were unable to return to work. That Des was in a cheerful mood and seemed okay lifted his spirits considerably, and he, along with Reg, felt more able to join in with the light-hearted conversation and verbal sparring taking place. However, he still felt that he owed to Des to find the person who had put the brick through the canteen window, especially as Des was unable to investigate it himself.

"Des, did you see who put the brick through the window?" he questioned during a break in the conversation.

"Yeah," Des replied after a moment's thought. "D'you want a description?"

Though the others had not yet noticed it, June could tell that Des was in some discomfort. Though he had been cheerful of his own accord when his colleagues had first arrived, his smile and laughter seemed slightly more exaggerated, and he blinked a lot more than was normal.

"Sam, I think – " she started, but Des held up his hand.

"It's fine, sarge," he said. "I should give him a description now while it's all clear in my head – I want them caught, stupid blerts. Got a pen and paper, Sam?"

Sam produced them. He noticed that Des was blinking a lot, and there appeared to be moisture in his eyes. The others noticed this as well, but they did not comment on it for fear of embarrassing Des – if he wished to cry, then they would not judge him for it. After all, he had been through a serious operation and it was very improbable that he wouldn't experience some trauma as a result.

Des had discovered that the soreness in his eyes eased slightly whenever he blinked – he was doing this as much as possible so he could concentrate on giving Sam the description needed, and was hoping that nobody would notice. His face ached from smiling in his attempts to keep his pain from showing.

"I'm not s'posed to talk a lot," he said, "but it doesn't hurt that much, s'long as you lot don't make me laugh anymore! Right, the prat who threw the brick was IC1, about five two, fifteen years old or thereabouts...wearing jeans, or some sort of denim thing – it was black, and he had a red t-shirt. Couldn't see his face, he had a blue cap on. Didn't get a good view of the second kid, but she was definitely female – IC1, had blonde hair, green or turquoise jumper, didn't see her bottom half – she was closer than the other kid."

Sam scribbled down the details. While he was doing this, Des tried to get rid of the tears that were blurring his vision even more – he didn't know where they had come from, and though they somewhat soothed the horrible pain in his eyes that he was trying to ignore, he didn't want the others to think that he was crying. He couldn't rub them out of his eyes, so he tried to blink them away. However, this just seemed to produce more of them.

"That's brilliant. Cheers, Des. So when are you getting out of here, then?"

"Yeah!" Cass said. "We miss ya already!"

"Miss his big mouth, more like," Polly chuckled uneasily.

She had noticed that Des' now constant blinking had slowed down – now he closed his eyes shut, kept them shut for a second and then slowly opened them again, only to repeat the same action a second or so later. He was still trying to pretend that nothing was amiss, but by now they had all realised that this wasn't the case. The moisture in his eyes had formed proper tears and they were starting to spill over his bottom eyelid and run down his face. The conversation had died out – they weren't sure what to say, whether to ignore the tears or say something about them. Embarrassed by this, Des tried to reassure them.

"I'm not crying," he told them quickly. "I'm not - I'm ok – my eyes are just a bit sore, that's all. I'm getting out this evening. I'll be off-duty for six weeks tho..."

Des broke off, and remained silent. They could see he was struggling not to close his eyes. Sam saw his eyes narrow, then start moving, looking at different things around the small space he was in. The others watched him in bafflement.

"Des, are you sure you're okay?" Cass asked him.

Des did not reply. His eyes abruptly shut and the colour drained from his face, leaving him very pale under the stitches and antiseptic. This time his eyes did not open.

"Oh, God..." he moaned. "The light...it hurts...it hurts too much...but I saw it..."

Upon saying that, he realised what was causing the pain – why he kept trying to shut his eyes and why he was crying. It was the light. And upon making that connection, it suddenly occurred to him what could have gone wrong. With the white milky curtain that seemed to be encroaching on his vision, he was now pretty certain what had happened.

He'd rejected the cornea transplant.

To be continued...