36

Ivor MacMorris was on his way to buy some milk when his blind eye started hurting him again. As the first dart of pain lanced through his socket, he instinctively pulled the soft cloth from his pocket to wipe the discharge that sometimes seeped from the corner of his right eye. But that was only a reflex; his eye was fine. It just wanted to hurt him.

It normally happened in bright sunshine. This time it was after nine in the evening and the street was dark. This was an area of council estates and blocks of flats and the lamp-posts were poorly maintained. With the fingers of his right hand pressing against his eyelids, Ivor lowered his head and continued towards the convenience store in the small arcade of shops at the end of the street. There was a wind blowing but most of the litter on the street had been pasted to the pavement by the recent rain. A beer-can rolled noisily by his feet. Rectangles of orange and yellow glowed out of the wall of terraced houses on either side of him.

The pain always started the same way. The eyeball felt swollen in its socket, even though the doctor had told him it was in fact smaller than the left eye. It throbbed, the warm twinges gradually growing in strength, getting sharper and hotter. A particularly vicious one made him grunt in pain.

He had to get the milk and get home before the agony took hold. Ivor had talked to people who suffered from migraines and they said the pain was similar, but he didn't believe it. When his eye wanted to, it could paralyze him. Sometimes he cried like a child.

Ivor didn't like leaving his flat. He knew he would be followed - he was getting used to it now. There were other people on the street, but he could not tell which of them might be there for him. The watchers, wherever they were, seemed content to observe in their unobtrusive way. But there was no way of knowing when that might change. He was afraid that some day they would stop watching and do something to him again.

A gang of eight teenagers, none older than sixteen, sat on a low garden wall wasting the evening away as only teenagers could. A stereo buzzed a caustic tune. Kids didn't normally bother Ivor - he was not one of those adults who had forgotten what it was like. That said, he was only in his twenties and already they seemed like they were from a new era. He ignored them as he walked past. He minded his own business so they should mind theirs.

But it wasn't that type of street. These kids were looking for entertainment and they were the type who expected others to provide it. 'Hey! Problem with yah eye, man?' a black boy with a skewed baseball cap shouted out.

Ivor kept walking. Another boy, pale and acne-scarred with movements that mimicked an LA gangster, stood up and jogged out onto the road to overtake Ivor. His perfectly white tracksuit and cap said his mother still did his laundry.

'Mah bro' asked you a question, man.' he barked, walking backwards to face Ivor while he talked. ''S rude to ignore 'im like tha', y'know.'

Ivor stopped as he found his path blocked, his hand still pressing against his eye. The darts of heat were getting worse. He just wanted to get some milk and get home. He couldn't make his hot chocolate without milk and he couldn't face an evening without hot chocolate. 'Yes,' he replied. 'I've a problem with my eye. Now, get out of my way.'

There was discharge seeping from the corner of his eye now. That happened when the socket got irritated. He wiped it away with his little finger.

'I seen you around,' the boy said to him. 'Ain't we seen him around?'

There was a chorus of affirmatives from the others, who were gathering behind Ivor to follow the proceedings. They had indeed seen him around. Ivor wondered if he was supposed to commend them on their powers of observation. He decided against it and went to walk around the boy in front of him. A hand stopped him.

'Stay 'n' talk wiv us bro',' the boy urged in a voice that spoke to the others as well.

'Excuse me.'

'Nah, man. Ah know yah face now. Yah the hermit. Ain't he the hermit?'

The chorus confirmed it. He was the hermit. They'd seen him around. The pain was white hot now, and he knew it showed on his face. It seemed to burn like acid along his optic nerve. Soon his whole head would be bursting with it. To hell with the hot chocolate - he had to get home.

'Hey Lucas, ain't he rich?' the black kid asked his pasty pal.

'Word is that you won the lottery, man,' Lucas persisted. 'Is that true? Is you rich?'

'I have to go...' Ivor hissed through gritted teeth.

'No, you don't. You gonna answer mah question, man.'

'I have to... Uurrrgh!' Ivor's voice gurgled into a growl as the pain blinded his other eye. It was unbearable now. It was as if someone had planted a white-hot industrial ball-bearing in his eye socket. He screamed. It made no difference but he screamed again anyway. Lucas stepped back as Ivor's face clenched up, the older man's breathing coming in harsh gasps. Ivor's skin was glossy with sweat, his brown hair hanging lank over his forehead. His fingers moved with a will of their own, forcing the eyelids of his right eye open. As the fingers dug clumsily into the socket, he jerked his head down once... twice. He gave another shriek and his movements became more frenzied.

'Dude's goin' ape, man!' Lucas cackled. 'Someone check his pockets!'

'You check his pockets,' another voice retorted. 'I ain't touchin' the freak!'

Lucas reached round to slip his hand into Ivor's jacket pocket. And that was when Ivor finally succeeded in plucking his eyeball out of its socket. With an agonised roar, he struck out at the young mugger, slamming the eye against the kid's temple. It hit with a dull crunch and Lucas fell backwards onto the wet ground, stunned. Blood trickled from his temple into his hairline. A shard of glass was embedded in his skin. Ivor looked down at the palm of his hand in dismay; that was the fourth eye he had wrecked. Dr Higgins was going to give him another lecture about that. He tossed the remains of the glass ball away and stared down at Lucas. Parting the scarred, sagging eyelids of his right eye, he gave the kid a good long look at the empty socket.

'Get out of my sight, you little cretin.'

Lucas didn't need any more telling - he didn't even stop to pick up his baseball cap. The rest of the gang were already running. Lucas took off after them.

Ivor sighed and pressed a tissue against the shallow cut in his palm. The army had stopped giving him the more expensive plastic eyes after he ruined the second one. Glass eyes were a little cheaper. The pain was already abating - it always did after he got the eye out - but now he felt embarrassed about how he looked. He really needed his hot chocolate. Ever since getting off the painkillers he had avoided alcohol and medication, but he still had to have his little comforts.

Scanning the street, he saw that there was nobody else around now. If there was somebody still watching him, they were doing it from a window or a rooftop somewhere. Let them watch, he was past caring.

Walking the last hundred metres to the shop, he kept one hand over his empty socket while he got the milk from the fridge. As he passed the shelf of newspapers, he spotted the front page of The National News, which had a large, blurred photo of what could be either a flying saucer silhouetted against the night sky, or a dustbin lid thrown into the air. The headline read: 'We Are Not Alone'. The story was about a 'mysterious shape' seen over a suburb of the city the night before.

'Christ Almighty,' he muttered. 'Can't they find any real news?'

Ivor paid for the milk and then he walked out. He always felt self-conscious about the gaping hollow where his eye should be. Higgins was right; if he was going to keep breaking his eyes, he would have to start carrying spares.