Shooting in the Dark

designer milk, you know that? Like a mother rabbit, when she starts producing milk, she puts so much protein in it that the baby rabbits double their weight in the first week. That’s why you shouldn’t drink cow’s milk, ’less you’re a calf.’
     

6
     
    Angeles was writing an article about retinitis pigmentosa when the detective arrived. She left the computer and opened the door to let him in. He had a firm handshake with his left hand, large bones. She guessed he was almost a head taller than her. He projected his voice, enunciated each syllable clearly so there was no doubt about his intentions. But he didn’t shout, which was a relief. Angeles would have sacked him and gone looking for another detective if he’d shouted at her.
    What was it with sighted people? So many of them thought if you were blind you must be deaf as well. A good percentage of them thought you were stupid, too. Since losing the battle with retinitis pigmentosa when she was seventeen, Angeles had made a study of the way the sighted world used the enigma of blindness, in its stereotypes, its metaphors and its prejudices. Much of her energy was now devoted to initiating the sighted into an experience of the world that most of them could not imagine.
    He followed in her footsteps until they reached the large sitting room where she felt him veer off towards her computer. The screen-saver must have kicked in because it was playing a John Fogerty song, so low it was barely a rustle.
    ‘That Credence?’ he asked.
    ‘No, later.’
    ‘Yeah,’ he said ambiguously, difficult to know if he had recognized the period, or if he would’ve been amazed at anyone playing John Fogerty. ‘I’ll borrow that sometime, take it home and play it real loud.’ He spoke with a smile in his voice.
    ‘Would you like something to drink?’ she asked.
    He began to protest, but she cut him short. ‘It’s really no bother. I keep coffee here, in a flask.’ She showed him the large stainless-steel thermos, loosened the top and poured some of the steaming liquid into a cup.
    ‘I’d love some,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean...’
    ‘People think we’ll burn ourselves in the kitchen. Either that, or we’ll make the coffee with salt or scouring powder.’
    ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘This’s new ground to me.’ He turned his head away from her, touched the desk. ‘Is this a Braille keyboard?’
    ‘Yes, I was working.’ She poured a little milk into his coffee and carried it over to him. ‘I’m involved with an organization, a pressure group. We campaign against discrimination, work on rights issues.’
    ‘You produce a magazine?’
    ‘Not me. I write for it, but I’m not the editor.’ 'People who work for pressure groups sometimes make enemies,’ he said. His voice was deep with a barely discernible vibrato which set up a wandering echo within her, caused a momentary constriction in her throat.
    'We have disagreements,’ she told him. ‘Some blind People don’t want to rock the boat, they accept whatever crumbs the sighted world deems fit to leave at the table. We discuss such things, we argue about attitudes.’
    ‘But you’re not militant?’
    ‘Militant.’ She thought about the word. It was not one she would normally associate with herself. It conjured up an image of a woman with a Kalashnikov. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We aren’t militarists.’
    ‘But not pacifists, either?’ he said.
    ‘We’re reformers, Mr Turner. We’re not violent. The blind have made certain gains in the last few years. If you’re very determined, it’s possible to be blind and independent. The organization I belong to defends the' rights we have won and does what it can to improve our lot. Not long ago, the destiny of a blind person was to sell matches on a street corner. We are not prepared to go back to that. We are not Uncle Toms, but neither are we terrorists. If we leave out armed combat, I suppose you I could describe us as a militant reformist organization. What are you getting at?’
    ‘Have you heard anything from Isabel?’
    ‘No. It’s not like her to go away without telling me.’
    ‘Are you worried?’
    ‘Yes, but I think she’ll get in touch today.’
    ‘I hope so,’ said Sam. ‘Listen, you tell me that someone is watching you. I need to know if anyone has a motive to harm you. If you’ve upset someone. From what I hear, you belong to a bunch who don’t believe in keeping their light hidden under a bushel.’
    ‘You think I’m