Blind Guy

A guy called Raymond started at my work. He was from South Africa and he was blind. He was tall, with black hair, grey at the temples. There was always a patch of his face that was unshaven but other than that he was always immaculately turned out, always smart, always sporting a shirt and tie.

I would watch Raymond at his desk with his headphones on so his computer could talk to him. I couldn't tell what he was doing; his computer screen looked different to mine. A few times a day he would make phone calls, always laughing, always managing to charm whoever was on the line, always getting what he wanted and saying thank you a million times for it.

When we spoke, I would stare hard at his deep-set eyes, wondering what it was about them that had failed him. They would dart all round the room like he was taking everything in. It made me wonder if he wasn't really blind at all and that it was just a ploy for sympathy and attention from the ladies.

He was a good-looking guy. The ladies loved him and he loved them. They doted on him and would say his name over and over again when talking to him, just in case he thought they were talking to someone else. There was always a lady or two on hand to help him walk anywhere.

"Jeez mite," he said in his thick South African accent, "usn't ut grite working wuth all these beautiful ladies?"

That convinced me he really was blind.

"You should see them," I thought, but I just said, "Yes."

Within a couple of weeks, Raymond had revolutionised the finance department. My boss, who seemed to think she was my friend, came in raving to me about how this was the most efficient the department had ever been. Even the college manager had praised her for the smooth running of financial procedures. All I knew was that my workload had become smaller and I was glad about that.

There were two urinals and I was standing at one of them, waiting for something to happen. I have trouble sometimes. Raymond came clattering through the door, white stick in hand.

"Hi Raymond," I said, just to let him know I was there.

"Hi Dan mate," he replied. Then he said some shit about the ladies.

I'm not one of those guys in toilets who sneaks a glance when you're at the urinal, sizing up the competition. But something made me look down at Raymond's. And since he was blind I figured it didn't matter. I think it was the distinct red tint of what was splashing against the clean white porcelain that made me do it. I stood watching, staring. Raymond appeared to be pissing blood.

I lost myself in that for a minute before I realised my own piss was squirting out at an angle and had gone all over my trousers.

"Shit."

"You alright?" asked Raymond.

"Yeah. Just pissed on myself."

"You wanna watch that," he smirked.

"Yeah."

He finished, washed up and clattered out of there.

I finished up and washed my hands. I splashed a load of water on my trousers where I had wet myself. I don't know what for. I guess I was going to make up some story about the taps coming on too fast and splashing me. It was better than saying I'd pissed myself. But no one noticed anyway.

Later that week, I was having lunch with Will from marketing and I told him I'd seen Raymond pissing blood. He chewed like a cow and looked at me. Then he put down his fork, opened his mouth and roared with laughter. I could see the rough pâté of his half-chewed food clumped behind his bottom teeth. When he composed himself he finished chewing and swallowed. Then he went back to his food.

"Well should I say something or not?" I asked.

He smirked at me.

"How do you tell someone you work with that they're pissing blood?" he asked rhetorically, patting his fork against his closed lips. "You don't," he said and went back to his food.

"But he's blind! I might be the only person who ever sees his piss!"

"Would you tell him if he wasn't blind?" Will pointed his fork at me.

"No. If he wasn't blind he'd be able to see his own piss."

This was news to Will and he mused on it for a second.

"Oh yeah. But you can't tell him." He returned to his food.

"Why not?"

"It's not a question of why not, it's a question of how would you."

That made sense to me. I had no idea how to tell him. And that was the problem. I decided to forget about it.

"Of course," said Will without looking up from his plate, "he could be dying and you're the only person who can save him."

He looked up and smiled.

I decided to ignore that and tucked into my own food.

As usual when I don't know how to handle something, I tried to forget about it and hoped it would sort itself out. I never stood next to Raymond at the urinals again, but I would often go in there and see them spattered with brown red residue.

A couple of months went by and Raymond came to the end of his contract. A collection went round along with a big leaving card that everybody was signing. My boss brought it to me and hovered while I thought of something to write.

And then it struck me. I had a plan.

"Do you mind leaving it with me?" I asked her. "I have trouble thinking of things to write in these cards."

I smiled up at her.

"That's fine," she said and started to walk away. "Just leave it on my desk when you're done."

To Raymond, I wrote, Been great working with you. Thanks for everything you've done. All the best for the future, Dan.

In a different colour pen, in discrete block capitals that looked nothing like my real handwriting, my shaking hand wrote: RAYMOND, YOU ARE PISSING BLOOD. YOU NEED TO SEE A DOCTOR.

My face felt hot and my scalp itched. I looked around and with my hands still shaking, closed the card and slipped it into its envelope. I put five pounds into the collection envelope and felt generous. Then, making sure I walked like someone with a clear conscience, I went to my boss' office. She wasn't there. I put both envelopes on her desk and walked out, still doing my best to convey innocence.

At the end of the week we had Raymond's leaving do. It was one of those drab occasions where everyone piled into our office to drink tiny amounts of warm, tart white wine from plastic cups, and one of those occasions when I realise I'd rather be trapped at the bottom of an empty well at night than exchanging pleasantries with my colleagues.

My boss gave an awkward, uninspiring speech, thanking Raymond for everything he had done over the last few months and wishing him well with whatever he was moving on to. Then she handed a gift to him. It was wrapped and I wondered why.

"Heeeey! A bottle! Is it wine?" asked Raymond.

"Yes it's Merlot," said my boss. Around the room a couple of other people said Merlot too because they wanted to be the ones to answer him.

"Great. My favourite," he said and shone a smile round the room like a lighthouse.

He also got a new set of headphones and a couple of talking books. He seemed pleased. He was genuine and gracious and, for the first time, I was worried that he might really be ill and that my inaction might have hurt him.

"Aaaand," said my boss like a game show host, "we also got you this card that everybody signed. I'll read you some of the messages people have written, okay?"

"Yes, please, go ahead," said Raymond.

"Okay, there's one here that says, 'Dear Raymond, thanks for always being lovely and kind. You will be missed. Love Sheila in HR.'"

Sheila blushed and everyone went "Aww."

"Thanks Sheila," said Raymond. "I'll miss you too."

Everyone laughed.

"And there's one here that says, 'Raymond, you have been a shining light for us all. The very best of luck in everything that you do. Much love.' And that's from Linda in the press office."

"Thanks Linda," said Raymond.

He stood with his back to the wall, holding his white stick in front of him with both hands. He looked timid and smaller than usual, like he was dwarfed by all the people who were there for him. I don't know if I wanted my boss to find my secret message right there and then but the choice wasn't mine.

"And there's one here that says 'Raymond, you are pis…'"

Her lipstick smile, contorted into a lopsided smear.

"Right… well. Let's raise our glasses," her voice shook and squeaked suddenly, "to Raymond."

"To Raymond," everyone repeated like a congregation and drank from their plastic glasses.

Raymond gave a speech in which he thanked everyone for making him feel welcome. He gave special thanks to everyone in his department and named me. People looked at me when he did. He said the college was a great place to work and wished us all well for the future.

Throughout the speech my boss played with her hands, looked at her shoes and bit her lips. She smiled when she was required to and clapped when Raymond finished. As the murmur of many conversations started up again, my boss took Raymond by the arm, led him into her office and shut the door.

I said quiet goodbyes to the people around me and left. I hope my boss managed to pass on my message. She never mentioned it. I never saw Raymond again. I hope he wasn't really sick.

*

This story was published on The Guardian's website as a runner up entry in their 2009 Summer Short Story competition.  It's true.  Click this link if you want proof.  It's a while ago now so I should probably stop going on about it.