by John Byron
‘Oh God, getting themselves even more worked up.’
‘I know, right?’ Jo laughed. ‘And then it’s strip poker.’
‘No!’ Amy hooted.
‘Gets better. The rule is, once your clothes are gone, if you lose another hand you have to perform a forfeit. First kid gets off easy – he’s the lookout for the head brother doing his night patrol.’
‘At least someone was thinking.’
‘Then the losers have to run around outside naked, wank themselves, chuck brown-eyes, that kind of stuff.’ They were both constantly sniggering by now, Jo only just holding it together. ‘Dave runs out of clothes then loses a round, so the others get in a huddle and decide his forfeit is to …’ but she broke up and couldn’t speak.
Amy prodded her. ‘Is to what?’
Jo wiped tears from her eyes. ‘Fuck, it’s too funny. I have to back up a bit first. Murphy had been suspended that year for shoving a potato in the tailpipe of some teacher’s car. You know how it fires out like a cannonball when you start the engine?’
‘I didn’t know that, but go on.’
‘So at camp his forfeit is to …’ but Jo cracked up again, unable to continue.
‘Is to what?’ Then Amy’s eyes opened wide, and she gasped. ‘Wait, it isn’t to shove …’ before she lost it too.
Jo nodded, painfully gulping in air between heaves of laughter, and finished Amy’s sentence, eking out each word with a high, tight voice, ‘… a potato … up … his arse!’ The pair doubled over laughing, setting off a kookaburra in a nearby Sydney peppermint tree.
‘The story took off like a grassfire. Everyone called him Spud from then on.’ Jo wiped away tears with her T-shirt. ‘He’s very sensitive about it.’
‘No shit! He’d never live that down.’
‘He tried to shut it down but that only made it worse. You know, boys’ school. So he embraced it instead. I mean, he’s a Murphy, so it makes sense.’
‘Did you give him any shit about it?’
‘Are you kidding? I once asked him how big the potato was and he belted the crap out of me. After that I couldn’t even look sideways at him while peeling potatoes for tea.’
‘I won’t say anything, but damn. What ammunition.’
‘You better not or we’re both dead,’ said Jo. ‘I’m not even kidding.’
They recovered briefly, then Amy said, ‘Spud,’ and set them off again.
VOLUME V
THE ORGANS OF NUTRITION AND GENERATION
ducation and discovery – the Master’s twin goals – find harmony in the final chapter of Volume V, the longest chapter of the entire Fabrica. A workshop manual for the greasier elements of the human machine, it not only describes the organs of nutrition and elimination, and both styles of reproductive apparatus, but painstakingly expounds the mechanics of their dissection. Through his meticulous tuition, Vesalius plays Virgil to the novice’s Dante, guiding him through this diabolically confusing realm.
When the time comes, he will do this for me.
Vesalius pithily demonstrated the utility of direct observation when he soundly debunked the prevailing myth that the normal human uterus was formed of two branches, instead of a single chamber. By reference to human cadavers, rather than drawing inferences at one remove from animal specimens, as had been the practice of his forebears, the Master established the truth of the matter.
Vesalius made a reproductive impression upon the world in the usual way as well, albeit to lesser renown thus far. His issue was well documented at first, before passing into obscurity – but not oblivion.
The Master married at the late age of thirty in 1544, the year after the Fabrica’s publication. At the peak of his celebrity, Vesalius had just secured his lucrative appointment to the Imperial court of Emperor Charles V, a position involving constant travel and political intriguing. A marriage tie cannot have been convenient.
The chronicle of his marriage speaks three other facts of note: the Master’s young wife, Anna van Hamme, bore him a child with impressive post-nuptial rapidity; their daughter, also Anna, was the sole issue of their twenty-year union; and Vesalius was still warm in the ground when his widow remarried.
One surmises from all this that the wedding was solemnised beneath the supervision of an arquebus.
Sixteen years after his daughter’s birth, from the distance of the court of Philip II in Madrid, Vesalius secured her marriage to Jan de Mol, who numbered among the Serroelofs, one of the seven noble houses of Brussels. Anna fille lived until the age of forty-three and bore de Mol two sons and three daughters. Adriana, their fourth child, made an equally advantageous match with Hugo de Croeser, the eldest son of a prominent family of Bruges, with ancestral holdings in Zeeland. Adriana produced her own daughter, Ernestine, who secretly married her cousin Cornelis van Hulsberg (Adriana’s sister Elisabeth was married to Charles de Bausele, the brother of Cornelis’s mother, yet another Anna). The scandal was not ruinous, as the pair were not blood-related, but it was notorious enough to see the couple banished from the dynastic home in Gouden-Handstraat, and their line fall from the family records.
Two centuries later, a descendent of that love match named Hendrick Peeters migrated to the Victorian goldfields, where he found only mud and oppression and grinding toil, and the pyretic society of resentful men. At Ballarat he stood among the miners in early skirmishing with the police and infantry, and participated in the torching of the Bentley Hotel in October 1854. When the rebels began fortifying their position at the Eureka Lead, however, Hendrick opted for strategic withdrawal. By the time he arrived in brash, chaotic Sydney Town, he was calling himself Henry Porter. Twelve years later, he sired his fifth child and second son, William.
My grandfather’s grandfather.
Thursday 1 November – evening
Stephen Porter parked at the Lane Cove River end of Roseville, in a position carefully chosen during his earlier reconnaissance: a moderate distance from the house, not in line of sight; adjacent to public land, on a lightly trafficked street; and near to Grosvenor Road, which furnished several flight routes.
He walked quickly through the leafy, fragrant suburban streets, the jacarandas in riotous bloom. There was a modest degree of neighbourhood activity, typical for the after-dinner hour on a pleasant spring weeknight. Nobody would look twice.
Porter confirmed the registration number of the Audi Quattro parked down the side: the candidate was in. There was no one in sight as he went through the gate and onto the verandah. He put down his Gladstone bag, removed a clipboard and opened the flyscreen door, then knocked crisply. Footsteps approached, then the door opened.
The candidate looked older than his online presence, unkempt and more fatigued. A worn white T-shirt bearing a monochrome image of a near-naked woman hung above loose cotton shorts. The body itself appeared in reasonable shape: more wiry than muscly, but still moderately fit. Porter would have to choose his moment well.
The candidate slouched against the door frame, radiating boredom. ‘Yeah?’
‘Good evening, Mr Evans,’ enthused Porter. ‘I’m Stephen, from Denison Bank. We spoke last night.’
‘And?’
‘I thought I’d bring you your card, since you mentioned you were going to Melbourne for the spring carnival.’
‘Hmm.’
‘So rather than relying on the post, which might not deliver your card in time …’ He tapered off, encouraging Evans to pick up the thread.
‘That’s … uh, yeah, good.’ Evans nudged the front door wider, opened the screen door and extended his hand towards the envelope.
‘Oh, sorry, Mr Evans. I’m afraid I have to see some photo ID first, and a recent bank statement. Then you’ll have to sign for it.’ Porter smiled inanely. ‘Procedure.’
‘Fuck,’ Evans said with a grunt. ‘All right, come in.’ He turned abruptly and walked away down the hallway. Porter picked up his Gladstone bag and followed, closing the door behind him. He eased the latch home then fli
cked the snib to secure the lock. He moved quickly but lightly along the hall, passing four open doors: two bedrooms, a study and a bathroom. All empty, all quiet, all dark. He caught up with the candidate where the extension opened out at the back of the house. An enormous television dominated one wall, displaying the asinine proceedings of a football panel show. There was nobody else there.
‘I hope I didn’t disturb you,’ said Porter.
‘No, it’s fine.’ Evans sighed. ‘Can we get this over with?’
‘Of course. Just some photo ID, please.’ Porter opened his blue plastic clipboard to a sheet bearing a list of names and numbers, with a few signatures down the right column.
Evans turned around and opened a drawer in a heavy antique sideboard. Porter reached into his pocket and removed the soaked cotton pad from its sandwich bag. He fitted it into his palm and quickly crossed the space.
The candidate heard his approach and started to turn, but Porter was there first. He landed the thick pad onto the middle of the face in one fluid movement. Surprise provided both an intake of breath – consisting chiefly of midazolam – and a delayed reaction. Porter applied a headlock with his other arm and pushed the legs out from beneath. He turned and heaved, pushing down hard on the torso, keeping his own feet spread wide and his weight above their combined centre of gravity.
The body lurched violently, fighting with a rugby player’s instinct: the legs were buckling but the feet remained grounded. The head twisted desperately, hands clawing at Porter’s grip as they stumbled together into a floor lamp, sending it flying. Porter braced and pressed harder on the face, the benzodiazepine finally taking effect, the struggle dissipating into random lunges. The feet lost traction and the body fell to the floor, pulling Porter down on top of it. The flailing lost coherence and strength until the body finally slumped into submission with a muffled sigh.
Porter held the pose for a moment, then eased the head onto the floor. He quickly retrieved his Gladstone bag from inside the front door and donned his surgical gloves. He opened the syringe case and selected the sodium thiopental, then crossed to the unconscious body. He found the median cubital vein inside the left elbow, inserted the needle, pulled a thread of blood into the barrel to confirm the strike, then pressed the plunger. The drug would induce coma within a minute, taking over from the short-term aerosol.
Porter could finally relax: the candidate was not coming back. He put on his isolation garments then inspected every room, confirming there was no one else home. He chocked the front door with a sturdy wedge and armed it with a portable intruder alarm.
He found the mobile phone charging on the kitchen bench. He applied the candidate’s right thumb to the home button, the phone unlocking on the second attempt. Porter scrolled through recent text messages and found an exchange with the Melbourne friend who was expecting Evans the following afternoon, for a long weekend of debauchery culminating at Flemington Racecourse on Tuesday. The discourse was even more impoverished than Porter had anticipated.
He formulated a text, typing and deleting until he achieved the required degree of depravity and illiteracy.
— Change plans bro – scored w fkn hottest babe!! Im goin off grid all wknd wont be @ melb til late mon nite hope its ok?
The reply came swiftly. Evidently Porter had chosen his words well.
— Champion!!!! U fkn playa evo thurs nite drinx rulz eh bro? No worries legend fuck her ass 4 me. C U when im lookin at ya
Where did men learn to be like this? Did they go to a special school? Had they been lobotomised as children? He sent a fitting response.
— Ok sweet @ hers now even hotr chick just cum out showr nkd total slut 2!! Game on m8 over n out!!!!
The predictable reply was immediate.
— Fuck mate 241 go evo!! Send pix or didnt happen want 69 lez action ¡/ EVIDENCE!!!! Dont ware out ur dick hahaha
Porter diverted all calls to voicemail then returned the mobile to its charging stand.
Now they really were alone, and would be for days and days.
He returned to the becalmed body and injected the pancuronium bromide. Soon the tidal movement of the chest ceased altogether; a moment later, a small flow of urine signalled the body’s final release.
Porter looked longingly at the long dining table, but it was just too exposed for this kind of work: the dining room’s wide glass doors opened onto a tall back fence that screened the yard, but there were no blinds or curtains.
He considered the other rooms and settled on the master bedroom, well back from the street frontage and looking out at a blank brick wall. A mattress was a poor surface for dissection – too low, too absorptive and too tensile – but it couldn’t be helped. He could risk the kitchen for the close work, perhaps. It would be a fair proportion of this Volume’s labour.
He dragged the body up the hall to the bathroom, pleased to find it equipped with a bath. He made the necessary incisions and left the body to bleed out. He moved his Gladstone bag to the bedroom and carefully unpacked everything onto the top of a wide chest of drawers, then went back to the bathroom and rolled the body over. He took off the bloodied gloves, removed the nail polish from his fingertips, then regloved. While he waited for the last of the fluid to drain away, he opened his wire-bound photocopy of Volume V and reviewed Chapter XIX: ‘How it is best to perform an anatomy, and how to dissect each of the parts that are mentioned in this book.’
Saturday 3 November – afternoon
‘Do you get back to the Netherlands much?’ Jo asked Thijs. They were walking in the warm sunshine alongside Circular Quay towards the Sydney Opera House.
‘I do. Mum moved back after Dad died, and my sister followed.’
‘Where do they live?’
‘Mum went back to Delft. Anneke and her kids live in Amsterdam.’
‘Oh, I love Delft, it’s a gorgeous town. What a lovely place to grow up.’
‘It was. It’s on such a human scale, you know?’
‘Those beautiful canals. It’s the home of my first true love, actually.’
‘Johannes Vermeer?’
‘Yep. He’s why I became an art historian. Those exquisite moments from household life. His control of light is incredible.’
‘I’ll show you the house I grew up in some time. It’s in the View of Delft.’
‘No way! Since 1660!’ Jo was blown away. ‘To my ear that’s like saying you were wandering through the Senate one day when up popped these fellas and stabbed Julius Caesar.’
Thijs laughed. ‘Yes, it’s a different time-scale. Here history is either very recent or vastly ancient. I prefer it, actually.’
‘But we can be afraid of our deep time here. And our recent history, for that matter. There’s this terrific gallery of Australian Aboriginal art in Utrecht, do you know it?’
‘No. I know Utrecht, but not your gallery.’ Thijs took her hand in his.
‘It feels like a compliment when you first see it – I mean, I was literally walking past, not knowing it was there, and suddenly there were these Vernon Ah Kees in a window – but at the same time it’s … I don’t know, an admonition? Like, “You Aussies come here to fuss over a few hundred years of rubble while we Europeans are exploring this continuous art tradition that’s tens of thousands of years old and still powering strong.”’
‘So you’ve been in Delft and Utrecht. Amsterdam, I imagine?’
‘Such a great town, especially for art. But my favourite gallery is in Den Haag.’
‘The Mauritshuis,’ Thijs said. ‘Isn’t it incredible?’
‘I went there to see the Pearl Earring, like the predictable undergraduate I was, but I fell for Judith Leijster.’
‘Your second love?’
‘Yep, head over heels. I ended up writing my honours thesis on The Proposition. Feminist mise-en-scène of the Dutch Golden Age.’
‘So you abandoned your first love!’
‘Heresy! I have never forsaken Vermeer and never will. That has nothing to do with
Colin Firth, I might add.’
Thijs laughed. ‘I can’t say I’m entirely indifferent to Scarlett Johansson.’
‘Oh, I’m not indifferent, but my devotion to Vermeer predates him.’
He drew her closer. ‘We should go to Holland together some day.’
‘I’d love that.’
‘We might even see something besides paintings.’
She poked him in the side and laughed. ‘Philistine.’
‘But we should go when it’s warm. It’s too gloomy in winter.’
‘Hah! So you are an Aussie then.’
‘Sure. When we arrived I couldn’t believe the warmth and the light. It felt like I’d been shivering in the dark for fourteen years without even realising it. I love the Netherlands, but I don’t know if I could give up all this.’
He gestured at the Harbour Bridge over the shimmering water, framing the inner harbour and Blues Point. Jo told him about Wendy Whiteley’s secret garden in Lavender Bay, just out of sight behind Luna Park. Thijs told her how the bridge’s muscular pylons actually bore no load, and were not part of the original design. They were added to make people feel secure. Jo considered them necessary for visual balance, irrespective of the engineering. They took in the panorama, watching the Manly ferry cut its way to Circular Quay, amid the swarm of sailboats dashing across the wide stretch of water.
Jo wondered if Sylvia and Murphy were out there in front of them right now, under one of the colourful sails. She’d never gone out on the water with them, wary of her brother in ship’s-captain mode; Sylvia said it relaxed him, but Jo just couldn’t imagine it. The prospect was even less appealing these days, with his increasing surliness.
She nudged Thijs’s hip with hers, and they walked on in the shadow of the Opera House towards the botanic gardens.
‘So, Thijs. I need to tell you something.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’m seeing someone. Else.’