Even better was to see a woman by herself laughing — provided she wasn’t completely doolally. The girl in the library reading her book suddenly smiles. What was funny on the page lives in her eyes momentarily. A woman walking down the street completely by herself remembers something said, something done and can’t hold back laughing and puts her hand up to cover her lower face. She knows she is giving too much away in front of strangers. Maybe she’s had a drink too many; maybe she’s just left a good conversation in a pub or a coffee place. Whichever way it was, she gave her loveliness away to Martin as he waited for his bus one evening. It was like seeing a photo of her mind, the face, a kind of monitor to the inner workings.
Then suddenly the Australian was out of the eyepiece. He rose from the microscope and looked out the window. She was slinging her rucksack over her right shoulder and combing her hair the wrong way with her fingers. She headed for the front gate. Martin watched her until she disappeared into the cloisters.
The day after his A level results he spent an hour with a youth employment officer discussing everything from Art to Forestry and beyond to Customs & Excise.
‘Do you fancy a science job? In the University?’ The man pulled out a piece of paper from his top pocket.
‘I’ll do anything. In the meantime.’
‘Get yourself up there, right away.’
He walked to the University and was directed to the Anatomy Department. It was the darkest, most Dickensian building he had ever seen. Climbing the stairs to the office he was aware of everything being brown. An indefinable smell, which stung the eyes, hung in the air. He knocked the office door and an oldish woman answered.
‘I’m here about a job as a technician.’
‘Yes, we’ve been expecting you.’
The woman had an accent like the Queen. She ushered him into an empty lecture theatre and gave him a form to fill in.
‘I hope you don’t mind waiting here.’
Martin sat on the bottom bench facing the blackboard. There was nothing written on it but he could see the grey rectangular tracks of a duster. On the wall was a picture of a transparent man to show his circulation — like a blue tree and a red tree which had become entangled. In here everything continued to be a mahogany colour: benches, rostrum, panelled walls. A blackout blind on an open window had come adrift and bellied into the room in the breeze. Each time it fell back the wooden spar at the bottom clanked. In the distance someone was whistling. He laid the form on the seat of the bench and filled it in. No matter what they asked him he would say as often as he could, ‘I don’t know but I’m keen to learn.’
After a while the oldish woman secretary came and showed him into the Professor’s room. It was also brown. The Professor sat behind his desk in a huge ornate throne of a chair, carved wood and red velvet plush. He was a big, big man with round chins, white hair and a warm smile. Even his earlobes were chubby. Beside him stood a much smaller man in a white coat. To his right a full skeleton hung from a stand. The Professor introduced himself and Mr Knox, his head technician. The head technician had a sort of permanent smile on his face as if he was always in very bright sunlight. It seemed a welcoming smile and, not sure whether it was the right thing to do in the circumstances, Martin shook hands with everyone. The Professor’s hands were so big it was like shaking boxing gloves. The Professor indicated a chair and Martin sat down. To try and relax he drooped his shoulders.
‘No need to be nervous with us,’ said the Professor. ‘The first question is — why did you apply for this job?’
‘I was in seeing the youth employment guy — officer. He said there was a job going here. Now.’
‘Those are circumstances, not reasons. Why this job?’
‘Because it was the one on the piece of paper he gave me.’
‘If it had said traffic management and supervision would you have applied for that too?’
‘I don’t know.’ Martin hesitated. ‘I’m not sure.’ He smiled nervously.
‘These are not trick questions. I’m just trying to find out a little about you. Do you like science, is what I’m really asking?’
‘Yes.’
The Professor’s accent was strange — thin sort of vowels. He leaned forward and looked at the form Martin had filled in.
‘Have you any idea what the job would entail?’
‘Sorry. I don’t know but I’m keen to learn.’
‘We certainly need an extra pair of hands at the moment.’ Mr Knox nodded. ‘We would allocate you to help with some research programme or other, a bit of section cutting — you would lend a hand looking after the animal house, help with the students — show slides at lectures. You’d have to attend night classes, get yourself some qualifications.’
‘Of course.’ He seemed to be nodding too much. Overnodding. ‘I’m keen to learn.’
‘There might be some involvement with the mortuary side of things. Would this worry you? Are you squeamish about such matters?’
‘No more than anybody else.’
‘We are extremely indebted to people who leave their bodies to science. At all times they must be treated with respect and dignity. A previous professor here was such a gentleman that he raised his hat every time he passed the Dissecting Room. But I shouldn’t have to say this to another human being.’ The Professor looked up at his head technician, then indicated Martin.
Mr Knox cleared his throat and said, ‘Have you worked with animals before?’
‘Not really. We have a cat at home.’
‘I suppose it’s a start. Can you wire a plug?’
Martin stared at the skeleton hanging by its skull. He hadn’t a clue how to wire a plug.
‘They don’t teach that kind of thing at school.’
‘Who wires the plugs at home?’ said the Professor.
‘The cat.’ Martin gave a stupid kind of a laugh. There was a silence. Mr Knox continued to wrinkle his face, and the Professor raised one eyebrow. ‘No, no — there’s a man lives next door. He fixes hoovers and stuff for my mother. The cat is actually his.’
‘I see here one of your interests is in photography. Are you any good?’
The Professor smiled. His question seemed to be outside the interview.
‘I think so. I mean, I hope so.’
‘We do a lot of that here. We are well equipped with darkrooms and the like. So you’ll be in the right place.’ Martin wondered if he had heard correctly. He had never done an interview before — yet this man seemed to be telling him he had got the job.
He began to dismantle the microscope-as-telescope. The quad was empty. The only movement was the slight ripple coming from the laburnum tree as the air moved through it. He hawed on the eyepiece and wiped it with a tissue and slotted it back. When it had all been reassembled he slid a demonstration slide of pancreas beneath the lens for the next student to find. He turned away from the window to the small historical section in the corner. It had a reproduction of Rembrandt’s The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Tulp. Dr Tulp’s left hand was in graceful mid-gesture above the left arm of a cadaver which he had just dissected as if wiring a very complex plug. Beside it was a modern silkscreen print based on the Dr Tulp subject matter, but with distorted figures. There were some Vesalius drawings, a picture of Galen, also several plaster heads demonstrating the outdated notion of phrenology. One of the heads was that of a nineteenth-century murderer who had been hanged for his crimes. Martin thought that the features bore a great resemblance to Blaise.
Next to the historical section there was an alcove and a leather medical couch. This is where he had damply perched last year. One day the Prof had asked him if he’d like to make a few extra quid. Martin had nodded.
‘You’re thin enough for it. In fact you’re ideal. How would you fancy being a model — in the surface anatomy exam?’
Martin hesitated.
‘Nothing really embarrassing. It would mean — on the day — the occasional bit of pointing out on you. A bit of poking, maybe. Biceps rather t
han gluteus maximus.’
On the day of the exam he’d sat covered in a grey army blanket in the alcove of the Anatomy Library wearing only a pair of navy bathing trunks. He tried to read his book but it was difficult with all the distractions. The blanket smelled very faintly of oil of wintergreen and suntan oil, and there were bits of dried grass attached to the fibres. His thighs kept sticking to the plastic chair. Beside him, the leather couch took up most of the space in the alcove. He’d been listening to the drone of voices — examiners and students — from the other end of the room. Not every student was asked questions about the model. Up until now he’d only been examined by blokes.
Now there were footsteps and the Prof came round the corner of the alcove with a Chinese girl. Both were dressed in white coats.
‘On the table, please, if you don’t mind.’ The Prof spoke to Martin in an unusual voice, kindly — as if the model was aloof from the whole business. Martin slipped the blanket off his shoulders and stood up. What if he got an erection? He slid his hip on to the old leather couch. As he lay down it was cold against his bare back and he gasped.
‘Make a fist,’ said the Prof. Martin clenched and the girl answered questions about the white strings in his wrist. He was being examined. She was being examined. Her voice was shaking with nerves and her English was not good. Her fingertip, the only time she touched him, was ice cold. The Prof indicated similar strings in Martin’s right foot. The girl seemed perplexed. Martin wanted badly to help her but he hadn’t a clue what they were talking about. Somehow, just because they were talking about bits of him, he felt he should be able to help.
The Prof and the girl were now silent, the girl waiting for inspiration. Martin raised his head, chin on chest, and looked down at his bare feet lying at an angle of ten to two. He had no notion of getting a hard-on but thought it might have been better than the tiny accidental peak at present showing on his navy trunks. The material had gathered into this sharp point — like he was concealing a cocktail stick in his groin. He didn’t want to smooth it down, or draw attention to it in any way. A shaking girl, in the middle of an oral exam — especially one who was doing badly — would not be the slightest bit interested in whether it was a small crease or a small penis. Martin coughed and made a half turn. The crease disappeared. He leaned back on his elbows. For some reason he began to sweat. It must have been something to do with nervousness, yet he didn’t feel uptight. A trickle of sweat escaped from his armpit and dripped on to the leather of the couch. It was the girl. That’s what was making him tense.
‘Feet are extremely complicated items,’ said the Prof. ‘Twenty-six bones and as many joints and muscles. One minute they have to behave as a rigid lever and next as a pliable spring. Tell me what you know of the blood supply to the foot.’ There was a long pause. The girl’s answers were filled with stops and stammers. Martin wanted to say that her knowledge of surface anatomy was superficial. Unable to look at her distress any more, he looked away.
‘What are you smiling at?’ asked the Prof.
‘Nothing — nothing at all, sir.’
‘I thought I’d inadvertently made a joke of some kind.’ The Prof waved his hand to indicate that they had finished with the model. ‘Thank you for your co-operation.’
They both turned and left Martin alone. He slid off the couch and wiped away the drip of sweat with the blanket. It wasn’t fair. These Chinese and foreign students had to cope with English as well as doing Medicine. He sat down to try to read again the first page of his book. He was interrupted almost immediately when he heard a new voice. It was Máire O’Malley, a girl he knew from St Dominic’s. He’d been in her company many times in town when everyone had gone for coffee after the Central Library. Kavanagh had been in his element, surrounded by women. This Máire had lovely dark eyes and a nice smile. Fucking hell — what if she came over and started answering questions on his body. Him lying there with his pointy cock in the air and the sweat dripping from his armpits. He was too thin. His ribcage looked like a couple of xylophones.
They didn’t bring her over to examine him — but when she was leaving she gave him a tiny wave from waist high just to let him know she had seen him.
He heard a distant ringing. The fucking alarm. He’d forgotten he had to kill another rat. There he was mooching around the Anatomy Library when he had work to do. He raced to his lab and banged the alarm clock into silence. Like many another one in the North of Ireland he had a night of killing ahead of him.
He heard the boom of the back door closing and went to the head of the stairs to see who it was. The metallic elevator gates closed. He bent over the banisters but could not make out who was inside. The lift motor hummed as it started to rise. The stairwell was gloomy and the light fanned out through the criss-crossed gates on to each floor as it passed. The hoist was large and slow for the transportation of cadavers. It stopped and the inner gates were pulled back, then the outer ones. Kavanagh stepped out carrying an Adidas bag.
‘Ya bastard,’ Martin said. His voice echoed in the stairwell. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Checking up on you.’ They both laughed.
‘Yes, sir. All present and correct.’ Martin pretended to salute. ‘I thought you were supposed to be playing basketball in Dublin.’
‘A group of hooded individuals decided otherwise. It seems their barricade was incomplete without our minibus.’
‘What — you were hijacked?’
‘That’s what they call it.’
‘Fuck — was that scary?’
‘Too right it was. Lovely lad — with his balaclava and machine gun. Thought he was bloody John Wayne.’ He dropped his bag and took both hands to slam the inner lift gate, then the outer one. ‘Bastard. So we all had to take our kit and vamoose. Ireland’s fight for freedom ruins basketball tournament.’
‘Was there no other way …?’ Kavanagh shook his head.
‘Northern basketball team fails to show. What sort of a bloody country is this?’
Kavanagh picked up his bag and they walked through to the lab. ‘So how’s it going?’
‘I just killed one this minute. Seventeen to go.’ Kavanagh reached out and patted him on the back of his white coat.
‘Stout fellow. Keep it up.’
‘What do you mean “keep it up”. Are you not going to take over? Do it yourself?’ He thought about his half date with the Australian girl. He could meet her at the jazz and they could maybe go on somewhere else.
‘I’ve already phoned Pippa.’ Kavanagh sat down astride the wooden chair, facing the back of it. ‘Would you mind carrying on? As if nothing had happened?’ Martin hesitated. ‘It’d be a big favour.’ Should he tell him about the Australian? There was a time when it would have been the first thing he’d have said but since Pippa had come on the scene things had gradually changed between them. All through the days when they studied down at the public library, she had kept Kavanagh at arm’s length. Before the exams she would go out with him once a week and only at the weekend. There was work to be done, she said. He was completely mad about her. And Martin couldn’t see why. Maybe it was because she was so unattainable. She was saved. A no-make-up Christian. But she didn’t need any of it, she was so beautiful.
‘And where are you going?’
‘I don’t know. To Pippa’s?’
‘I stay here and work my arse off for your fucking thesis, while you swan off with her?’
Kavanagh winced slightly at the swear word.
‘Martin — it’s a bad time for me.’ He dropped his voice and shook his head. ‘We had a row — last night. It’s very serious and I need to fix it. As soon as possible.’
‘About?’
‘Everything — and nothing.’
‘That’s pretty clear.’
Martin didn’t know what to say, or how to say you’d be far better off without her. She’s a disaster area. It’s women like her who will eventually drain you of any spark left in you. Her and her constant fuckin right
eousness. Is she taking anything from you?
Kavanagh sat gazing in front of him, biting his lip. He went to scratch his head and Martin saw that his hand was trembling.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah.’
Martin moved to put a hand on Kavanagh’s shoulder. He half squeezed, half patted him.
‘What about a coffee?’ said Martin.
‘Tea?’
‘Yeah. I can take a break. From your work.’
‘How’s the bed?’ Kavanagh stood and looked down at it.
‘It’s the most luxurious piece of canvas I’ve ever encountered.’
They walked the corridor to the tea room and Martin put the kettle on again.
‘It’s funny the way you can’t stop the body reacting.’
‘To what?’
‘Flight or fight.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Martin. ‘Her or the hijack?’
‘The sight of a gun — here.’ Kavanagh held his index finger in front of his face. ‘And it’s not the gun. It’s what the gun means. Talk is out. You do what you’re told whether you like it or not. Result — anger.’
‘Are you sure you’re not talking about Pippa?’ Martin laughed. But Kavanagh just smiled.
‘Get stuffed,’ he said and sat down.
The kettle boiled and Martin poured. He revolved a teabag with a spoon and when the water was brown enough he handed the cup to Kavanagh.
‘No milk. Sorry.’ They sat facing each other across the table. ‘So — what’s going on?’
Kavanagh cooled his tea with some water from the tap. He sipped it and set it down.
‘She wants to break it off. She says that if we’re to … continue — it’s not enough for me just to behave myself. I must believe. She says she couldn’t continue with somebody who has a totally different belief system to hers.’
The Anatomy School Page 30