‘Did you come again?’ she asked.
‘Come again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
He put his arms around her. What was he supposed to do now? She kept saying Hmmmmm and snuggling into him.
‘Consummatum est,’ he whispered in her ear.
‘What?’
‘Just some more Latin.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘A consummation devoutly to be wished.’
‘You talk the greatest load of shit I’ve ever heard.’
It was a long time before her breathing returned to normal. It sounded magnified because her nose was right beside his ear.
‘You remember you said you stroked bees?’ he asked her.
‘Yeah.’
‘Their fur. Is it real fur?’
‘I dunno. Feels like it.’
‘D’you think would it be possible to make a coat — fifty-eight thousand bee pelts stitched together? A bee coat?’
‘Yeah sure,’ she said. Then nothing was said for a long time.
‘When did you first …’
‘I dunno. I was late where we come from. Just turned fifteen.’ She raised herself up and looked at his face. ‘This was your first time.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I can tell. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Was it?’ He nodded yes and grinned. She tousled his hair and hugged him. ‘How sweet. It’s really sweet to know. And I’m absolutely delighted to have been the bad apple.’
He wondered if he should walk down the corridor and phone Kavanagh from the tea room. But he didn’t have the number for Pippa’s house. That would be a little triumph. Getting Tambourine Woman on the phone and telling her to give Kavanagh a message — that he, Martin had just got it for the first time. But then Kavanagh would come on the phone and want to know about the experiment. Jesus — he’d missed killing a rat. Maybe two. Time flies when you’re … Martin had well and truly fucked up. What should he do next?
Cindy turned and lay on her stomach. Maybe she was married and hadn’t told him. The Muybridge book lay on the desk. When somebody screwed Muybridge’s wife he’d come after them with a gun. Maybe it was Cindy’s husband who’d been shooting outside.
‘Come here,’ said Cindy. She patted the sleeping bag beside her. It was wet. ‘Yuk, you’re like a snail — you leave slime.’ When Martin sat down he turned to her and grinned.
‘You’re a bit of a slippery customer yourself, if I may say so.’ She slapped his bare back.
‘You’re like one of those animals that go round marking out your territory.’
‘It’s you that left it. I gave it to you. You leaked it.’ He got up again and reached for a cloth beside the sink. He was just about to wipe the mark when he stopped.
‘Wait a minute — wait,’ he said. He got a glass slide from a box on the bench and touched it against the wet on the sleeping bag.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Wait till you see.’ He picked up a pipette and put a droplet on to the glass. ‘Saline. Harvested from the Dead Sea.’ He covered it with a wisp-thin glass coverslip. ‘Come here.’ He put the slide on the stage of the microscope. And focused. And adjusted the light to a low oblique level, ‘Look at that.’
She got up from the floor and draped the sleeping bag over her shoulders. She bent to look into the binoculars.
‘Worms.’ She looked up at him. ‘You’ve opened a can of worms, Martin.’
The sleeping bag blanket covered her unevenly. Her backside was bare. Martin snuggled in behind her and they made standing spoons.
‘Let me have a look,’ he said. She moved her head. Her hair fell all to one side. He stared down at the moving image. His own microscopic seed thrashing and weaving. At the edges were outriders, their tails propellering. There was a terrible blind urgency about them, like creatures fleeing. Climbing over each other, like snakes. A nest of vipers. ‘There’s life in the Dead Sea.’
‘They’re very impressive. Your spunkies.’
‘Are you sure you’ve …’
‘Yeah — of course …’
‘It was a Dutch guy — Leeuwenhoek — who discovered sperm, in the seventeenth century.’
‘I’m sure there were guys who’d discovered it before that.’
‘And Paracelsus believed if you cooked human sperm and horse dung for forty days you could make a small man …’
‘How long would a big one take?’
‘Paracelsus reckoned he wouldn’t have a soul. That’d be the only thing’d be missing. And he was supposed to be a scientist. How wrong can you be?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘This is the kind of crap you pick up at night classes.’
The sky paled, was becoming a slate colour. Cindy asked him,
‘What time is it?’
‘A quarter past four.’
‘It’s getting brighter. Another day another dollar.’ Martin didn’t answer her. She came up to him and put her arms around his waist. ‘When it gets bright, can we look in that place?’
‘Where?’
‘Where you keep the bodies.’
‘What is this?’
‘I just want to see. I’m naturally curious.’ She pretended to be afraid. ‘Will you stand beside me?’ He looked at her. She simpered and pretended to beseech him.
‘OK — if that’s what you want.’
‘Don’t go away from me but …’
‘No.’
She let a long low groan out of her. Martin thought it was something to do with the sex. Something else he didn’t know about.
‘Ooooaawww,’ she said. ‘I am starving. I could eat the decorations of a hearse. Sex gives me an appetite.’
‘Greater love hath no man — than he share his last sandwich.’
‘Are you serious?’
He nodded.
‘Good on ya.’
‘Are you a vegetarian?’
‘An Aussie veggie?’
‘Damn.’
‘Why?’
‘If you’d been a vegetarian I could have eaten them all myself.’ He produced the pack of ham sandwiches and smiled as he unwrapped them. There they were, cut four ways with crusts removed. It was like having his mother beside him with this stark naked woman.
‘Do you like mustard?’ She nodded. They ate without saying much. She rearranged the sleeping bag on the camp bed and sat down, then rolled over on to her side, still chewing.
‘I’m knackered.’ She tried to stretch the sleeping bag out so that most of her was covered. She made a pillow of her folded arm and its soft inner elbow.
Martin started to get dressed. He hopped around trying to get into his trousers.
‘I hate when that happens — when you get your crotch caught between your toes. Have you been to Italy?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘For the Italians fingers and toes are all the same thing. Digits. The only way you can tell them apart is by the context.’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘If I say, don’t pick your nose with your finger. You know it’s not your toe.’
She didn’t say anything. He tucked his shirt in and tightened his belt. When he moved his bare foot he left a momentary steamy outline on the lino. He pulled on his socks and shoes, tying his laces as he rested his foot on the stool. His white lab coat was where he left it. He considered whether or not to put it on.
‘Fuck it,’ he muttered. It was almost 4.30 in the morning — who needed a white coat?
When he looked round at Cindy she was asleep. He went over and crouched down. The back of her knee was exposed — somehow the sleeping bag hadn’t covered it. He saw a pale letter H creased on her skin. It reminded him of Kavanagh and the day in the Waterworks when they had sworn to phone each other just as soon as they got it. He stood remembering and savouring. He sniffed his fingers and she was still there. Her aroma. He looked at her. She was breathing deeply and her face had gone slack. At the end of each intake of breath th
ere was the slightest vibration of a snore. Then — it was barely audible — twice, quietly, she let two little farts. They sounded like slight hand claps. Maybe he should phone Kavanagh. Tell him the whole story. The hole story. Forget it. He’d just be mad — getting phoned at this hour. It was a daft notion.
He killed the right number of rats all at once to bring himself up to date, ‘going about it as quietly as he could so as not to wake her — sliding the glass lid gently on and off the ether chamber. He looked at his watch but it didn’t make any difference. He labelled the specimens as if they were killed on the hours of one, two and three o’clock. It would ruin Kavanagh’s results and maybe even screw up his thesis and he — Martin — would be to blame. Would Kavanagh believe him? He’d have to repeat the experiment and then he’d find out that Martin had cheated. Things were never as clear cut as that. It was rarely like the titration which went, with the addition of one drop of acid, from black to white. He could leave it — say nothing. If Kavanagh wanted to repeat the experiment because these results didn’t tally, he would help him. But it was a hell of a lot of work. Martin could maybe tell him he forgot, slept in. Jesus, why was he telling lies? Why could he not tell his best mate the truth? I got sidetracked. A woman. Sex. Because Kavanagh was a changed man. Kavanagh had betrayed him. Blaise was right about the effect women had on friendship.
When he had all done he went to the tea room and brought back a wooden chair. There wasn’t room beside the camp bed so he went to the other side of the island bench. He could not see her from there. He lined the chair up with two others. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, but he felt tired and wanted to stretch out. He kicked off his shoes and lay down on his back across the three chairs — one for his legs, one for his bum, one for his head and shoulders. He joined his hands across his stomach and felt a bit like a corpse. But the middle chair from the tea room squeaked a bit and that reassured him he wasn’t dead.
He must have slept a bit. The next thing he knew the lab was a lot brighter and he had an erection. The sky was changing colour. Birds were singing. A blackbird, by the sound of it, full of twirls and twiddles. Then he remembered the girl. For a second he wondered if he’d dreamed her. But he heard her little cat snore. The chair squeaked as he swung himself up and he sat stunned for a moment, his head in his hands, on the middle chair. He put on his shoes and padded round the island bench. It was almost the hour and time to kill another rat. He worked quietly so’s not to wake her. The only part of her he could see now was her head and her bare arm and shoulder. As he stared down at her, her eyes opened and she wrinkled her nose and smiled.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Good morning.’
‘Whatcha doing?’
‘My job. I’m a rat serial killer.’
‘What are you killing them for?’
‘For my mate, Kavanagh.’
‘Ha bloody ha.’ She yawned loudly and stretched.
‘I’m not entirely sure. I’m only the bottle-washer round here.’
‘Don’t put yourself down. What’s it all for?’
‘It’s something to do with the way this drug affects bone and bone marrow.’
‘What drug?’
‘I can hardly say it. Phyto — haemo — something or other. Glutinin. Anyway Kavanagh injected this stuff into all these rats at five o’clock yesterday and I’ve to assist one to pop its clogs on the hour, every hour. Then he’ll look at what happened to the bone. And the marrow.’
‘And it’s not a cure for anything?’
‘Nope. Not unless something goes drastically wrong. But who knows. Then he’s going to inject it at different times of day to see if that makes any difference. Did you know we have circadian rhythms?’
‘I certainly did not.’
‘The day is twenty-four hours long — right? The body reacts differently to invasion at different times of the day. Most people die at three o’clock in the morning. People on night shift get irritable and stressed.’
He paused and looked at her, then began to tear at his hair and shout at the top of his voice. ‘This is so fuckin awful. This is my first night ever on night shift and I am so fucking irritable …’ Her eyes widened and he stopped shouting. ‘Joke over.’
‘I thought you were serious. Jesus you gave me a fright.’ Martin finished what he was doing and washed his hands at the sink. Cindy clutched the sleeping bag tightly under her chin. ‘I react badly to invasion at any time of the day or night. Hey — I’ve just realised. You missed a whole lot of rats.’
‘I didn’t notice at the time. I was doing something else.’
‘You cheat.’ He smiled at her and dried his hands on the roller towel. Then he crouched down.
‘What about a pleasant invasion?’ He kissed her. ‘Is there a place in under there for me?’
‘Only if I can get in to see the room.’
‘Which?’
‘The dead room.’ Martin nodded. ‘Promise?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Say it.’
‘I promise.’ With that she shuffled a little to the side and admitted him under the sleeping bag. Her mouth tasted slept in. He caressed and touched her and she luxuriated and made her little throat noises. When he touched between her legs he said, ‘You are a slippery customer.’
‘It takes one to know one,’ she said. They had sex again and this time Martin thought it was better — probably because he remembered Kavanagh’s advice and paid considerable attention to her face. Jesus — what if Kavanagh decided to come in early? And wandered into the lab and found the two of them at it? Martin almost looked over his bare shoulder at the door. What could he do? Just say, ‘This is thee most important day of my life. Could you give us a couple more minutes.’
Afterwards Martin asked her if she’d like a cup of tea. He dressed and carried the chair back. He knew where to get the key for the Dissecting Room.
‘Breakfast,’ he said. He pushed the door open with his foot, a cup in each hand. Cindy was dressed and standing reading a book which lay flat on the bench. He set the cup down in front of her. There was one piece of Kit-Kat left and he halved it with her.
‘Jesus,’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘Look at this.’
‘What?’ She was looking at A Textbook of Histology.
‘This is awful. I can’t believe anyone could do stuff like this.’
‘What are you talking about?’
She pointed to a picture of a white mouse. She read in a kind of flat school voice: ‘Photograph of a mouse that received a fertilized mouse ovum in the anterior chamber of the right eye 12 days earlier.’
‘So?’
‘That is so awful. Look at the poor thing.’ The eye bulged and shone, almost extruding from its socket.
‘That’s not nice.’
‘You got it. Somebody thought that up. That is pure torture.’
‘I’m not defending it but it’s just an experiment. It’s a fact of life. If you go into hospital with blood poisoning, some guinea pig is going to die.’ He leaned over and flipped the book closed. ‘Don’t upset yourself. I told you there’s lots of things about here which are not for the general public.’
She lifted her cup and wrapped her hands around it.
‘Jesus,’ she said quietly.
‘Let’s cheer you up. Let’s go look at the dead.’ She smiled ruefully.
‘Can I bring my tea?’
‘It’ll not help.’
Martin unlocked the Dissecting Room door. He pushed one half of it open and stepped in. He held the door open for her. Outside she cocked her head to one side and hesitated. He couldn’t make up his mind whether she was genuinely frightened or play-acting. She covered her mouth with her free hand and stepped inside the door.
‘Jees Zus.’ She looked around the fifteen tables in the milky light. There was still a dawn feel to the air. The windows overlooking the quad, even though they were on the first floor, had been painted white to prevent anyone seeing in
. Students had scratched their names and dates in the white paint with scalpels. She was pretending to be a baby, pulling her mouth into a straight line behind her hands and standing as close as she could to Martin. Then the smell of the formaldehyde got to her more than the sight and she pinched her nostrils shut with her finger and thumb. She set her mug of tea on the draining board of a sink and reached out to hold Martin’s hand.
‘The spell is terrible. How does eddy boddy breathe?’
‘You just get used to it. Like looking at dead people.’
‘How bizarre,’ she whispered. ‘Dote — dote go away frob me. Dote let go by had.’ She peeped over his shoulder. She let go of her nose. ‘Why have some of them got their legs in the air?’
‘They are dissecting the … that bit — underneath.’
‘The asshole?’
‘Yeah — all around there.’
It was like she was going in for a bathe at the seaside. Taking it slowly. Feet, ankles, adjusting to the new icy temperature. Then, in over the knees. Looking and looking away quickly. Looking back again. She moved him, as if she was dancing with him, nearer the closest table and rested her forehead on his shoulder, looking down at the floor. Then her face came up and she looked over his shoulder. She shivered the way people shiver when they immerse themselves totally — when cold water closes around the heat of their back.
‘It is so strange to look at somebody dead.’ She moved away from him and let her hand trail away from his. She stood looking directly down at a cadaver’s face. ‘Even somebody you never knew. The light’s gone out. The shop’s shut. This is as low as we get.’ Cindy turned her head to look at the face properly — the way someone turns their head to read the title of a book on a shelf. ‘Auntie Dinkie.’
‘That’s what the medics do. Give their body a name. To make fun of it. Mildred or Tarquin — that kinda thing.’
‘She’s the image of my Auntie Dinkie.’
She eye-rolled a bit then started to pay attention to the body on the next table. It was that of a thin old man with his legs in the air. His skin was leathery grey, a rhinoceros colour. The points at which the body had been in contact with the aluminium table had gone yellow and had remained flat — the way a chicken goes if left on a plate overnight. Now the yellow parts were exposed because the body was raised to dissect the perineum. His little grey cock had been folded over to one side and kept out of the way, speared with a cocktail stick. His mousy pubic hair lay flat, like grass by the bank of a flooded river.
The Anatomy School Page 36