‘What are you doing at this hour of the night?’
‘My feet were cold.’
He eased the door closed again and continued burning. Breasts and smiles and open cunts and bare backsides. Eventually he pushed the envelope itself between the bars of the grate. He gave a sigh and closed the fire up again. He was so relieved at having the business finished that he became careless and accidentally dropped the poker with a clatter on the hearth. Fuck. You total dumbfuck.
He went into the scullery and put the kettle on. When it boiled he filled a jar. Upstairs a board squeaked. He heard his mother’s voice.
‘Is that you, Martin?’ He opened the kitchen door.
‘It’s only me,’ he said. He turned out the light and began climbing the stairs.
‘What are you doing up at this hour of the night?’
‘My feet were cold.’
‘Why don’t you get yourself a jar?’
‘I just did,’ he said.
In bed the jar was scalding at his feet so he covered it with a towel and clenched it between his knees. He felt good that he’d finally got rid of those things. And that Kavanagh had replaced the exam papers. It was like the feeling after confession. An unburdening. The only casualty was Blaise. But nobody at school had ever died. It was unheard of. So Blaise would probably be all right — and the three of them would get back together again. And if something awful happened, that would just leave him and Kavanagh. But it was unlikely Blaise would be fit to sit his exams. Martin imagined the gymnasium as it had been last year — the year of his failure — with its coconut matting to protect the sprung maple floor and the temporary clock hung on the wall bars. This year it would have Blaise’s empty desk — like Banquo’s seat — with his number chalked on it. It would probably have on it the same unopened booklet of lined paper throughout the examination weeks. He knew the keen boys, the show-offs, despite the clock, would take off their watches and set them on the desk in front of them, Kavanagh included. Unload their equipment of pens and pencils and rulers and rubbers. The sighs and groans of the candidates after they’d been given the signal to open their question papers. The sinking feeling that even though he knew the questions he didn’t know the answers. The moist palms. The incredible difficulty of beginning the first sentence. The writing until his fingers were sore and the blood seemed to have drained from his arm. The certainty that he was being processed and graded so that society could utilise him. They were making keys for locks. And by trying his best he was doing his worst. The feeling that the invigilator at any minute would walk up behind him and tap him on the shoulder and say — we have reason to believe that by close analysis of your answer you have had prior knowledge of the question. How could that have come about?
At eleven o’clock and at half past three the sound of tea and biscuits being brought to the invigilator. The scrape of biscuits against the plate, the sound of a spoon stirring tea in a china cup, the bite and closed-mouth munching. All in the silence of the exam room. Last year the invigilator had padded up and down the aisles ceaselessly. At the same time reading a book. Kavanagh, as always, would write non-stop, the paper having to be forcibly removed from him by the invigilator at the end. And Martin himself would refuse to take advantage of having seen the papers and would do his best to pass comfortably but not with distinction. And he did not foresee that he would succeed so admirably in his aim that he barely passed. He imagined what would be said at supper evenings. If he failed they would not talk about him. If he passed by the skin of his teeth he could hear Father Farquharson saying ‘A pass is a pass. Congratulations are in order. The world record in the high jump was only cleared by a whisker.’
‘How does that come about — “the skin of your teeth”,’ Mary Lawless would say. ‘There’s no skin on your teeth.’
Nurse Gilliland would smile a sideways smile and say something like, ‘There’ll not be a word about it in a hundred years’ time.’
And his mother would be close to tears because her prayers had been answered. Martin had turned out a good boy after all. Even though he was not destined for the priesthood. He didn’t curse, knew what a place setting was, could knot his own tie, wear his hair at the correct length and had no interest whatsoever in sex.
Part Two
A Night in the Lab
The night classes were in the middle of the afternoon because of the Troubles. Martin stood waiting for his slides to stain. When the time was right, he washed the dye off and the sections looked like florets of navy blue cauliflower stuck to the glass. Part of some poor bastard’s brain. He picked up the slide and looked at it under the microscope. Another ambulance went screaming out of the hospital. Networks of dark blue nuclei. If only you could stain the thoughts. The sum total of all the thoughts of a lifetime — that would be the soul. He could be looking at this poor bastard’s soul. The American sirens were a relatively new thing. Before these recent troubles they’d had to make do with the nee-naw sort. But there was something quite classy about the wailing of the new ones. They put the fear of God into people. A swooping sound — like a sensation in the gut when falling. Up and down like a sine wave. The student technicians looked at one another.
The teacher came back in from his smoke and made an announcement that there was something going on. One should be careful about the way one went home. Buses were being burned so it was unlikely that there would be a regular service. Those with cars might offer lifts. North and west seemed to be free and it was advisable to head in either of those directions. But what was the point, Martin asked himself, of heading in those directions if they were not where you wanted to go?
All the classes left together. In the bicycle shed Martin smiled at a girl with blonde hair he hadn’t seen before. She was hopping a little, putting on bicycle clips.
‘Can I offer you a lift?’ he said.
‘No, I’ve got a bike.’
‘So have I.’
Why did he always have to make such crap jokes? What was he talking about — it wasn’t even a joke. Maybe it got the conversation going — but at what cost? What a weirdo, she’d be saying, afraid to look over her shoulder. She was probably from one of the hospitals because she had a name tag which he couldn’t read. He would get to know her. Their bikes would bring them together. Maybe by next week she’d have forgotten what he said. Maybe. She unlocked her bike and when she swished past, she gave a nervous little smile.
The class was made up of technicians from different hospitals, different institutions. The term was almost over. Next year they’d have to do that stupid multiple choice exam. A look at that paper before the event would do no harm. And his conscience wouldn’t worry him in the slightest.
He got out his own key and fiddled with the lock. His fingertips had been stained dark blue by the dye. This crap they were learning — different methods of staining different bits of tissue to show up certain cells — you could look the whole fucking thing up in a book. But the profession wanted you to pass exams in it. The Institute wanted you to be able to walk into an exam and sit down and regurgitate the sixteen steps it took to stain a cross-section of somebody’s pancreas with hematoxylin and eosin. Blue and pink. What was the point? Every technician had a book, the way cooks had recipe books, with the sixteen steps. He could read, he could perform the actions. Well, maybe if you were on a desert island and you were asked to stain some sections of pancreas with hematoxylin and eosin and you had no book with you …
Exams were crap. He had passed his A levels — but only just. Of course, Kavanagh had done viciously well. For a brainbox like him to have had help made little or no difference. Martin knew he, himself, wasn’t stupid … but the kind of questions they asked were hateful. Compare this poem with that poem — why does the writer say such and such? Blaise had once said in the English class that it was a perfectly valid response to remain silent in front of a work of art. All Wee Jacky had said was, ‘Try and tell that to the examiner.’
The lock fell open and h
e put it in his pocket. He mounted the bike and pedalled slowly towards the back gate. He was out for the night and it was the beginnings of a nice evening. He leaned his hands close together on the centre section of his drop handlebars, just taking it easy. He tried to map out a trouble-free route in his mind — down the Grosvenor Road — then over the Boyne Bridge, up Sandy Row and on to University Road. Normally after class he would have turned the bike left, up the road for home. To be fed by his mammy. But tonight he was going back to his job, to the lab in the Anatomy Department at the University. For the first time in his life he was going to work a night shift. To help out fucking Kavanagh. So he turned the bike right. It made him think about handlebars. Last winter had been incredibly cold. Even wearing gloves, his hands had been frozen riding to work in the mornings. He really should try out his idea of central heating. It was just that his mother always had something to say if the bike was brought into the kitchen.
‘What are you doing with that thing in here, Martin?’
‘Never you mind.’
‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that, boy. You haven’t got the key to the door yet, y’know. You’ve my heart scalded. God knows what I’ve done to deserve it.’
Of course he could bring the kettle out to the bike. Upside down on the pavement, and pour the boiling water into the handlebars. Then hammer in the corks. What he didn’t know was how far the hollowness of the bike went. Would the hot water run throughout the whole frame — down the crossbar and maybe leak out on to the road? It all sounded pretty dangerous which was probably why he had had never tried it. And what about rust?
‘Some day you’ll be carried in here dead and I’ll not be to blame. I hate that bike. You’d be far better paying the bus fare. At least that way you’d still have your life.’
Sometimes he took her advice and travelled by bus. Those mornings, when he hadn’t handlebars to deal with, he solved the cold hands problem with a warm hard-boiled egg shoved down each glove. Then he ate them for lunch.
It was very quiet now — he could hear his tyres purring over the road. There was little traffic. The lights were against him. He pulled up by McGladdery’s car showroom. At least, the last time he had been to night class it had been McGladdery’s. Now the roof was gone. There was nothing in the window except for a ragged line of glass around the frame. Everything was blackened and rusted and burnt. A mechanical digger was trying to clear up, scooping burnt debris into its bucket, the driver roaring it backwards and forwards to dump the stuff into the back of a truck. A pile of burnt cars was stacked on a recovery lorry. The stink of smoke was still in the air. Burning and wet. Like after a barbecue, when the logs have been pissed on. Metal beams stuck up — wooden beams had burnt black — in a pattern of black squares. Like alligator skin. A guy with a shoulder bag was moving around taking photos with a good camera. A Hasselblad by the look of it. The lights changed.
Martin moved off. It was a strange feeling to be in the world’s eye. Things of note were happening in his place — it hardly mattered that they were bad things. The pride was in getting noticed. There were pictures of his town in every paper in the world, every TV in the world — the fact that it was pictures of his town being burned or blown to fuckin bits was neither here nor there.
The next lights were green. It was weird — it was rush hour and everything should have been much busier. In fact the nearer he got to the town centre, the less busy it was. Going at some speed he turned right on to the Boyne Bridge. The road was littered with stones and bricks. It was like a waste ground instead of a main road. What the fuck was going on? A van was blazing and the air was filled with the smell of burning rubber. He tried to steer between the debris but bounced heavily over a half-brick. A bottle smashed in front of him. Holy fuck — what was happening? He looked over his shoulder and there in the road opposite was a phalanx of police and Land Rovers. Guys were running up to the brow of the bridge and chucking stuff across the road and Martin was in the middle of the whole fucking war on his bicycle. He spun round and retreated, bumping up on to the pavement where there was less crap lying on the ground. He stood on the pedals and flew down the hill. Something hit him on the back. A half-brick or something — he didn’t know what. But he didn’t feel it. He sensed it, but it wasn’t painful. He turned the corner out of the line of fire and headed towards the City Hall as fast as he could, still on the pavement. Why didn’t the fuckers give you some warning? TAKE CARE. RIOT IN PROGRESS. Jesus Christ. He could have been shot, got a rubber bullet up his arse or anything. When he felt he was out of the firing line he applied the brakes. He joined the watching crowd.
‘What’s going on?’
‘A bit a trouble.’
‘What about?’
‘How would you know? Somebody probably said something.’
There wasn’t much happening now — the occasional splish of a glass bottle breaking on the street surface, shouting that was hard to make out, ‘Yafuckinbastard’ kind of yelling. The police just stood.
Martin looked at his watch. He’d need to be getting on. Now that Sandy Row was blocked he’d have to go the long way round. He had things to do for Kavanagh. And time was crucial, he’d been told. And he had a knife to sharpen. He pushed the bike and mounted it while it was in motion. He pedalled up Great Victoria Street slowly, approached Shaftesbury Square, where the Ulster Bank was with its two Elizabeth Frink statues halfway up the wall. Flying Figures or Falling Figures, it was called. But locally they’d become known as Draft and Overdraft. Traffic was coming from all directions. Fuckers came out of junctions. Straight at you. He negotiated the Square, then stood on the pedals, panting up the incline to the University. Trees, green lawns, birdsong.
He went in the front hallway — wheeled the bike past the porter’s lodge but didn’t recognise the man on duty, so he didn’t nod. He rarely talked to any of them — a crowd of Orangemen. Within a day or two of starting they knew what he was. So they handed out the departmental mail in silence. Martin figured the reason he got the job was because the Prof who had interviewed him was from Australia and didn’t know or, more likely, chose to ignore, the local rules.
The floor of the entrance hallway was like a chessboard, except that the black tiles had worn better than the white and the white squares were slightly dished. He walked over the unevenness while his bicycle ticked smoothly along beside him. Outside the doors he saw a girl with a rucksack standing in the cloisters. It was always a great struggle getting the bike out. The girl pulled the narrow door towards herself and held it for him. She smiled but he was too embarrassed to smile back because she was too classy for him. And his bike banged and clanked against the door. The edge of the metallic pedal hit his shin. He made a face and started a curse, but didn’t finish it. By the time he got the bike out and manoeuvred it in the direction of the red brick Victorian building at the back of the quad, the girl was through the door and away.
The clock above the cloistered walk chimed faintly six times every hour. It was right twice a day. Like now: six o’clock as he walked across the quad. The Anatomy Department was surrounded by trimmed lawns which had been cut in horizontal swathes, yellow and dark green, the colour of a vegetable marrow. Outside the ground floor windows were a number of cherry trees. There was very little blossom left on them. The fallen petals lay in pink drifts along the gutters. To one side, in front of the Theology building, was a laburnum tree growing aslant, propped on a wooden stump to prevent it falling any further. It was the right place for a tree with poisonous seeds — outside Theology.
Martin couldn’t be bothered to lock his bike so he brought it inside the basement door and climbed the stairs to his lab. He put on his white coat and inspected his shin: the pedal had drawn blood even through his trousers.
The microtome knife sat in a box like a small coffin. He took it out with great care and laid it on the microscope stage. The magnified edge was pitted and uneven. The bevel of a sharp knife should be absolutely straight. Like looking at the s
ea’s horizon. It would take hours to sharpen. Martin poured oil on to the glass plate then added abrasive powder — the smallest amount possible tapped from the blade of a scalpel. The machine was like a record player only instead of a needle there was the knife. It hissed almost continually against the powder — but every so often the noise stopped as the knife turned over and the other side was honed. Tomorrow it’d be sharp enough to split a hair lengthwise. If he knew any way of doing it. He closed the lid of the machine to reduce the noise. That mad bastard Salvador Dali had made Un chien andalou and filmed the eyeball being sliced with the razor before you could look away. Martin hated anything to do with the eyeball — by now it was the only thing he was still squeamish about. Dali was nothing but a showman with a stupid moustache. The more elaborate the facial hair the less interesting the personality. He looked at his watch. Ten past six. Everyone would be gone and the front door locked. He needed to get the timetable Kavanagh had left for him in his room.
On a bench beside the door was an empty bottle. There was no point in taking it because there was no one about at this time. It was all part of his trouble-free way of moving around the building during working hours, talking to this one and that one. He always carried the bottle. If anybody stopped him he was just off to fill it. If he had just filled it then he was heading back to do some work.
In the corridor he walked the central strip of brown lino. On each side were ranks of grey metal lockers, used mostly by males. The females had their own in the ladies’ room. His shoes made a rubbery squeaking sound in the emptiness. The summer sun was shining on to the floor at the far end by the noticeboard.
He passed the Dissecting Room and was surprised to see a movement through the bubbled glass of the door. He opened it. Dr Cowie, with his back to him, was gathering his bandoleer of tools and papers together. But Jesus, what was going on with the stiffs? Some of them had their legs in the air. It looked awful — as if they had plunged from the sky and were in the act of landing. The place smelled strongly of formalin, enough to smart the eyes. Dr Cowie turned and looked over his glasses.
The Anatomy School Page 27
