A Pocketful of Eyes (2 page)

‘Fine, fine,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’m fine.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said the tour guide. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

‘It’s fine. I was just leaving.’

The old man pushed past the tour guide through the high wooden doorway of the Red Rotunda and marched past Bee. Bee watched him and decided that maybe he was a little younger. He didn’t move like an old man.

The tour guide trailed slowly after him, adoration in his eyes.

As Bee made her way towards the stairs that led to the preparatory studios, she noticed a plaque on the wall outside the Red Rotunda.

The Cranston Collection was Donated by

DR WILLIAM CRANSTON, AO

Scientist, Anatomist and Generous Benefactor of this Museum

‘Huh,’ said Bee, and returned to the taxidermy lab.

Gus was in a strange mood. In the four and a half months that Bee had been working at the museum, his conversation had been limited to how to fix and preserve an animal skin, how to measure and record its details, and how to mount and pose the finished specimen. Most of the time he was bent over his work, delicate tools in hand, a magnifying glass fixed to the desk on a posable metal arm.

Yet now he was laughing with Toby and eating a jam doughnut with chocolate icing and sprinkles.

‘Did you know,’ Toby was saying, ‘that necrophilia wasn’t a crime in the US until 1965?’

Gus assured Toby with a grin that in fact he had not known that.

‘And even today it’s only a crime in sixteen states. A woman in California stole a hearse, fled the state and was found in the back getting cosy with the corpse. And the only thing she was charged with was auto theft.’

‘Extraordinary,’ said Gus, shaking his head. Toby saw Bee and winked at her.

Gus looked up. ‘My coffee!’ he said. ‘Marvellous. Have a doughnut? I bought a dozen.’

Bee handed over the coffee. Something very strange was going on.

‘You can learn all sorts of things from a corpse,’ Gus said, turning back to Toby. ‘Its age, its lifestyle. Every detail about how it lived and died.’

Toby nodded. Bee went back to her desk, feeling as if her entire world had been turned upside down. Why was Gus eating a doughnut? He
never
had morning tea. Bee couldn’t remember ever seeing him eat before today. And he’d already had a sandwich!

‘Like Frankenstein’s treasure map,’ said Toby.

‘
Well
,’ said Gus. ‘If you like Frankenstein, let me tell you about Charles Guthrie.’

‘Who?’

‘In 1908, in Missouri, Charles Guthrie became the first person to master anastomosis.’

‘Ana-what?’ said Bee, curious despite herself.

‘Anastomosis,’ Toby told her. ‘The art of stitching one vessel to another without leaks.’

Gus nodded. ‘Guthrie grafted a dog’s head onto another dog.’

‘No
way
!’ said Toby.

Gus took another bite of doughnut. ‘Chin to chin,’ he said, through a mouthful of crumbs.

Bee felt a little sick. There was nothing orderly or methodical about two-headed dogs.

‘The upside-down dog started to cry in pain after about five hours, and Charlie put them both down after seven.’

‘Dude.’

‘That’s awful,’ said Bee.

‘That was only the beginning,’ said Gus. ‘In the Soviet Union in the fifties, scientists did more puppy-head transplants. Some of the puppies lived as long as twenty-nine days, and would eat and bark and try to bite their host dog.’

Bee shuddered, and was suddenly grateful that Gus hadn’t spoken much before.

Gus continued to chuckle and tell off-colour stories all day. And eat. Bee had never seen anyone eat so much. He had two hamburgers with chips for lunch, along with a strawberry milkshake, then inhaled a Crunchie, two lamingtons and a slice of banana bread for afternoon tea, washing it down with a large hazelnut cappuccino with extra froth and chocolate sprinkles. Bee was aghast.

Even as Toby was chatting and joking with Gus, Bee could feel him watching her, as if he were attempting to get a reaction. He kept trying to catch her eye – and succeeding far too often. What did he
want
? Was he just being annoying? Or did he like her? Bee wasn’t sure which option was worse. She just kept her head down and worked on her possum, clenching her jaw every time Gus laughed at something Toby said. Gus had never laughed with
her
. She and Gus didn’t have a laughing relationship. They had a relationship based on respect and professionalism.

The main body of the possum was now shaped, and Bee was working on its front left leg. She poked a sharpened piece of wire through the pad of the animal’s paw, and fed it through the limb to attach the body. She then turned the skin inside-out so she could wrap more cottonwool around the wire, as well as some thicker flax-string to stand in for the possum’s muscles.

‘So how long have you been working on this little fellow?’ Toby asked, leaning over her.

‘Not long,’ she said, although in truth the possum had been hard going and it had taken her all week to get this far. ‘I’ll finish it by the end of the day,’ she said.

Toby looked at the still rather limp furry body. ‘No, you won’t,’ he said, matter-of-factly.

‘I
will
!’ said Bee. But there was still a lot of work to do. She imagined the smarmy look on Toby’s face the next morning when he came into the lab. She was determined to prove him wrong.

Bee pulled out her phone and sent her mother a text message to say she’d be home late. She’d finish her possum. Even if she had to stay up all night.

GUS LEFT AT
8:37 pm, opening a packet of salt and vinegar chips on his way out. Bee fully expected Toby to bolt out the door as soon as Gus had gone, but to her surprise he stayed.

They didn’t speak, just worked silently. The only sound was the
snip
of scissors and the faint squeaking of cottonwool.

At 9:09 pm, Bee’s phone rang, making her jump. Her watch caught on a raw edge of possum fur and pulled one of her stitches free. She answered the phone, sliding her watch off and placing it on her desk.

‘Are you on your way home?’ her mother asked. ‘Can you pick up a pizza?’ Bee could hear familiar electronic beeps and whistles and metallic clanks in the background.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m still here.’

Toby looked over at her and grinned like an idiot. She turned her back on him.

‘Never mind,’ said Angela. ‘I’ll order in. Don’t work too hard!’

‘Was that your boyfriend?’ asked Toby, as Bee slipped her mobile into her bag and turned her attention to the broken stitch.

Surely if she ignored Toby he’d leave soon.

He didn’t.

Bee rubbed her eyes and glanced at the clock. It said 11:35 but it was still three minutes slow, so in fact it was 11:38. She glanced at Toby, who was bent over the head of the emu, carefully smoothing the stuffing around its neck. He must have felt her looking, because he spoke for the first time in two hours.

‘An emu’s hips are anatomically the closest thing in the animal kingdom to a human’s.’

Bee blinked, not sure what to do with that piece of information. ‘Do elderly emus have to get hip replacements?’ she said at last.

Toby leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘Our heart is closest to that of a pig,’ he went on. ‘We have lungs like a goat, knees like a brown bear, and a brain similar to that of a six-month-old Jersey cow.’

‘Really?’ said Bee. ‘How come I’ve never seen a Jersey cow win
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire
?’

Toby shrugged. ‘Their pool of general knowledge is pretty much limited to grass, milk and more grass.’

Bee laughed, in spite of the fact that she had vowed not to like Toby. ‘Anything else you’d like to share?’

He grinned. ‘Just one more. Your vagina is like a sheep’s. Not yours specifically,’ he added. ‘Just the human vagina in general.’

Bee blinked again.
Vagina
was not the kind of word scruffy-haired boys usually used. But it was becoming clear that Toby was not an ordinary scruffy-haired boy. ‘Does that line usually work for you?’

‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’ He reached into his bag and pulled out a little silver flask. ‘Drink?’

‘No thanks.’ Bee turned back to her possum.

‘So what did your boyfriend want?’ asked Toby after a few minutes.

‘It wasn’t my boyfriend.’

‘But you do have a boyfriend, right?’

‘Yes,’ said Bee, although she wasn’t entirely sure that was true. Fletch hadn’t made contact with her all summer. It was possible that he’d gone away with his family, but surely a dutiful boyfriend would send a postcard, or at the very least a text message to say Happy New Year. Of course Bee hadn’t contacted him either – she wasn’t going to be anyone’s pathetic nagging girlfriend. But the fact remained that she hadn’t heard from him in nearly four weeks, and that didn’t exactly bode well for the future (or even existence) of their relationship.

‘You sure about that?’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘Hit a nerve, did I?’ Toby smiled an infuriatingly knowing smile. ‘Sorry. I’ll drop it.’

He really was irritating. Of course he’d hit a nerve! But did he have to go and
talk
about it and
ask rude questions
instead of just shutting up like a normal, polite person would? She was at work; she didn’t want to talk about her
feelings
.

A part of Bee quietly pointed out that she was more annoyed by a guy she’d only known for twelve hours than she was by her apparent rejection at the hands of actual real-life boyfriend. The thing was, Bee felt faintly relieved to have been dumped (if, in fact, she had been). Fletch was good-looking, and he never talked about uncomfortable stuff or made exasperatingly teasing eyes at her, but he wasn’t very bright and he had a habit of picking his teeth in public. And while Bee had enjoyed the status that having a boyfriend like Fletch had bestowed upon her, he was a bit . . .
boring
. There was only so long a girl could sit around a guy’s living room watching him play Mario Kart before the shine wore off. If she’d been the kind of person who was fascinated by the pounding of a Wii controller, she could have just stayed home and hung out with her mother. At least Angela played more interesting games.

Despite all that, nobody liked to be dumped, and Bee’s pride was wounded. Fletch could at least have called her to let her know it was over. But she had a pretty good idea why he hadn’t, although she was choosing not to think about it. In any case, Bee had no desire to share any of this with smarmy smirking Toby, who was taking a slug from the flask and studying her with his twinkly eyes behind their hipster glasses.

Seeing her glare, he proffered the flask again. Bee’s glare intensified, and she shook her head.

Toby laughed. ‘Up to you.’

Bee wondered what would happen if she took it. She didn’t get the whole drinking thing; she couldn’t really see the point. But right now, she figured there were three options.

1. Maintain her stoic refusal, finish her possum and leave as soon as possible.

2. Have one very small sip from the flask, just to get Toby off her back.

3. Have a somewhat larger sip from the flask, and see what happened.

Although Bee had most definitely decided on Option 1, she couldn’t help being intrigued about the possibilities of Option 3, and felt it required a sub-list of potential outcomes.

a.
The alcohol would make Bee relax, and Toby might seem less irritating. In fact, it might lead to other things. Fun things. Things that Bee hadn’t associated with Toby before. Like touching that scruffy hair. Or seeing him without those trendy black glasses. Or sliding her hand behind the collar of that vintage penguin polo shirt . . . Stop!

b.
It would make Bee drunk, and she would do something stupid and/or embarrassing that she would definitely regret.

c.
She would become an alcoholic, her brain cells would instantly decay and she would forever rue the day she allowed herself to be tempted by peer pressure.

It was undeniably safest to go with Option 1. Stoic refusal was the only acceptable course of action. Bee was about to open her mouth and express this to Toby, but swallowed and coughed at the sudden burning feeling in the back of her throat. She swallowed again and realised with chagrin that while her brain had been busy calculating the pros and cons of accepting Toby’s whisky, her body had simply gone ahead and done it without any consultation. She felt her cheeks redden, and handed the flask back to Toby. She wasn’t a blusher! Who
was
this boy who could just waltz into her laboratory and turn her into an alcohol-consuming blusher?

Stoic refusal was clearly no longer an option.

‘Did you know,’ said Toby, slurring slightly, ‘that slugs have four noses?’

They were sitting on the floor. According to the clock on the wall, it was 12:06. Bee’s head felt a little fuzzy.

‘I did not know that,’ she said. ‘I don’t like slugs. Snails are better.’

‘They
are
better,’ said Toby. ‘They have teeth, too. One day I will tell you something beautiful and a little bit dirty about snails.’

‘Tell me now!’

Toby shook his head. ‘I don’t think you’re ready for it.’

‘Fine. So what else do you know?’

‘I know
so
many things. I know that the goldfish is the only animal in the whole world who can see in infrared and ultraviolet. I know that more people have been killed by fleas than by other people. I know that every mammal has seven vertebrae in their necks, even giraffes with their very long necks and rugby players with no necks at all. Except for manatees and two-toed sloths, which have six vertebrae. And three-toed sloths have
nine
, which seems greedy to me.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Bee, who was also struggling to comprehend simple concepts such as
talking
and
where her hands were supposed to go when she wasn’t using them.

‘It’s so they can turn their heads all the way around when they’re hanging upside down,’ explained Toby.

‘No,’ said Bee, shaking her head and making her entire world turn upside down for a moment. ‘I understand about the sloths. Why do you
know
all those things?’

Toby squinted at the flask. ‘Actually, the two-toed sloth has three toes,’ he said. ‘It has two
fingers
. It’s not very closely related to the three-toed sloth, even though you can barely tell the difference by looking at them. Their common ancestor lived about forty million years ago, making it a rather exquisite example of convergent evolution.’

This speech was delivered with knowledgeable flair, which Toby ruined completely by belching at the end.

Bee stared at him. ‘This is how you try to impress girls, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe,’ said Toby. ‘Is it working?’

Bee shrugged. ‘A little,’ she admitted. ‘But seriously. Why the internal encyclopaedia?’

Toby laughed. ‘I want to be a Thingy. You know.’

‘Quiz-show winner?’

‘No.’ Toby shook his head. ‘A zoo—’

‘Keeper?’

Toby smirked. ‘—ologist,’ he said. ‘A zoologist. Or an entomologist, I haven’t decided yet.’

‘But you’re studying medicine,’ said Bee.

Toby looked at her. ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding. ‘Yes, I am. Not studying veterinary science at all.
Medicine
.’

‘So is that why you’re here? To do some of the zoology stuff?’

‘Sure. Let’s go with that.’

Bee was beginning to think that maybe if she hadn’t drunk from the little silver flask, she wouldn’t be so confused. ‘Why
are
you here?’

Toby took another swig. ‘I failed my final exam last year. That’s the reason I’m here. To make up the extra credit.’

‘Why did you fail?’

Toby looked away. ‘What’s through that door?’ He waved the flask towards the low stone archway by Gus’s desk.

Bee wondered in a blurry sort of way why Toby was being evasive. Was he embarrassed that he’d failed his exam? Or was it something else? More importantly, what did his hair smell like? It looked as though it would smell nice.

‘The old Catacombs,’ she said, trying to push away the thought of Toby’s hair. ‘About fifty years’ worth of old stuffed animals and empty glass cases.’

‘Sounds creepy.’

‘It is. All those glass eyes and dust.’

‘So let’s go and check it out.’ Toby stood up.

Bee shook her head. ‘We should really get back to work.’

‘Great idea,’ said Toby, snorting. ‘Because what you should do after drinking whisky is handle dangerous chemicals, knives and needles.’

‘I’m not
drunk
,’ said Bee. ‘I’m
fine
. Plus we don’t use dangerous chemicals anymore.’