Fall Girl (11 page)

‘He's just another rich guy who doesn't know which end is up,' says Julius, who often seems to read my mind. ‘You know how much we've made from people like that over the years. Rich people. Dumb as planks. It's the inbreeding, you know. They've got the IQ of a floorboard. Metcalf won't even know he's been done.'

‘You should have heard him today, at the uni,' I say. ‘“Glenda will still be around then? She won't be in the Mojave Desert chasing coyotes?” I could barely keep a straight face.'

‘Now Della,' my father says. ‘I know it's tempting to make sport with these fools. But it's not their fault, remember.'

‘No one just gives away that much money,' says Sam. ‘Not even someone stupid. Something smells.'

Sam is not normally like this. He is normally up for anything. He's the one who sees possibilities, not problems.

We have been talking for hours. The blackboard is filled with lines and arrows and lists and figures. It is dark outside now and the brocade wallpaper does not help the light in here. There are three empty bottles of merlot and ten dirty glasses, and take-away pizza boxes in the middle of the table next to the crystal candelabra and months of raised mounds of set candle wax. I drove to the shops and picked up the pizzas myself. I had a sudden fear my father would ask for home delivery.

He had only one slice, despite Ruby's urging, and no dessert. Perhaps he is feeling unwell. Also on the table are camping-store catalogues downloaded from the web and my piles of books from the library. Occasionally someone reaches for one and flicks through it, as if they were in a dentist's office.

‘There are all kinds of charitable trusts, when you know to look for them,' Julius says. ‘Family trusts, trusts set up by private philanthropists, by big business. Trusts that give money for poetry, classical music, art history. There's nothing strange about it at all. We've just never targeted it before, that's all. I'm seriously thinking about being a violin prodigy from some third-world country for my next job.'

‘I didn't know you could play the violin,' says Beau.

‘I've hurt my arm. Lifting water from the well. Maybe I need the money for an urgent wrist tendon cartilage elbow stem cell operation to save my career. An arthroscopic hemi-orthomolecular tendonectomy. And here's a genius recording I made earlier.'

‘I think we can lighten up on the well, Julius,' I say.

He shrugs. ‘Feeding the goats then. It's got to be exotic or they won't buy it. I can't say I hurt it on my Wii Fit.'

‘Della,' says Ruby, ‘what do we really know about Metcalf?'

‘What's to know?' I say. ‘Daniel is just another over-privileged under-disciplined rich boy.'

‘Now now, Della,' says my father. ‘Let's not be prejudicial. Young Metcalf has not had the benefit of your upbringing. He was never trained to live by his wits. He was not brought up to live the rare and wild life of the fox or the eagle. He is imprisoned by values that are not of his making. He is a battery chicken in a gilded cage. He is a gelding with a golden bridle, tamed with a bit of iron.'

‘I don't think he's a gelding,' says Greta.

‘If we're the fox, I'm pretty sure he should be a rabbit,' says Beau.

‘It doesn't matter what he is,' I say.

‘Unless we're an eagle. Then he could be a chicken. But he'd have to be a small chicken if an eagle was to grab him, because the eagles around here aren't that big,' says Beau. ‘Maybe he's a quail.'

‘I don't think he's a quail either,' says Greta.

‘It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter,' I say. ‘For all I care he can be a bloody Tasmanian tiger. All that matters is the money.'

‘I can't believe you can look at him and only see the money,' says Greta. ‘What's wrong with you?'

‘Perhaps Della has not space in her affections for any other man,' says my father. He winks at Sam. Ruby rolls her eyes.

‘All right,' I say. ‘It was funny the first hundred times or so. Memo to all of you. This business with Timothy has gone far enough.'

‘It'd be better psychologically if you saw Metcalf as a chicken,' says Beau. ‘Positive visualisation.'

‘I am not going to think of Daniel as any kind of bird whatsoever,' I say. ‘I'm not going to think of him at all. He's a mark. That's it. He's not one of us.'

‘There's nothing insulting about being a chicken,' Beau says. ‘They can be quite intelligent, you know. They talk to each other. If a predator is coming, they can tell another chicken what kind it is. A fox, for example.'

‘“Daniel?”' says Sam. ‘That's twice you called him Daniel.'

‘You're an idiot,' I say. ‘That's his name. And you. Forget about the chicken.'

‘It's not easy being continually underestimated, Della,' Beau says. ‘I know. I can see it from the chicken's point of view.'

‘Metcalf is certainly a famous name in Melbourne society circles,' says my father. ‘It would be a feather in our cap to lighten the young man's pockets just a little.'

‘I'm for it,' says Uncle Syd. ‘We should trust Della, whatever she calls him. She knows what she's doing.'

‘Me too. My granny was a scullery maid for the Metcalfs during the Great Depression, cleaning silver and lighting fires. This is decades of back wages,' says Ava. ‘And Samson. You shouldn't tease your sister in that way. It's an important part of her job, to make men fall in love with her.'

‘I don't think it's
that
important,' I say. ‘I do have a brain, you know.'

‘Don't you remember the Kowalski sting, Della? Milton Kowalski, he was in love with you. I think he proposed, didn't he? And before that, the vicar who was responsible for the parish investments? And he gave investment advice to the whole congregation, remember? That church was loaded. What was his name?' says Beau.

‘I thought he was going to faint every time he saw you, the reverend. The way he ran his finger around the inside of his collar like it was suddenly too tight. Incredibly phallic, it was,' says Uncle Syd. ‘Don't make a face, Della. You've never objected to playing the femme fatale before.'

‘I'm not objecting. It's just that there's more to it than that.'

‘You're frightened of him,' says Sam. ‘Metcalf. I can see it in your eyes. You've been frightened of him since you first met him.'

‘I'm not frightened of anybody, much less a Metcalf. I'm reeling him in.'

‘You don't have to tell me,' says Aunt Ava. ‘I was young once. I made a good living out of my face and figure in those days. Having men fall for you is an occupational hazard in this business, Della. Just keep your eye on the ball.'

‘I'm not on the game, you know,' I say. ‘I make a living the same way you all do. I don't work lying on my back.'

‘Just as well, or we'd all starve to death,' says Greta under her breath.

‘Excuse me Greta. It's not that easy to meet someone, you know?' I say.

‘Stick to your own circle. You've got heaps of men to choose from, just in the people we know,' says Greta.

‘Really.'

‘Certainly,' my father says. ‘What's wrong with Tony? He's always asking me about you.'

‘Which Tony?' says Greta. ‘The SP bookie? Or the financial planner who does the money laundering?'

‘There's lots of guys down at the track,' says Beau. ‘Carl, Louis. The guy with the eczema, what's his name? The one who trains greyhounds. He's got a great car.'

‘Thanks so much for the advice,' I say. ‘Really. You all need to get a hobby.'

‘There's Omar the loan shark,' says Anders. ‘I could get you his number.'

‘Decoupage. Bongo playing. Anything,' I say.

‘You've made the right choice anyway,' says Greta. ‘Tim's the cream of the crop.'

‘As fascinating as this little digression is, if we could get back to the matter at hand?' says Ruby. ‘We need to discuss if this job is even feasible. It wasn't set up as a long con. There's a tremendous amount of work to be done in a limited amount of time. Now. Metcalf has already seen me, and Greta and Julius.'

‘Do I have to sleep outside? Because I don't know if I can do that,' says Greta. ‘There are bugs outside. There's no chance I can stay in a motel for this job, thanks to you Della, thanks to you giving me claustrophobia. Great idea, that was.'

Greta's right. It was impulsive and amateurish of me to give her claustrophobia just because I was annoyed with her. If I had known we'd be spending the weekend with Metcalf I'd have given her something else. Leprosy, perhaps.

‘Della. Ruby's right. Be realistic. This weekend is under four days away,' says Sam. ‘You've never been camping. You don't know the first thing about animals. And as for science, for God's sake. People study for years to become scientists. You've never even been to school, none of us has. This will be intense. Lots of time with him. He'll ask a lot of questions. You won't be able to pull it off.'

‘Or you don't want me to pull it off,' I say. ‘This is what I do Sam. I'm good at this.'

‘I know you are.' He shakes his head. ‘But this is too hard. I'm trying to look after you.'

‘I don't need looking after. I need a team that is completely committed. Are you saying you won't help?' I stick out my chin like I couldn't care less, but I know it won't be possible without Sam.

He sighs and puts his hands on the table, palms down. ‘Of course not. Of course I'll help, if we vote to do it. But I think it's a mistake.'

We do not talk for much longer. Ruby asks some more questions about the specifics, about who should play which roles, about how the tasks would be divided. She sounds like her usual cautious self but this time I think she is not on my side. Greta and Uncle Syd have some other plans in train for a job of their own but these could be postponed for one week without detriment. By ten, everyone has said everything they need to and some have said more than they should. We have already invested more time in this than we had planned.

By the time my father calls for the vote we are tired after our busy weekend and early morning running around the university making everything ready. Nine arms go up to vote yes, some confident like me and Julius and Aunt Ava, some reluctant like Beau and Ruby. Only Sam votes no.

It's three o'clock in the morning and I cannot sleep. I have lain still on my front and back and tossed and turned, and the more I worry about the few hours remaining before dawn the more violent my movements become. In the kitchen I put the kettle on to boil and as I wait my eyes drop closed by themselves. This is infuriating. Bloody eyes. They couldn't manage this while I was horizontal? I hear footsteps in the hall and snap my head up: someone has seen the light.

‘Della?' says Ruby. She pulls out a stool and sits at the servery, rubs her eye with her fist. Although we bought our dressing gowns separately they are nearly the same: a soft golden satin that drapes around us. It is the middle of the night, and her hair is perfect.

‘Tea?' I say. I make Russian Caravan in a china pot the way she likes, and I lean against the cupboards as we sip.

‘He might not be right, your brother,' she says eventually. ‘There's a good chance you're right.'

‘What's the risk–return ratio of “a good chance”? How do I add that up on Dad's blackboard?'

‘That's the game, isn't it? That's where the courage comes in.'

Yesterday at the university and in the meeting, I wasn't thinking about the technical issues. Now it is all I think about. Changing mid-job from a short con which relies on paperwork with only one face-to-face to a long con with several meetings and three consistent personas is risky. It's almost never done. If I had known from the beginning it was to be a long con I would have done more research. I would know Daniel Metcalf back to front, better than he knows himself. But there is no time for that now.

‘You're not even sure it's a good idea. You don't believe in it. I could see it on your face, when you voted.' I put my cup down and close my eyes and tap my head against the cupboard door. ‘A Tasmanian tiger. For God's sake. What was I thinking?'

She says nothing. She waits. She looks at me with her Ruby eyes.

‘He is not going to believe this,' I say. ‘No one is going to believe this. I should have picked something more sensible, more reasonable.'

Ruby takes a slow sip of her tea. She spreads her hands and counts as she speaks, ticking off her fingers. ‘A cream that melts away cellulite,' she says. ‘A powder that goes in the fuel tank that means you hardly ever have to fill your car. Tablets you swallow that fill in your wrinkles from the inside. Plant juice from a remote village in Siberia that will stop ageing if you drink it every day. There are so many wonderful ideas out there.'

I nod. ‘I know, I know.'

‘And don't even mention the Hitler Diaries. I've never seen your father so depressed. It nearly killed him, not to have thought of that first. It was 1983, I'll never forget it. He wouldn't get out of his bathrobe for months. Those clever men made millions and they were only in jail for a few months. Worth it, I would have thought.'

‘I guess.'

‘You only have to read the papers to see what people will believe. Gods of every description. Angels. Ghosts. UFOs. Wives who would never cheat on their husbands. Mining company shares you can buy for ten cents that'll be worth two hundred dollars by the end of next week because a secret mine's going to be announced. Investment funds that pay twenty-seven per cent.'

‘You're right. I know.'

‘It's the Gods I really don't understand,' she says. ‘If you fervently and absolutely believe in your own God, you must acknowledge that someone on the other side of the world believes in their God just as fervently. You can't both be right. Yet believers never have any doubt at all. They actually despise other people for feeling exactly the same as they do.'