Fall Girl (26 page)

‘He's not a mark,' I say. ‘He never was.'

‘If he was planning to cancel it, why did he give it to you in the first place?' Sam says.

‘I don't know. He did, that's all.'

‘Della,' Sam grips me by the shoulders and gives me a small shake. ‘Think. For God's sake, this is important. We're on the verge of losing everything, including Dad. Why did he give it to you?'

‘I don't know,' I say again.

‘You're lying.' He lets go of my arms and pushes me away.

‘Some sick idea of a game, probably,' says Beau. ‘As soon as the bank opens for business he'll be phoning and cancelling it. A waste of time to deposit it, I reckon.'

‘Della.' Sam raises his voice, then looks around too late to make sure no one will notice. ‘Will he cancel it? You've been the mechanic on this job, you're supposed to be able to read him. Will he cancel the cheque?'

‘No,' I say finally. ‘I don't think he will.'

‘Then just deposit it. Put it in an express envelope. Or take it in yourself and ask for a fast clearance. Even if you're wrong, the bank can't catch you. The worst they can do is decline it. But for God's sake Della, deposit it. We need that money.'

I don't speak. I can't. My head is telling me that Sam is right. There is no logical reason not to cash that cheque. But still I don't reply.

‘There's no risk and maybe it'll take Metcalf a while to cancel it. In fact, Della,' says Sam, ‘Metcalf might have his own reasons for not cancelling it.'

With quarter of a million dollars, we could pay out whatever mortgage Dad has taken on the house. So we could still live here, together. It could buy him a new identity when he got out of prison. It would mean my life could keep going just as it has been.

‘No,' I say.

Beau kicks the wall beside us. Sam runs his fingers through his hair.

‘Della,' he says. ‘You know enough about banking to know there is no risk in this. You go to the bank, you put the cheque in, you leave. Your ID is solid and anyway, they won't process it in front of you. Just deposit the cheque.'

‘I can't,' I say.

Sam's face is white, his lips turn under, his eyes narrow. The muscles working in his throat show me the effort he is making to be calm. ‘Della. I'm begging you. It doesn't just belong to you. We all worked on this. Don't be an idiot. Think of someone besides yourself. We've got everything to gain and you've got nothing to lose. Just cash the cheque. It can't hurt you.'

I shake my head. Sam is wrong. This time I feel I have a lot to lose. And it can hurt me.

The bunk is hard under my back. Or maybe it's that my shoulders are stiffer than usual tonight. In the last few weeks my arms have browned in the sun and grown strong. My hands are no longer manicured nails, soft skin. I look down at them: they are callused, the nails are peeling polish, broken and rough.

For weeks I have not been to a shop or a restaurant. I have not used a computer or read a newspaper. My work is never dull, though: sometimes I pick the fruit but just as often I tend the chickens, chase them when they escape into the garden. I hunt for their small brown eggs under bushes. The farm dogs want feeding, their bowls need cleaning. The Jervises do not send me far out on to the farm. I am still too soft or, more likely, untrusted. Instead I weed the kitchen vegetable patch and pod peas for Janice, the cook. On rainy days I stay inside and scrub pots or stew fruit. Right now there are only two others in the women's bunk house. They are country girls from Queensland, ready to embark on a city life, only in their teens. They are working their way around the country staying on farms before they go to university. It is a lark for them. They do not speak to me. I do not know if this is because the Jervises have warned them or because of the look in my eyes.

The first week of my exile I could do almost nothing but lie in this bunk. I'm sure the Jervises thought I was dying. My head throbbed. Under the thin blankets I shivered and sweated. I could not bear light. I lay with my head flat on the mattress and the pillow over my eyes. Every moment I ached to have him again. I could not bring myself to eat, especially not the toast and eggs so begrudgingly left outside my door. I know they were only feeding me to avoid the one thing that would be worse than having me on their farm: disposing of my body.

But over time it would appear to someone who doesn't know me that I have recovered, and now I fit in with everyone else. We all rise at five to start work when dawn breaks, two or three hours of chores before breakfast. It is tiring but there is more free time here than I would have imagined. By three or four the day is done. On Sundays, the others go to town to see a movie or drink at the pub and I am the only one who stays behind.

On these days I stay in the front room and watch hours of television. The satellite brings in hundreds of stations: dramas and comedies and tragedies, old and new. Frivolous, my father would call it. Superficial chewing gum for the intellect and Novocain for the spirit.

It does not feel like this to me. It feels like luxury, these hundreds of actors and writers and their loyal crew striving to entertain only me. I love Discovery Channel. It's like actually being an archaeologist or a herpetologist or a medical examiner, without any of the research or practice. And I cannot stop watching British comedy. The idea that I can sit on this lumpy old couch and be entertained, for nothing, at the touch of a button? In past centuries queens and empresses made do with lame jugglers or some fool singing a ditty or a performing monkey with scabies. I am immeasurably richer than they.

While living and working on the farm I have learned many things. I love strawberries and am greedy for them. Even the sight of them cheers me, the colour and the smell. Sometimes I just stand and eat them instead of collecting them in the bucket. I love not only the farm dogs, as I have always thought I would, but the cats too. Early mornings I like better than I expected. There is a quietness in the air and a sense that anything is possible. I like mashing potatoes. Earl Grey tea with lemon. Sitting in front of the fire and reading. The farmhouse has a stained-glass window in the kitchen that throws jewel-coloured patterns on the polished floor. If I were to ever have a home of my own, I'd like a window just like that.

I've discovered I don't like country music. It's so sad. Who needs that? And I don't like clutter. If I still had my own room I'd get rid of the wardrobes and buy a bigger one, then I'd put all my bears and nicknacks out of sight. In fact, I'd throw out all the bears except the one my mother gave me. I don't like cleaning the bathroom, although I'm fine with doing dishes. I don't mind the curl in my hair anymore. I wear it up in a plain ponytail, out of the way. It's been weeks since I tried to straighten it. I dress in old jeans and men's flannel shirts and it's remarkable but I don't mind that either.

And now I understand that there is more than one way to be alone. At Cumberland Street, even when I was in my room or in the shower, the house breathed with all of us. Here, even when we gather around the table at dinner time, I am always by myself.

The other girls are outside having a smoke before bed, talking about their plans, telling stories about their parents. They roll their own cigarettes on white papers with agile, stained fingers, then smoke them pinched between thumb and forefinger instead of resting between the tips of their stretched middle and ring. It is almost as if they do not judge whether an action is ladylike or not before they do it.

I am nearly asleep when there is a knock on the door. I know at once it is something important. Jervis can barely bring himself to speak and Mrs Jervis does not acknowledge me; she tiptoes and whispers when she sees me coming. Perhaps they think I am a murderer on the run. It must be some debt they owe my father, to tolerate my presence like this when their discomfort is so apparent.

‘Come,' I say, and the door opens with a reluctance I can feel.

‘This was in the mail today,' Jervis says. He drops an envelope on the end of my bunk and clears his throat. ‘I don't want any more of these coming, do you hear? Upsets the wife.'

His face is twisted like a coil of rope. I would hate to disillusion him; clearly he thinks I'm powerful enough to control distant people who want to write to me, using only the power of my mind. I cannot resist.

‘It's here,' I say. ‘Great. Instructions for my next job. Who's gonna get iced and where I should put the body. Say, Jervis. You've got that empty field in the north-west corner, don't you? Can I borrow a shovel?'

His eyes and mouth grow wide and for an instant I think he's going to cry. Then he slams the door and I can hear him rush back down the hall. I can't help but laugh. These days even when things are serious I can't help being flippant.

The envelope says: Heloise McGregor, c/- Jervis. Then the address of the farm, written in a spidery hand.

Dear Hel,

You've been quiet lately but I know you can't help that. Your dad's
well and waiting his trial. He's had the best lawyers that money can
buy, paid by a friend who has stuck by us. If you can spare a day I'd
be glad to see you and tell you news. There are no hard feelings Hel. Just so's you know. I'll be in the house every Friday at 2, until the
end of next month. It'll be safe, I promise.

R.

This is not the first note I've received. Once I even had a visitor, a bikie with a grizzled grey beard, entrusted with a message. So I already knew Ruby wasn't charged by the police, but she had been identified and forced to give statements. This was punishment enough. I also knew that my father was managing all right on remand. He was using his enforced sabbatical to broaden his knowledge of Aristotelian philosophy and organise a chess competition for the inmates. He was seeing doctors, following instructions like a lamb.

So this is not news. I am glad that someone has provided a good lawyer, but surprised. Lawyers are expensive. It's a miracle that one of my father's ragbag collection of friends has cash to spare, and also incredible that now he has been arrested they have not all shrunk from him like he was contagious.

I also knew that my Uncle Syd and Aunt Ava had hidden behind the false wall just as Sam assumed. It was built especially for them; they are not of an age to climb over roofs or down into cellars. They stayed there for almost thirty-six hours, sneaking out at night for water and food, because the detectives were busy during the day searching for evidence and a patrol was stationed outside for the first night. After that, they packed their belongings and let themselves out the front door. They have moved to North Queensland where the climate suits them better. They have both pierced their ears and are working as travelling psychics, making more money than they have in years. The reports I've received say they are happy.

Julius has stayed in Melbourne and is renting a penthouse in the city. He is building his fortune, apparently, as a Russian online bride who only needs a few thousand to bribe an official for a visa and then a few thousand more for an air ticket to come here to Australia to be with her new beloved. I'm sure his Russian English is convincing. He has a real knack for patois.

Anders has moved to the country and started a cult. Only two followers so far, I'm told, but he has high hopes. I am pleased about this. For years we have known that religion is the best way to encourage people to hand over cash without hesitation, but we haven't capitalised on it until now. I can see Anders in robes and sandals, Christ-like, but not so wan. Good for him.

Greta has certainly landed on her feet. She has moved in with Timothy. A surprise, but the more I think of it the more it makes perfect sense. His family empire is booming and Timothy is dipping his toe in more legitimate pursuits. She would not have given him a second glance before but Greta knows a good business opportunity when she sees it.

Sam is in hiding, like me. It was decided that he and I were the most at risk from the law, being Dad's only children. I don't even know where he is. At times I want more than anything to speak with him, to know he is all right. But I know we have nothing to say to each other. Of the things that haunt me, the look on his face when we parted outside Cumberland Street that morning is one of the worst.

Only Beau is struggling outside the bosom of the family. When word of my father's arrest spread, the McGuire siblings unsurprisingly disappeared as though they had never existed, along with Beau's hope of the treasure and all my father invested. Dad's probably still defending them.
Naturally they've disappeared, my dear,
he'll say.
What would you expect? That they stay around in the face of
the police? Although they badly misjudged my character if they thought I
would lead the authorities to them.
Beau is, I hear, also blind to the truth about the McGuires, who I know in my bones are husband and wife. Beau is leaving the family business and getting a proper job. This is for the best, I can see. Not everything is in your genes, and he's never really been cut out for it. He's planning to become a stockbroker.

‘No hard feelings', Ruby says in her note. Maybe not from her. When my father is thinking clearly again he will know that he was the one who broke the rules, so he must accept the consequences. If any of us had broken his rules he would have expected that we take our punishment with our head high. He certainly expected this of my mother.

The rest of the family may be another matter. That day I left Sam standing on the footpath in front of Cumberland Street, he was beyond angry with me. And that was before he knew that the house was mortgaged and we needed Daniel's money more than he'd thought. I know none of the cousins are speaking to me either: I have received notes or messages from all of them expressing their horror of my betrayal. I understand all of this. I have stuck fast to my decision but if I were in their place and it was Greta or Sam who had done this, I would feel the same as they do.