Free Fall Girl by Toni Jordan Page A

you’ll find her in her office. Second floor. Near the lift.’
    Daniel Metcalf will not think twice about this advice. He will not ask for me at the window marked Information , but as he walks past the directory on the wall he will see my name displayed.
    My family is a team of professionals who work together like cogs in a beautiful machine. Everything hinges on the next few minutes; this is why my job is the most exciting in the world. I almost feel sorry for Daniel Metcalf.
    This incursion would have been more difficult just a few years ago when universities were bustling places filled with researchers and ideas. Luckily for us, thinking is no longer valued. Universities have been transformed from crowded rooms with too many academics squeezed into a tiny space to understaffed halls with many empty or half-empty offices occupied by casual and sessional lecturers whom no one recognises by sight or even by name.
    In the Zoology Department, one such empty room is 257, near the lift on the second floor. Near the lift is good: there is less chance of being seen filing in and out than if we had chosen a room at the far end of the corridor. I have already cased the building. This involves checking the exits but, more importantly, visiting the bathroom. I did the same at the Metcalf mansion on Friday, before I was shown in to see Daniel. Even when you anticipate no problems you should see if there are bars or locks on the windows of the toilets, and whether you could fit through these windows if the need arose. Jobs can curdle very quickly. It is smart to be prepared.
    A desk and a chair and a peeling paint job were already there when we arrived; no one noticed the delivery woman who brought the extra boxes in at 8 am. The room is now decorated with framed newspaper clippings, a joke farewell card from Harvard, some academic citations from obscure institutions. There is a coffee mug that says ‘Ella’, two photos of an elderly couple and one of three blond children who will prove to be my mythical parents, nieces and nephew, piles of papers and copies of journals, a jar of Belgian chocolates wrapped in foil, an umbrella.
    The delivery woman’s overalls are folded in a box under the desk: now I am wearing tight tailored pants and a black short-sleeved top. I typically don’t reveal much skin, just shape. Over the top, I wear a lab coat—perhaps not strictly accurate for an office day, but expected by a layman. Around my neck is a blue cord that should be attached to a security pass, but the pass is in the top pocket of the coat so no one can see it is laminated cardboard. This is a barely adequate solution but we had no time to obtain a real one. Anders fixed my glasses for me last night. One arm was crooked, that was the trouble. They sit easier now.
    With twenty seconds to spare, I open the door of my new office and stick three aluminium name strips on the front door with double sided tape. One is etched: Dr Ella Canfield. The other names are underneath this, and are crudely written on torn strips of paper: Elvis Aaron Presley and Dr A. B. Snowman. I answer the door at the first knock.
    Daniel gestures to the signs on the door. ‘You share your office with illustrious company,’ he says.
    I frown, and look up and down the corridor to make sure it’s empty. Then I grab the strips with the fake names and roll them into a ball. ‘My colleagues, next door. They’re marsupial researchers. My project is a source of constant amusement to them. Apparently they don’t think much of my chances.’
    He stands in front of the desk and I close the door then lean with my back against it. ‘Look, Daniel. Would you mind if we went somewhere else? If Larry, Curly and Moe from next door find out about this I’ll never hear the end of it.’
    â€˜Knock on their door and invite them in,’ he says. ‘I’m sure you could convince them there really are live Tasmanian tigers