Araluen

by Judy Nunn

  ‘And this is Gussy and Ben Drummle – my co writer, Emma Clare.’ Michael introduced the rather dowdy little English couple who looked more like domestic help rather than master criminals. Emma wondered at the strange choice but she said nothing until, having talked through the night’s work ahead, the three actors left.

  ‘Why Gussy and Ben?’ she asked. ‘They’re straight out of Upstairs, Downstairs, not at all like the characters we conceived.’

  ‘I changed it,’ Michael said airily, rolling another joint. It’s much more innovative if the mastermind’s assistants are a colourless little married couple from the Midlands. I’m even calling them Gussy and Ben.’

  ‘You’re actually making the crooks a married couple?’ Emma was astonished.

  ‘Yes, original, isn’t it?’

  ‘Unbelievable, I’d say.’

  ‘Rubbish. Adds colour. Too late to change it now anyway.’

  Emma felt a surge of indignation. They always conferred on script changes and she found Michael’s blase attitude irritating. She was about to retaliate when Stanley, sensing a confrontation, wisely defused the situation.

  ‘They’re good, Emma. We’ve been rehearsing the scenes and the stunts and they’re really good, believe me.’

  Emma recognised Stanley’s diplomacy and backed off. Michael was right, it was too late to change it now and he was the producer and director, after all. She would have liked to have been consulted though. ‘I hope you’re right, Stanley,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have a shower.

  Dinner’s at eight-thirty, right?’ ‘Right.’

  ‘See you in the dining room then.’

  Michael wasn’t there at eight-thirty and when Emma phoned up to his room he told her that he wasn’t hungry and that he’d meet them in the lounge at ten. The six-hour nightshoot was scheduled for ten-thirty.

  ‘You’re going to go right through till half-past four in the morning without any food?’ she queried disapprovingly.

  ‘There’ll be caterers on location,’ he said.

  ‘Nevertheless … ’

  ‘All right, tell Tony to send me up a sandwich,’ he interrupted. ‘Now be a good girl and go and have your dinner, I’m taking a little rest just like you told me to.’

  But Michael wasn’t resting and he didn’t eat the sandwich that the cook sent up to him. He opened another bottle of Dom Perignon instead and sat out on the balcony looking over the bay. Below him, he could see the lights of the Royal Perth Yacht Club in the early stillness of the evening and he recalled the excitement of last night. And he anticipated the excitement of tonight. His mind was buzzing.

  The afternoon in the sun and the joints he’d smoked had left him a little weary so he’d taken two uppers when he’d returned to his room. Now he was feeling good.

  At nine-thirty he snorted a couple of hefty lines and looked down once more at the lights of the Yacht Club. Tonight held such promise. Tonight was the true test, the culmination of months of planning. He was exhilarated.

  ‘Ready?’ Let’s go,’ he swept into the lounge room where Emma and Stanley were waiting. ‘Give us a hand, Stan.’ Together the two men lifted the dummy trophy, still covered in its sheet, from the table and they made their way out the front door to the waiting car and driver.

  As they drove the short distance to the Yacht Club, Emma was sure she could read the unmistakable signs of cocaine. Michael was talking a lot and loudly. He was jumpy, charged with energy. When they arrived, however, and he introduced her to the gathering of people, he was instantly calm, the professional, efficient director, and she could only suppose that she must have been wrong. He was on a natural ‘high’ just as he said he had been that morning. She shook off her misgivings – it wasn’t for her to judge anyway.

  Jonathan, Gussy and Ben were in the make-up van parked in the Yacht Club grounds and the rest of the crew were standing around outside waiting impatiently to set up the first shot of the evening. Several small-part players and extras dressed as security guards and policemen were also milling about. With the exception of Michael and Stanley, nobody was allowed inside the Club until the dummy Cup had been exchanged and the real one locked away.

  ‘Emma, this is Geoff Neilson, head of security. It’s all right if Emma comes in and watches the exchange, isn’t it, Geoff?’ Before the dour-faced guard could answer Michael continued, ‘Emma’s my co-writer and I’d be deeply grateful.’ The look indicated that there would be something in it for him. Geoff had already accepted a little extra on the side, a little personal something above the generous donation Michael had openly made to the Club coffers. He nodded and Michael grinned to himself. As always, Grandpa Franklin was right: When you’ve bought them once, you can always buy them again.

  Two policemen carried the dummy Cup into the small viewing hall where three security men were standing beside a locked glass cabinet. Inside the cabinet was the America’s Cup.

  Michael, Emma and Stanley stood to one side as Geoff unlocked the cabinet and nodded to the security men to remove the Cup. The policemen whisked the sheet off the dummy and stood by waiting to make the exchange.

  There was something strangely ceremonial about it all, Emma thought, something reverent. As the Cups were exchanged in complete silence, she glanced at Stanley. The dummy was certainly magnificent – he’d been right: it was impossible to tell them apart. He caught her eye and gave her a returning wink of agreement.

  As the dummy was placed in the cabinet and the security men carrying the real Cup slowly walked past Emma, she wanted to put out her hand and touch it. Silly, she thought, it’s just a trophy. But it did symbolise man’s struggle against the elements and there was something so solemn about the occasion that she felt she should pay homage to it. The America’s Cup. She longed to touch it. One look at the intractable Geoff Neilson, though, and she knew she’d be out of line.

  Once the Cup was safely locked away, the night’s work started in earnest. There was a tedious hour or so while the lighting man set up the lights and Michael and the director of photography discussed their shots and the sound man rigged the actors with radio microphones.

  Then they were ready to go. Emma heard the word ‘Action’, then she watched, spellbound in the dark, as Jonathan, Gussy and Ben, dressed in black and with blackened faces, crept down the corridor. Soundlessly, in single file, pressed against the wall, their masked torches affording them just the barest glimmer to see their way.

  It was eerie. The lighting man had done a remarkable job. The rays of fake moonlight through the windows illuminated the burglars as they stopped at the entrance to the viewing hall. Ben and Gussy looked to Jonathan. He gave an imperceptible nod and they parted, Ben towards the alarm system and Gussy towards the cabinet.

  ‘Cut,’ Michael called. The first master shot was in the can.

  They filmed the scene several more times from different angles. Then they changed the lens and the lighting and shot the close-ups.

  A shaft of moonlight. Jonathan in command. The granite face, which Emma knew to be so impressive on camera, barely moved. The orders came through the eyes. And that one imperceptible nod.

  Ben and Gussy. The close-ups of each of them a study in utter concentration. Senses quivering. Animals, alert for predators, sensing their prey.

  Then it was time to film the deactivating of the burglar alarm. Again Emma watched fascinated as, in the gleam of Jonathan’s torch, Ben worked on the intricate alarm system. His fingers were dexterous. It was a surgeon’s operation, she thought, or the defusing of a bomb – Stanley had certainly schooled him well. But despite his confidence, the tension was palpable as the beads of sweat the make-up artists had applied to his brow and upper lip caught the flickers of light.

  The next shot was Gussy picking the lock of the cabinet in the shielded glow of Jonathan’s torch. Obviously her research and rehearsal had been equally intense. She performed with utter concentration, deft and efficient and totally believable.

  When Gussy was halfway
there, Jonathan shone his torch onto his watch, then tapped her on the shoulder and nodded to Ben. In an instant, the torch went off and all three melted into the shadows. Ten seconds later, one of the extras playing a security guard wandered across the corridor and shone his torch briefly into the hall. The procedure was authentic. On the nightly rounds, at a quarter after and a quarter before each hour, a Yacht Club security man always checked the Cup.

  They set up for the next shot. The security guard’s ‘point of view’. Emma remembered the script.

  POV SHOT. TORCH BEAMS INTO HALLWAY, ARCS FROM CAMERA RIGHT TO LEFT, PAUSES, POINTS DOWN TO THE FLOOR AND STARTS TO MOVE BACK AS IF IT HAS SEEN SOMETHING. CUT TO: CLOSE-UP. THE GLOW IN THE MOONLIGHT OF THE TIP OF ONE OF BEN’S SHOES. HE HAS FORGOTTEN TO DULL THEM. THE SHOE EDGES ITSELF OUT OF SIGHT JUST AS THE TORCHLIGHT HITS THE SPOT. CUT TO:

  MID-SHOT. SECURITY GUARD. CONTENT THAT IT WAS JUST A FLASH OF MOONLIGHT HE SAW, HE STARTS TO MOVE OFF.

  Once again, there was a change of lens and lighting and more close-ups. Emma could see the tension in the three faces as the sound of the guard’s footsteps receded, then stopped. Was he coming back? Unbearable suspense. The guard walked on. Jonathan’s eyes darted to Gussy. She stepped out of the shadows, he turned on his torch, and she continued her work.

  It was a long and tiring shoot with many different set-ups and lighting changes, but it all went smoothly and Emma found every minute of it fascinating. So did Michael. In fact, Michael found it exciting. He kept talking her through the plot, whispering the script into her ear. As if she didn’t know it! She’d written the damn thing with him. It had been her idea, the shoe shining in the moonlight. But, as usual, his excitement was contagious. It fed her sense of involvement and she found herself watching through the eyes of the camera. Seeing it as it would appear up on the screen. Suspenseful. Real.

  By two o’clock in the morning they’d finished the interiors. They were nearly an hour ahead of schedule and only the exterior shots of the beginning of the car chase remained.

  ‘We’re filming the entire chase sequence and the stunt stuff tomorrow night,’ Michael explained to Emma while the crew set up. ‘This is just where they’re seen leaving the building and the security guard radios through to the police.’

  Twenty minutes later Michael called ‘Action’ and Emma stood watching with the rest of the crew as the actors crept out of the building. Gussy appeared first, keeping watch, with Jonathan and Ben following behind carrying the Cup. Suddenly Gussy muttered something. Too late. A cry rang out. ‘What the hell’s going on there!’

  In an instant, everything happened at top speed. No panic. Just action stations. Gussy raced forward, opened the door of the waiting van and was in the driver’s seat with the engine revved up and ready to go by the time the men had reached the vehicle. They piled the Cup into the back, Ben with it, and Jonathan leapt into the front passenger seat. Before the doors were closed, Gussy had taken off. Behind them, the security guard fired a warning shot in the air and grabbed his walkie-talkie.

  ‘My God, she can drive,’ Emma muttered to Michael as they watched the car scream around the bend and head off down the road at breakneck speed. Michael nodded to the First Assistant Director, who was carrying a two-way radio.

  ‘Thanks, guys, that’s fine,’ the First said into his walkie-talkie. In the distance, the car slowed down.

  ‘You’re not wrong she can drive,’ Michael grinned. ‘Now aren’t they a pair, Gussy and Ben? Didn’t I do right? Admit it.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ she smiled back. ‘You did right. You’re a genius.’

  They set up for the reverse shots on the guard and by three-thirty all was completed. That’s a wrap, boys and girls,’ Michael called an hour ahead of time. ‘Well done.’

  The caterer put out a light supper and there were wrap drinks for all, but at four o’clock Michael suggested to Emma and Stanley that they come back to the house. ‘I have an announcement to make,’ he said eagerly. ‘And there’s a whole crate of Dom there – we can toast ourselves with the real stuff.’ Michael had slipped into the men’s lavatory for a quick snort and now the prospect of announcing his news, the thrill of anticipation, was becoming more than he could bear.

  ‘To Jonathan, Gussy and Ben,’ Michael announced when their glasses were charged. They were comfortably settled in the upstairs sitting room which had been allocated to Michael as his personal office. The dummy trophy had been placed in a position of honour on the large centre coffee table. Michael raised his glass in salute. ‘They did a fantastic job.’

  Stanley and Emma joined Michael in the toast. And then he continued. ‘Particular congratulations to Gussy and Ben,’ he said as he picked up the open bottle of champagne and poured the remaining half into the Cup, ‘for doing it so well the second time around.’

  As Emma and Stanley exchanged a puzzled glance, Michael leaned down, tilted the Cup to his lips and drank. Then he gestured for Emma to do the same. ‘Drink from the America’s Cup, Emma,’ he said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked, puzzled. He was jumpy again, feverish in his excitement. Bloody cocaine, she thought.

  ‘I’m talking about the fact that we have just stolen the America’s Cup.’

  For a moment they stared at him, dumbfounded. Then Stanley leapt up and grabbed at the Cup, the champagne spilling everywhere as he searched for Lou’s distinguishing mark. It wasn’t there. It should have been towards the bottom of the handle, on the inside of it – the distinctive looped ‘L’, the engraver’s insignia Lou always incorporated in his imitations to ensure they could never be mistaken for genuine forgery attempts.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Michael, what have you done?’

  ‘I told you. I have stolen the America’s Cup. Or, rather, we have. We three. We talented three. We band of brothers.’ Michael’s grin was one of sheer elation. ‘Emma co-wrote the plot, you researched the feasibility and technique and we’ve done it.’

  He started to open another bottle of champagne. ‘With a little help from Gussy and Ben, of course.’ Michael looked down at the drenched carpet and the pool of champagne on the coffee table. ‘What a waste,’ he said.

  ‘He’s serious, isn’t he?’ Emma asked. She pointed at the Cup. ‘That’s the real thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ Stanley answered. ‘It is.’ He turned to Michael, shocked. ‘How the hell did you do it?’

  ‘Exactly the way you told me to, Stan. I followed your instructions to the letter. Well, Ben and Gussy did. And there were no foul-ups like there were in the dramatised version. No shoe in the moonlight, no security guard seeing them leave the building. But of course they’re pros – they wouldn’t make such dumb mistakes. I was very proud of them. They’re an odd little pair but they’re bloody good at their job.’

  ‘Ben and Gussy are the genuine article?’ Stanley asked, astonished.

  ‘Too right they are: the best in the business. Safe-cracking, lock-picking, cat-burglary, you name it – and they cost a fortune. Of course, Ben and Gussy aren’t their real names.’ Michael refilled the Cup from the freshly opened bottle. ‘I watched the whole thing last night. Christ, it was exciting. They didn’t want me to and I had to double the fee for the experience but it was worth it, I can tell you.’

  ‘You mean, last night they exchanged the real Cup for the dummy?’ Emma asked, still trying to figure it all out. ‘Well, the night before last,’ she added looking at her watch. It was half-past four in the morning. ‘And the dummy trophy the security guys put in the case for the shoot was the real thing?’

  ‘Yeah. Fantastic, isn’t it?’ Michael grinned. ‘We stole it all over again. And the Cup they’re carefully guarding at the Yacht Club is the fake. Isn’t that hysterical?’

  ‘It’s insane,’ Stanley said. ‘And you’re crazy,’ He stared at the Cup, shaking his head. ‘You’re out of your fucking mind. That thing’s the Holy Grail to the sporting world. They’ll lock us up and throw away the key if we’re caught with it.’

&nb
sp; ‘So?’ Michael giggled. He was enjoying himself immensely, ‘We make sure we don’t get caught with it. We’re the only three who know about it except for Ben and Gussy and they’re certainly not going to talk. They’re on a plane to Mauritius in a couple of hours.’ Stanley tried to interrupt but Michael continued. ‘It was your idea to use stun-ties for the car chase, Stan, remember? “Can’t use actors for car chases,” you said. All of Ben and Gussy’s stuff’s in the can; Jonathan’s the only one we need any more.’

  ‘But why?’ Emma asked. She stared at the trophy, fascinated. ‘Why did you do it?’ Stanley was right, Michael was crazy. But it was thrilling. Last night she’d wanted to touch the America’s Cup and here it was sitting in front of her on a coffee table and it was filled with champagne and she was going to drink from it. Yes, it was insane. But it was also thrilling. Wildly thrilling.

  To Michael, Emma’s reaction was the most thrilling thing of all. He could sense her excitement and he delighted in it They were two of a kind. There was a madness in her too and he loved her for it.

  ‘Why not?’ he answered. ‘I suppose I just wanted to see if it could be done to start with. But then it hit me … if we really could do it, just imagine the hype! I could announce it at the New York premiere: “Hey, world, this is the real thing. You’re about to watch the real live theft of the genuine America’s Cup.” Everybody and his dog is going to want to see this movie after that.’

  ‘Did you plan it right from the beginning?’ Stanley asked. He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t approve but the insanity was contagious and, now that the initial shock had worn off, he was intrigued. ‘Right from the initial script stage?’

  ‘It was always in the back of my mind,’ Michael nodded. ‘But it was only when I saw how good the dummy was that I thought we could actually pull it off. You’re right, Stan, Lou’s a genius.’