Six Mr Beefy look-a-likes charged towards them. They swept Katriona off her feet. She’d imagined that at some stage during the concert she’d be crowd surfing, but certainly not this early. Not before she’d even heard Slam Guru sing one note. The guards lifting Katriona’s rear grunted and strained with the effort.
“Hey! Hey!” she protested, as she was propelled further and further away from the show. This was NOT part of The Plan!
Suddenly, the lights dimmed as the stadium prepared for the first performance of the night. Jet Tierbert.
The crowd surged forward. Thousands of voices screamed Jet’s name.
“Hello Sydneyyyyyyyy!” A voice echoed all around them.
The response was deafening. Alana and Emma shared a grin as they covered their ears. Maddie, Sofia, Khalilah and Ling Ling were screaming and jumping up and down. The stage burst into an explosion of colour and bright lights, flashing to the beat of Jet’s first song, while Jet himself, jumped off a high podium to land with cat-like grace, mike at the ready. He slicked back his fringe and belted out the first verse before throwing the mike to a waiting stagehand and joining dancers in a tightly-choreographed routine that had the front rows swooning. Within minutes the stadium was transformed into a heaving pit of writhing bodies, sweaty and carefree as people abandoned themselves to the music. The next song was equally upbeat, and then the energy ramped up even more when he sang with a local guest rapper. Then, just when they thought they could take no more, Jet sat down on a stool in the middle of the stage, alone with an acoustic guitar. A single spotlight threw shadows onto his face. His dark fringe hung long and low. As he crooned his ballad, ‘Don’t leave me’, many, like Sofia, were in tears. Jet stopped singing and held the microphone out for fans to sing. So don’t leave me, please. How can it be over before it’s begun? Walking away from what could have been. O-ver, when we’re not done. Emma had her arms around Alana and they swayed to the gentle rhythm, singing with the crowd. Alana hated to admit it, but Jet Tierbert was pretty good … for a pop star.
“Best birthday. E-VER!” Alana mouthed.
Emma glowed with happiness.
All too soon it was over, and then it was Slam Guru on stage, doing what he does best: Entertain. Alana and her friends threw themselves into the rock-and-roll beats. Not to be left out (or left behind), Emma and Ling Ling raised their arms and pumped the air, bashing and shaking hips. It was a high-octane performance, with light shows and dancers and aerialists. They screamed until their voices were hoarse. Bodies floated on a sea of hands close to the stage. Ling Ling, swept up in the moment, threw herself into the throng and, likewise, was borne away – a fluorescent stick figure that became a distant speck.
To Sofia’s delight, Slam Guru’s percussionist launched into a drum solo accompanied by flashes of fireworks on stage. Faster and faster his sticks flew, his hands a blur. And then they slowed. Slowed, slowed, and stopped. Until only the deep boom of the kick drum, measured and deliberate, could be heard. He raised his hands in a ‘V’ and brought them together. His dark silhouette urged fans to clap along. The crowd complied. He took off his t-shirt, sweaty and torn, and flung it into the masses. They screamed. The beat built up speed, faster and faster. Faster and faster, still. When it was almost one note, with no gap in between, a burst of fire illuminated Slam Guru on stage. His guitar was raised in the air. One arm swept down along the strings. The dramatic thrum signified the start of his latest hit. The crowd yelled in recognition. Wild, but not yet worn out, they sang along to this final song. Fifty thousand voices rose to the heavens. After the third encore, Slam Guru held his hands out for quiet. Big, bold rings glinted like fire in the stage-lights.
“Who wants to hear more from that weedy guy who was out here before?” he said with a smile.
Tierbert fans went wild. They couldn’t believe their luck. Jet was performing again?
“He’s like a little brother to me. And when he said he wanted to sing a special song, to a special someone he’s hoping is in the audience right now,” – Slam Guru paused dramatically, the audience held their breath – “how could I say no? So here he is, Sydney, with his latest song, never before sung, you’re hearing it here first, Jet Tierbert!”
The young heart-throb returned to the stage to deafening applause and catcalls.
“This one’s for you, LegsEleven!”
Then the teenager, almost shyly, began the first chords of his song, the beginning of which was almost drowned out by adoring fans …
I’m not a serial killer … unless you’d want me to die for you, baby.
I’m not an alcoholic … I’m just drunk and high on our love.
And if you said the word, then I would be your nerd, because you glue me to my screen.
I’m just a puppet on your string, and you’re pulling so I cling
To every little word you say.
Just say. I need you today.
Emma felt her knees buckle and the Trusty Busty Bra deflate almost as fast as her excitement. She suddenly found it hard to breathe. She knew those words. How could Jet Tierbert be singing those words? UNLESS PETERPAN WAS JET TIERBERT. Emma squashed the thought before it could even gain flight. It was ridiculous. Unthinkable. Illegal. What was he? Ten? Twelve?
“Sixteen,” Alana’s answer broke into Emma’s thoughts.
“OMG, I’m old enough to be his mother.”
Alana sat down heavily next to her. “Crap,” she said.
Then, because Emma appreciated a good joke, especially one played on herself, she laughed and shook her head. “Your French is coming along well.” The pair collapsed into a heap of giggles. Emma reached out to smooth her daughter’s flyaway hair, so like her own, which stuck out at odd angles. “Happy 13th, Alana.”
“Thanks Mum. It’s been the best birthday, ever.”
“Oh, stop. I stuffed it up again.”
“It wouldn’t be my birthday if there wasn’t some drama … But I betcha Dad’s peeing himself laughing over this one! Pardon my French again.”
Emma and Alana looked up into the heavens, visible above the open-air stadium, and grinned. A tiny star, much brighter than the others, seemed to twinkle back.
…
Mr Beefy returned. “Excuse me? I’m here for the Original Song winners and LegsEleven. You have backstage passes? This way, please …”
Emma, giving Alana a not-so-gentle push, said, “LegsEleven? Here she is,” and mouthed a Sorry, Terribly Sorry, to her daughter, whose face was full of panic.
“Mu-u-u-u-u-u-u-m!” Alana wailed.
Backstage, with a yellow rose newly pinned to her Rock Chicks Rock …Duh! t-shirt, Alana waited with her friends, who were twittering like a flock of budgerigars. The girls’ excitement was palpable. Her mum was already caught up in a lively conversation with James and Slam Guru, but she took time to give Alana a ‘thumbs-up’ and a wink. If looks could kill, Emma would have been sushi. You can do this, Alana said to herself, and then faltered as Jet’s face came into view. He was scanning the girls’ outfits for a yellow rose. His own rose was clenched between his teeth, like a Spanish dancer preparing to tango. At the sight of Alana, the flower hit the floor. It was obvious he was expecting someone older. And bustier. But he recovered in seconds and smoothly introduced himself, shaking hands with them all. Jet did most of the talking. Everyone else was too star-struck and tongue-tied; although it was for a very different reason that Alana kept quiet. While Sofia, Maddie and Khalilah each chose a free, autographed, souvenir t-shirt, Jet sidled up to Alana for a private talk.
“You look a lot … younger than your avatar,” he said.
“You look a lot more alive than yours,” Alana swiftly retorted.
They both laughed and the initial awkwardness faded away. Alana had to hand it to Jet as they chatted. He was sweet. And funny. And even a little bit mignon.
“Here,” she said, grabbing his guitar suddenly while her friends’ mouths dropped like Venus Flytraps. “Let me show you how to really pl
ay this thing.”
EPILOGUE
The water turned choppy as the charter boat moved further from the outer reef. Before, it had been as flat as glass, reflecting the thin skein of cloud stretched across the sky like a bold brush-stroke. Now, white-tipped waves churned and frothed atop a rich turquoise blue that turned darker in deeper waters. The salty smell of the sea sizzled in the air. The boat’s passengers looked forward to its blessed coolness, just one step away. The engine cut off. The boat slowed and stopped.
The thunk and splash of the step ladder as it was tipped over the side gave Slam Guru a jolt of excitement. After months of touring, he welcomed the ‘downtime’ of snorkelling with Jet and his music crew. It was also exhilarating to be without his bodyguards. He was thousands of miles from Sydney on the west coast of Australia, at Ningaloo Reef. He felt safe enough here.
These waters were famous for their rich sea-life, and Slam couldn’t wait to see it. The boat rocked unsteadily as snorkellers shifted to the back of the boat. Some of them spat in their masks, using their saliva and a swirl of seawater to give them a clean. Others made a great show of delicately dabbing a bit of toothpaste to do the same. Jet gave a noisy hack and spat gustily with a huge grin. The teenager was riding a wave of happiness. Not only was this his first sea adventure Down Under, he’d finished his latest song, ‘Just Friends’, which was sure to be another hit. Funny how life plays tricks … he hummed to himself.
Daniela, the tour leader, described the snorkelling plan.
“There’s a light current today so the boat will drop us off here and pick us up over there,” she said, indicating a point 100m away. “You can expect to see the usual big stuff: manta rays, dolphins, turtles, and dugongs or sea cows, as they are also known.”
“How about whale sharks?” Slam’s music producer called out.
“Sorry, we’re too late for the whale shark season,” she answered.
Jet laughed. “Phew, that’s a relief. I didn’t sign up for Jaws.”
“Relax. Whale sharks are not the bite-your-leg-off-variety. They’re filter feeders, so they’re more interested in plankton than eating any of you,” she said with a smile. “If you get cold, raise your arm and the boat will pick you up,” she said, demonstrating. Then Daniela demonstrated some of the typical hand signals they could use with each other to communicate in the water.
Jet looked with impatience at the sea. He wanted to dive in right now. It was so clear – he could see schools of fish darting about. If he looked hard enough, he could almost see the scales on the schools of fish. When Daniela did give the ‘Go’ signal, it was Jet who beat everybody into the water, dive-bombing with an excited cry. He dipped his head in and looked up with a yell to Slam, “Come on, bro. Get in here. It’s awesome!”
But it wasn’t only Jet who was excited. The skipper saw a familiar shadow, large and spotted, up ahead.
“Are you sure?” Daniela asked, brow furrowed. When he confirmed it, she raised her voice to grab their attention. “Milo has just said he’s seen what looks to be a whale shark! This is an incredibly rare sighting, so we’re very lucky. But before we follow it up, I need to lay down the ground rules. Adults can get up to 20 metres in length. If you get hit by one of those, it will feel like being run over by a tour bus, so give them plenty of room.” The snorkellers laughed. “That means at least 3 metres on either side of the animal and 4 metres from its tail. Absolutely no touching, no riding, and no underwater flash photography, please.” She looked around. “If no-one has any questions, let’s go.”
Slam Guru’s powerful strokes took him swiftly to the site Milo pointed at. Jet was not far behind. Slam signalled his intention by pointing his fingers at his mask and then the sea: he was going to scout the area for the whale shark. Jet nodded and copied the gesture. He would do the same. Slam veered slightly to the left, while Jet took off in the opposite direction. Slam’s heart pumped fast. It wasn’t the exertion, but his excitement and anticipation. He’d always wanted to see a whale shark, and swim with one even more. With the awkward timing of his tour, he thought he would miss the season, but it seemed luck was on his side. Slam took in the colourful fish, the turtles and even the manta rays only in passing. With a promise to look at them later, he swam on. He was a hunter – a hunter of one of the ocean’s most gentle giants. And he would hunt it down with his camera. Slam checked the flash was off. He didn’t want to hurt the animal in any way.
In that split second, Slam caught sight of a large shadow far below him. He took a deep breath and dived in pursuit, painfully aware whale sharks could dive much deeper than he could. Down. Down. Down he went. He prayed his luck (and his lungs) held a little longer.
But what was this? As Slam got closer, the shape of the dark form changed. It became distorted. Misshapen. Bursting from the murky interior was a sight that chilled him to the bone. Slam reversed direction, kicking his powerful legs to propel himself upwards. Progress was agonisingly slow. He’d dived too far down. His lungs were bursting. He could barely see the light of the surface, but he couldn’t give up. He’d gone from being The Hunter to The Hunted, and The Thing was in pursuit.
Finally, the darker blues of the deeper water gave way to lighter hues. Water dripped off the sides of Slam’s mask and hair as he ripped off the snorkel. He took in a painful lungful of air. The other snorkellers had drifted with the current and were far away, weaving serenely through the water. Oblivious to the danger facing Slam Guru. Oblivious to his doom.
Slam Guru started towards the other swimmers, faint blobs in the distance. Something grabbed his leg from below. Slam panicked. He took off with a burst of speed, only to be seized with a cramp, which crippled his calf. With a gurgle of despair, Slam faced the terror he knew to be behind him.
“It’s okay, Slam, I’ve got you,” Katriona said as she reached lovingly for the panic-stricken rock star.
That’s what I’m afraid of, thought Slam as he was flipped over expertly and placed in the Rescue Position. His throat was too choked from sea water to cry for help.
When they reached the boat, Milo and Jet, who’d returned for his camera, helped Katriona lift Slam’s body out of the water.
As Slam Guru lay exhausted on the boat’s bench, he made frantic ‘Danger’ hand signals none of which Jet understood. Again and again his hand sliced along his throat. Jet brought him a glass of water for his ‘sore throat’.
The terror in Slam’s eyes grew as he watched Katriona Karovsky put her diving equipment down and walk towards him. This mystified Milo, who couldn’t understand where the extra diver had come from.
“You’re looking a bit peaky,” she murmured. “I’d better give you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”
Slam Guru, eyes on stalks, watched Katriona’s lips sashay towards him. They closed in until the rest of the world disappeared.
Milo nudged Jet and winked. “Lucky bloke, that one,” he said.
“Lucky, alright,” Jet agreed, eyeing Slam’s flailing arms under Katriona’s curvaceous form. Lucky it’s not me, he shrugged, returning to the water’s cool embrace.
The End.
BIOGRAPHY
Poppy Inkwell writes a lot of different things. Stories…
Website content…
Mandalas…
But not Christmas cards … or not very often.
When she’s not at her desk writing, you will find her ferreting in car boot sales, experimenting with food gastronomy, or playing with her camera.
Born in the Philippines, she now lives by the beach in Australia with one husband, two of her children and four pets (May They Rest In Peace).
See www.poppyinkwell.com for news and behind-the-scene-sneakpeeks of Book Two – Alana Oakley: Torment and Trickery.
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Alana Oakley Page 12