Hushed

by Joanne Macgregor

  I say nothing. It’s an appalling deceit, but there’s no point in saying that — Logan already knows. There would be no point in telling Cilla either, she not only knows, she also doesn’t care. And she would only tell me to zip my lip or lose my job.

  “You go on ahead. Tell her I’m on my way.” Logan leans both his hands on the table and stares blindly down at the pile of mail.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly and leave.

  I make a quick detour to hand in my completed time sheet at the pay office, and I’m about to set off for the main gate when I notice Logan emerging from his room. I hesitate, wondering if I should wait for him, but judging from the way he slams the door shut behind him and storms across the lot, his mood has turned foul and he might want to be left alone for a while.

  He’s carrying a trash bag, and when he gets to the line of wheelie bins behind the next soundstage, he flings it into one of them, bangs the lid down, and stalks off. Strange. Logan doesn’t usually empty his own trash. Also, I’ve never seen him move so fast off-screen. I’m about to shrug it off when I notice a man sneaking over to the row of dustbins. I recognise him at once — it’s the gum-chewing, bald, weasel-faced paparazzo from the night I rescued Logan.

  I break into a run, grateful for my sneakers. The paparazzo already has his camera up to his eye and is lifting the lid of the bin when I reach him and smack his hand away.

  “Hey! What are you doing, lady?”

  “What are you doing?” I counter, resting my hand on the closed lid of the bin.

  “I just wanted to throw my gum away. You got a problem with that?”

  I take a tissue out of my pocket and hold it under his mouth. Reluctantly, he spits his gum into it.

  “Now you can go. You shouldn’t be here — unless you can show me your permission slip to be on the lot?”

  He says nothing.

  “I thought so. Who did you bribe to get in?”

  He merely stares at me speculatively while he unwraps another stick of gum and shoves it into his mouth. He crumples the silver wrapper and makes to put it in the bin. Again, I hold out my hand and, sneering, he drops the little foil ball into it.

  “What’s in the bin?” he asks. “What did he want to get rid of that you don’t want anyone to see, hey? What are you covering up for him?”

  I lift the lid and peer inside the packet Logan dumped, frantically trying to think what I can say that will put the reporter off wanting to see.

  “What is it, man? Used syringes or crack pipes? Photos of him wrapped around an underage nymphet?” He hops from one foot to the other in excitement. “Is it something sick?”

  That gives me an idea.

  “Eww, yes. It’s puke.”

  “Huh?” He cranes his neck to try and get a glimpse of the contents.

  “It’s vomit. That’s all it is.”

  “You trying to tell me Logan Rush has morning sickness?”

  “Oh yeah, he’s pregnant. That’s hilarious,” I say, not smiling. “Maybe he ate a bad oyster or something. He obviously didn’t want it stinking up his room.”

  “An oyster? For breakfast?” he says suspiciously.

  “Hey, he’s a star, he eats what he wants, when he wants.”

  “If he had food poisoning, he wouldn’t be walking off to go film.”

  “Ah, but he’s such a pro — he knows the show must go on, and he doesn’t let anything get in the way of that. You can write that in your rag.”

  I stick two fingers into my mouth, whistle piercingly to get the attention of a security guard patrolling near the pay-office, and beckon him over.

  “Come on, girly, you must have some juicy stories. We pay our sources well, you know.” He gives me a grubby business card and stares at me hard. “Hey, are you also someone famous? I can’t tell with all the —” He waves an irritated hand at my sunglasses and hat.

  “This person does not have permission to be on the set,” I tell the burly security guard who trots up to us. “Please take him outside.”

  “Alright, alright,” the reporter says, trying to shrug off the guard’s grasp. “You’ve got my number, lady. Call me. I want to hear what you have to say.”

  Keeping a sideways eye on them, I dump the tissue, gum wrapper and business card in the bin, wipe my hands on my jeans, and walk away unconcernedly, just in case the weasel is still looking back over his shoulder to see what I’m doing. But I can’t leave anything Logan’s keen to get rid of lying in the bin if there’s even a remote chance the reporter might find a way to get it.

  As soon as he and the guard are out of sight, I dash back and retrieve the trash bag. Stuffed inside are empty soda cans, protein-bar wrappers and tossed call-sheets. And a narrow white envelope.

  It’s been torn in half, but not opened — the back flap is still sealed under two ink stamps: Unprivileged mail and Inspected. I turn the halves over. The letter, marked PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL, is addressed in small cramped hand-writing to Logan Rush care of the production company’s postal address. Next to the postmarked US stamps in the corner, is the sender’s name and address: Mr. J Peabody, ID 32/02/3666-781, Louisiana State Penitentiary, General Delivery, Angola, L.A. 70712.

  Not stopping to think whether I should, I pull the letter out of one half, and get as far as seeing that it’s dated October 29 and begins, “Dear Levi,” when a shrill call from across the lot makes me snap my head up guiltily.

  Shoot! Philip is frantically waving me over — they must all be waiting for me. I shove the letter into a back compartment of my tote bag and run.

  Chapter 23

  Circling predators

  I wait impatiently at the Predator Exhibit tank located smack in the centre of the aquarium. I’m suited up, with my diving mask perched on the top of my wetsuit hood and my feet in their flippers. I’ve tested my breathing apparatus and need only strap on my tank before I’m ready to go. Logan, however, is nowhere in sight.

  On the drive over from the lot, he’d insisted that I go on the shark dive with him.

  “I never did fancy dying alone. Besides, this was your bright idea — and those who have the vision …” he’d said, still looking irritated at Cilla’s switch of plans.

  “I had a very different vision,” I said. But I said it quietly so Cilla wouldn’t hear.

  She was muttering instructions to the photographer. “And for God’s sake, don’t get her in any of the shots. Try to make some of them look like he’s out in the wild. And you, Thabo,” she addresses the bulky bodyguard, “make sure you’re not in any of the pictures either. If the Rushers are there, I want them to have access to Logan for autographs and such, but no touching. I don’t want him losing chunks of hair again. Not before we’ve wrapped filming.”

  “Cilla, I’m touched by your concern,” said Logan.

  Every time the minibus stopped at traffic lights, Mindy, the make-up artist, made adjustments to Britney’s face. Britney was bubbling with excitement over her upcoming shoot.

  “I’m so pleased we’re doing this in the same place, at the same time! You’re going to be right nearby, and I can keep an eye on you.” She spoke to Logan, but her eyes flicked to me on the last phrase. I was tempted to tell her to be sure and pet the sweet, harmless penguins, but I bit my tongue.

  Now I climb onto the elevated walkway above the top of the predator exhibit. Sunshine streams through the glass roof above, down to the massive circular tank below. We’ve been told that it’s six metres deep and holds over two-million litres of water, as well as a couple of turtles, several mantas and stingrays, and a variety of predator fish — yellowtail, garrick, giant kob, mussel-crackers and stumpnose.

  And of course, five ragged-tooth sharks.

  Dave, the divemaster who’ll be going down with us, joins me on the walkway. He holds a long-handled, two-pronged fork in one hand, and a flip-lidded bucket of food for the fish in the other.

  “Is Rush still not ready?” he asks me.

  “I’ll go see what’s keepi
ng him.”

  Walking like a cross between a duck and an astronaut in the large flippers, I go in search of Logan and find him in the changing room, just strapping on his tank.

  “What are you …?” I begin, but my voice dwindles to nothing as I switch from verbal to visual mode.

  Logan’s wearing his low-slung denim cut-offs again.

  “She who must be obeyed forbade me from wearing a wetsuit,” Logan says. In an exaggerated imitation of Cilla, he continues, “If you’re in a wetsuit, nobody can see it’s you. It could be anyone underneath that. They’ll say we faked it. Besides, if no one can recognise you, if we don’t give them a show that’s worth seeing, then what’s the point of doing this?’ I told her I thought the point was for me to study the sharks to improve my acting, but she told me to shut my pie hole and be sure to come right up to the glass for the close-ups.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “She wants me on full display in a goldfish bowl.”

  My fingers itch to touch him — they actually twitch, but I disguise the movement by grabbing his diving mask from the counter and handing it to him. “Well, whether you’re going in a suit, shorts, or buck-naked, it’s time to get this show on the road. Follow me. The divemaster’s waiting for us.”

  For a moment, he looks mutinous.

  “Can’t you get me out of this, Romy?”

  He sounds serious, and I want to help him, I do, but his problem is bigger than this rigged photo-op. And there’s nothing I can do. I try to lighten the moment.

  “Fwightened of the big fishies?” I taunt.

  “Trust me, they’re the least of what scares me. It’s the predators outside the tank that’ll eat me alive.”

  “Look, Logan, there’s no escaping today. Cilla’s already got the whole juggernaut in motion. You need to suck it up. Time to put on your big-boy panties.”

  He grins. “Big boys wear panties? For sucking up?”

  “And put on your mask and flippers already,” I order and march out, hoping that Logan follows. Actor-wrangling for public appearances is definitely in my contract.

  “You’re so bossy,” he mumbles from behind me.

  “You’ve told me that before.”

  When we get to the shark tank, Dave, the divemaster, gives us final instructions while we strap on our oxygen tanks, adjust our diving masks, and insert our regulator mouthpieces. Then we slip into the water and I can hear only the loud sound of my own breathing. At once, we’re surrounded by shoals of glittering tiny fish. Then the bigger predator fish swim right up to us, knowing that the presence of divers means food is on the way.

  Dave opens the flip-lid on his bucket, pulls out a large, dead fish, carefully spears it onto the end of the feeding fork, and passes it to Logan. An enormous black fish, big as a bathtub, swims right up to the fork, pulls the fish off the prongs almost delicately between its sharp teeth, and cruises away.

  I check Logan’s reaction — this is, after all, more my element than his. He meets my gaze, and even through the barrier of the mask, I can see the surprised delight in his eyes. If his mouth wasn’t wrapped around the mouthpiece, he would be grinning from ear to ear.

  When Dave threads another fish onto the prongs, Logan offers the fork to me so that I can have a chance, but something makes me pause and look up. Outside the glass wall of the tank, Cilla is furiously gesticulating. She points a finger at me and then swings her arm in the opposite direction. The message is clear — get the heck away from my star. Then she crooks her finger at Logan, beckoning him closer to the glass, closer to the cameras.

  I hand him the fork and place a hand in the small of his back to push him gently forward, before swimming away from him. A swarm of reporters presses up close to the glass, their massive lenses like large staring eyes. A crowd of waving fans jumps about excitedly on the tiered mini-amphitheatre of seats beyond, holding up signs, phones and cameras. Flashes pop in small explosions of light from all sides.

  Logan is indeed on display in a glorified goldfish bowl.

  Two manta-rays the size of hula hoops, their curved sides moving like slowly beating wings, glide over to me, softly grazing the top of my head before floating down to where Logan holds out handfuls of squid taken from Dave’s bucket.

  They scoop it into their wide mouths and circle back for more, gracefully pushing and shoving each other in a slow-motion fight for food. The mouth of one closes over Logan’s fingers, and he snatches them back, shaking his hand and wrinkling his face in laughing pain.

  Then the sharks come, gliding towards us in their ceaseless circuit around the massive tank. Adrenaline kicks through my body, setting my heart racing. Every instinct urges me to back up and flee. But I’m frozen in place, mesmerised. Because they are extraordinary.

  For a moment, I forget about the circus beyond the glass and just gaze in wonder at their alien beauty — spotted grey on top, white beneath, with vertical gills and fins, and tails that move slowly from side to side, propelling them through the water. Rows of sharp, serrated teeth splay outwards and sideways from their gaping jaws. The biggest of them is over three metres long, and its primeval eyes — blank white with a black dot of a pupil — track our every movement. Logan’s hair floats in a dark halo around his head as he turns to stare back at it, clearly awestruck.

  When Cilla’s frantic hopping on the other side of the glass cues him to start his performance, Logan moves nearer to a shark, and a flurry of lights flash.

  Keen to stay clear of the media feeding frenzy, I disappear into the forest of tall, floating kelp in the centre of the tank where a cloud of small fish enfolds me in a tight circling throng of flashing silver.

  When the huge shark moves on, Logan returns to feeding the fish. He can’t swim properly, not more than a few metres at a time, but he doesn’t need to — the fish come to him. A fat white one, like an old man with a bulbous forehead and thick lips, keeps coming back for more. When a cream-and-tan loggerhead turtle at least as big as me approaches, Logan holds out a treat — being careful, this time, to pull his fingers away quickly before its beak snaps shut. As it sails up and away through the clear water, he trails a hand along its underbelly.

  The photographers outside the tank trip over each other to get the best vantage point. One fan breaks rank and runs right up to the tank to press a hand-drawn sign against the glass.

  Logan, dive MY tank!

  Security escort the Rusher back to her seat before Britney descends on the scene, wearing a revealing, aquamarine dress of semi-transparent fabric. She poses for a few pics and then half turns to press her hand up against the tank wall. From Cilla’s laboured sign language, it’s clear what she wants her stars to do. Logan mirrors Britney’s movement, pressing his own fingers against hers, with only the barrier of the glass between them, and Britney gazes back lovingly at him. The photogs go wild.

  The vivid white light of the popping flashes lights Cilla’s face in strange ways, giving her an almost unearthly look of feral satisfaction as she looks on, gaze riveted greedily on her star attraction. Logan’s right — she is scarier than the sharks. And not half as pretty.

  After another fifteen minutes, the divemaster indicates that our time is up. Logan looks relieved but also, as we haul ourselves out of the tank and remove our masks, high on excitement.

  “That was incredible!” He shakes Dave’s hand. “Thank you, man. It was awesome!”

  “Out of this world!” I agree.

  We rave about the experience all the way to the changing room. Logan’s face glows with a wild, free joy. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes electric blue with excitement.

  “I thought it would be tame, but it was wild! I mean, not wild-wild like in-the-wild kind of wild, obviously. But still wild! How were those rays — the way they crowded over each other to get the food?”

  “Are your fingers okay?”

  “They’ll be fine.”

  “How ’bout those sharks?”

  “They were crazy-beautiful! I can
see why you like ’em so much.”

  “Yeah, they’re magnificent creatures.” This seems like a good moment to slip in my suggestion that he could help raise awareness for the species. “You know, you could really —”

  I’m cut short by Polyp, who’s waiting with Thabo at the door of the changing room. “Logan, you need to get dressed ASAP. Cilla’s set up a Q&A with the press, and they’re already waiting. She sent me to help you.”

  “From a tank to a zoo,” Logan grumbles. “I’m no freer than those fish.”

  “Don’t be a drama queen, you’re hardly a caged animal.”

  Polyp lays his pale, limp hands on Logan’s shoulders to unfasten the catch on the harness, but Logan shrugs him off.

  “That’s okay, thanks. Romy’ll help me, won’t you Romy?”

  “I am your personal assistant,” I say, following him into the changing room and nudging the door closed behind me with my hip.

  Logan curses under his breath. “How am I supposed to go from that adrenalin rush to sitting behind a table, smiling and answering questions about my love life?”

  “You poor thing,” I say, though I also want to ask him questions about that. “Now, if you knew more about sharks, you could talk about them instead of yourself.”

  “Couldn’t you —” he begins.

  “Logan, get real. Cilla didn’t set up a press conference for little Miss Nobody to talk about endangered species.”

  I pull off my hood, spilling my wet hair down over my shoulders, turn my back on him, and unzip the top of my wetsuit.

  “Can’t you help get me out of this?” he asks plaintively.

  “There’s only one exit to this place that I know of, and Cilla’s probably got it blockaded.” I peel the wetsuit to down around my hips.