Hushed

by Joanne Macgregor

  The room looks cleaner and airier. And emptier — like me. I feel empty of everything except regret. I have plenty of that.

  But right then an idea bubbles up from my murky depths. I know what will make me feel much, much better. I know exactly what I have to do.

  I pick up my phone — I have an important call to make.

  Chapter 37

  New world

  I examine my face in the bathroom mirror while I brush my teeth. My eyes are a little puffy in the pale dawn light, but not too bad considering how little sleep I got. I spent most of last night making calls, packing my bags, and arguing with my parents.

  They told me my plans were rash, that I was gambling a sure future on a risky venture, chasing a girl’s romantic dream. Mom begged me not to go, Dad suggested that I was mentally unstable, but — short of locking me up — there was nothing they could do. Being eighteen still counts for something in the world. It’s time to stand on my own two feet, to make my own decisions, to choose my own world.

  I do a final check on my packed belongings, zip my stuffed bags closed with difficulty, take a last long look around my room, and then head downstairs.

  “Mom, Dad!” I call, eager to be gone now.

  They insist on being the ones to drop me off — though Zeb volunteered when I called to tell him my decision. He was more supportive than my folks.

  “We always regret the things we never did more than the things we did,” he’d said. Wise boy.

  On our way, driving through the mostly empty Sunday-morning streets of Cape Town, Dad asks, “Is there anything we can say to change your mind, Rosemary?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe it won’t be such a bad thing, after all,” Mom says. “Fun, adventure, a whole new world.”

  “You’ve been listening to my mother, Sally,” Dad says sourly.

  After that we drive in silence until we get to the Cape Majesty hotel. Dad pulls into a bay for taxis right by the front door to drop me off.

  “Are you sure about this dear?” my mother asks for what must be the hundredth time.

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Do you want me to come in with you?” my father asks.

  “Dad, no.”

  “Good luck, Romy!” Mom calls after my departing back.

  “It’s not too late to change your mind!” Dad adds.

  The hotel lobby is almost deserted except for a cleaner steering a polishing machine over the marble floor. I pause for a moment, checking that I’m still sure I want to do this.

  I am. And I’m not. But mostly I am.

  I head for the reception desk, hold up my large, padded envelope, and tell the clerk behind the counter, “I’d like to leave a package for Logan Rush, please.”

  “We have no guests by that name staying here,” he replies automatically.

  I suspected this might happen, that’s why I haven’t yet sealed the package. I fish out my identity card and hand it over for the clerk to check. “I’m his personal assistant. Please ensure he gets this directly.”

  When he nods, I replace the ID card in the padded envelope, peel off the sticky-strip protector, and seal the flap tight over the contents: the key card to Logan’s penthouse; a letter of resignation to Cilla Swytch; the beautiful necklace and charm bracelet Logan gave me; and a letter from me to him apologising for the ugly things I said, and trying to explain my feelings and my decisions.

  The receptionist takes the package and I turn to leave. My heart scrunches painfully inside me. Was it really only six weeks ago that I brought Logan here after fishing him out of the ocean? I’m way older than the girl I was then.

  I walk across the lobby where yesterday I gave the reporter a piece of my mind.

  “So you want me to tell you what I know, do you? Sure. With pleasure!” I’d said. “I know you’re an oily, scum-sucking, bottom-feeding, life-destroying excuse for a hack. And I know I have nothing more to say to you. Now get out of my way before I kick you down and walk right over your miserable body. Mood I’m in, I could do it!”

  I’d marched straight into the ladies’ restroom, torn the Peabody prison letter and the news article printouts into the tiniest pieces of paper possible, then flushed them down a toilet. I’d kept flushing until the last speck of evidence was gone, and most of my anger along with it.

  Now, as I exit the hotel I feel mostly a heavy aching sadness. But there’s a glimmer of hope, too. I’ll feel bad for a while. Scratch that. I’ll feel wretched — heartbroken and miserable — for a long time. But as Nana would likely say if she were here, you don’t die from heartache.

  Dad starts the car as soon as I climb back inside.

  “Right, next stop — the Red Cross,” I tell him.

  “The Red Cross?”

  “They’ve got a big bin outside, where you can deposit clothing donations. And I’ve got some shoes that no longer fit, and that I surely won’t be needing.”

  When we get to the donation drop-off spot, I chuck the shoes, pair by pair, down the chute into the clothing depositary — the dagger heels I wore on my first day on the job, the black stilettos I wore to Britney’s birthday party on the night I lost my voice completely, the strappy sandals I’d worn just yesterday for my date with Logan. I smile grimly down at the sturdy, waterproof running shoes now on my feet. Not elegant, not fashionable, but comfortable and fit for purpose.

  On impulse, I spin around and karate-kick the chute closed with a bang that startles a foraging flock of seagulls into flight, screeching their protest to the skies.

  “Right,” I say firmly as I get back into the car. “Next stop, the docks. And floor it Dad, I’ve got a boat to catch!”

  Chapter 38

  Christmas presents

  I need better shoes.

  I’ve spent ten days on board the Syrenka, slipping and sliding across its wet decks while it carves its way through rough seas towards the Southern Ocean, and I can confirm that running shoes don’t give you nearly enough grip, especially when you need to reach a bucket or a rail or a toilet in a hurry. Which I need to do all the time.

  I’m permanently queasy. And when the seas are rough enough to set the ship rolling, like now, I spend loads of time kneeling beside the ship’s toilet — which, I’ve learned, is called “the head.” Maybe because your face is so often bent over it.

  Another wave of nausea shudders through me, and as I heave, I cling to the white porcelain throne, so I don’t go rolling across the tilting floor. I feel sick and miserable, and even though I’m dressed in jeans, thermal underwear, thick sweaters, a waterproof jacket, gloves, and a beanie, I’m still cold. I’m permanently, seriously, bitterly, bone-achingly cold. Having lived all my life in Africa, this is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I’m a bit panicky because everyone says it’s still going to get a whole lot worse. Crew members who hail from Sweden, Norway and Canada just laugh at me, but Libby — a twenty-four-year-old Aussie from Darwin with the foulest mouth I’ve ever encountered — feels my pain.

  “Yeah, it’s colder than a witch’s tit, alright,” she told me this morning. “But at least there’re no bities out here, mate.”

  I think she was talking about mosquitoes. Yup, that’s one thing I don’t need to worry about out here.

  When my retching finally stops, I wash my face and hands, brush my teeth, and head up onto the deck. It calms my stomach to breathe fresh air and to be able to see the horizon. And it reminds me why I’m here. At last, I feel like I’m in my element. Not physically — apart from being a wuss when it comes to the cold and seasickness, I don’t much enjoy being a vegan or getting to shower only once every four days. And I seriously miss the sun. But I love knowing that what I’m doing is important, that it matters, and that we’re making a real difference.

  The main aim of this mission, Operation Zero Kill, is to disrupt and harass the fleet illegally hunting whales in the Southern Ocean sanctuary. Currently we’re playing a cat-and-mouse game on a gigantic scale. We need to find the whaler
s before they locate us, and each of us is hiding from the other on an ocean 20.3 million square kilometres in size.

  The Japanese whaling fleet consists of two harpoon ships, which sail out to slaughter the whales, and one factory ship to which they transfer the carcasses for butchering. If we find the factory ship first — we win, because by sticking close to the slipway on their stern, we can block them from receiving the dead whales, which in turn stops further hunting because there’s nowhere to store the “meat.”

  But if a harpoon vessel were to find us first, then we’d lose — and so would the whales — because it would follow us and relay our coordinates continually to the factory ship, to help it stay out of our range. The harpoon ships are smaller, faster and more manoeuvrable than the old Syrenka, so outrunning them isn’t an option.

  So far, we haven’t spotted them, or them us. It’s a freaking big ocean out here.

  We’ve been preparing for when we do encounter them, though — running drills and practice exercises, and training in everything from small-boat launching and radio protocols, to fire safety and abandon-ship procedures. So far, everyone’s been very friendly, showing me the ropes (sometimes literally) and helping me figure my way around the old boat. The Syrenka was originally a Russian icebreaker built in the 1960s, but now she’s equipped with all the latest in technology and communications equipment. There are forty-two crew members on board, and for the next four months, I’ll be sharing a cramped cabin with three of them, including Libby.

  Standing at the rails, I gaze out at the enormous vastness surrounding us — the endless grey-blue of the water, the 360-degree horizon, the floating chunks of ice, some as small as my fist, some as big as our boat. I’ve never felt so small and insignificant, yet I’ve never felt so real. I’m at the far end of the world, blissed out on space and wind and ice. My life on land, in my parents’ world and on the film set, seems like another lifetime.

  Because today is Christmas we each got one phone call on the satellite phone this morning — our first since we left Cape Town — along with strict instructions about not giving any clues to our position. I called my parents, just like a good daughter should. Dad wasted no time in telling me my matric results, and I was pleased to hear I’d gotten mostly A’s and B’s. They both sounded proud, and relieved to hear I was still in one piece.

  Mom said she checks the ship’s internet blog every day, and nagged me to send more emails. I explained that between a lack of time and internet restrictions, they were lucky to get anything at all. I had to laugh when Mom told me that Nana is spending Christmas with a new “beau”! Husband number six on her horizon?

  It was great to hear their voices, even though I couldn’t help wishing I was speaking to someone else entirely. I guess I’m more heartsick than homesick. I wonder how Logan will be spending his Christmas. Where will he be? And with whom?

  It starts sleeting and I’m headed back inside — Libby needs my help in the galley to prepare the special meal we’ve got planned for the crew — when my favourite cry sounds out.

  “Whales!” Mike, a Canadian who usually works in the engine room, points .

  When I squint into the distance, he offers me his binoculars. A sharp stab of pain reminds me of the time I scanned the sea, looking for human prey, but I push memories of Logan from my mind and train the lenses on a cluster of icebergs.

  One is a huge flat-topped chunk of brilliant blue-white, with tapered edges and horizontal turquoise striations in the ice. The other has a crenelated top, like a castle, and as we draw near, it dwarfs us with its pearly massive bulk. A colony of snow-dusted seals lies on its edges, and when we pass — close enough to catch their pungent odour — several slip into the water and come closer to investigate us.

  In front of the iceberg are the whales — a pod of Southern Rights, including a massive mother at least fifteen metres long, her calf, and some smaller males or females. They’re beautiful, despite looking like they’ve been cobbled together from half-a-dozen different creatures. They have enormous, round black bodies, short stubby fins, wide triangular tails, and heads covered in patches of crusty brown growths called callosities. Their long, arching mouths begin at a point higher than their eyes and run all the way around, giving them a perpetual hmmmph! expression.

  The mother and calf in this pod play a kind of tag — breaching alternately, one after the other. Their massive splashes back into the icy water boom like cannon blasts.

  My eyes tear up. It’s the best Christmas present I could ever have asked for. This is what I’m here for, this is what it’s all about. I only wish Logan were here to experience it with me.

  When the whales disappear around the back of the iceberg, I head back to the galley — a tiny kitchen crammed between two huge walk-in refrigerators, a freezer and a pantry, all packed to the gills with enough food to keep us going for months. The galley is the warmest spot on the ship, but it always smells like cooking, which is hard on my feeble stomach.

  “Feeling better?” Libby asks. She’s the chief cook and I’m her galley slave.

  “Sort of.”

  “Well, at least everyone else is keeping your food down, and you’re keeping the fishes fed.”

  Today’s Christmas lunch menu is Thai coconut soup, vegetable and chickpea curry with home-made naan bread, spinach and mushroom lasagne, canned peaches with custard, and a vegan chocolate cake. There’s lots to be done — peeling, grating, frying, stirring, and washing the endless dishes — but I volunteer to chop onions so I can have a good cry without anyone noticing.

  I’ve shifted from anger to wallowing self-pity about the Logan-shaped hole in my life. Why me? Why didn’t he? Why couldn’t we? There are no answers. I’m just grateful that I’m kept so busy that there isn’t too much time for pity-partying. I’ve discovered that when you miss someone you love, your heart actually does ache. Your bones feel hollow, your hands empty, and there’s a longing in your skin. Your body knows something vital is missing. The anger fades, but the hurt remains, like the phantom pains of an amputated limb.

  After lunch, I pull up a chair at the crew’s computer in the common room. According to the rotating roster, it’s my turn to post on the ship’s blog — the main way we stay in touch with our supporters across the world. I describe today’s whale sighting and our special festive menu, wish our followers a happy festive season, and end with the usual appeal for moral and financial support.

  Our access to the internet is strictly rationed, and this is my first time since we left Cape Town. I can’t resist the temptation of navigating to my favourite Rusher fan sites to check on the latest news.

  Holy Crow!

  Rushing Away from the Beast

  Teen heartthrob and megastar Logan Rush today confirmed rumours that he has declined to star in the next Beast film, Beast: Mars.

  “The Beast movies have been very good to me, and I’m grateful for all the support I’ve received from fans and my colleagues along the way, but it’s time for a change and a new challenge.”

  Rush laughingly dismissed the idea that the Beast Saga would tank without his name in the opening credits.

  “The series won’t fizzle because I’m not in it. Britney Vaux will still be its star, and with Cilla Swytch at the helm, you can be sure it’ll be a box-office success. Somebody very wise once told me that nobody is indispensable or irreplaceable.”

  I gasp when I read that last sentence. Mike, who’s hanging about waiting for his turn on the computer, asks, “Good or bad news?”

  “Excellent news!”

  I angle the screen away from him and examine the online photograph of Logan, which even now, at this distance of time and space and possibility, does funny swooping things to my insides. There’s a shadow of stubble on his square jaw, and his hair looks unkempt with its usual flopping black lock over one brow, but his face seems more relaxed, his grin more of a true smile and less of a pose for the camera.

  “Indispensable, irreplaceable,” I murmur.
>
  I was wrong. He is both.

  My jaw falls open as I continue reading the article.

  This latest news comes on the back of startling revelations made by Rush earlier this week that set his fandom agog and blogging.

  Rush confirmed that his next film project will be to star in the production of his own screenplay. Set in the American South of 1961, during the famous Freedom Rides of the civil rights movement, the story will be about a young man’s struggle to overcome his early suffering at the hands of an abusive father, and to escape the lingering guilt and shame following his racist father’s murder of a black teenage boy. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and other social networking sites were ablaze with messages of support when Rush revealed that the script will be based on elements of his own life story.

  “It’s a story that needs to be told, not silenced,” he said.

  Watch this space for more details as they emerge, and follow the hashtag #RushToFreedom on social media.

  Suck it Cilla!

  My heart is hammering, my hands trembling, my eyes leaking. I’m speechless.

  Logan, on the other hand, seems to have found his voice.

  Chapter 39

  Finding voice

  In Cape Town, early January is the height of summer, with long, hot days and a welcome southeasterly wind to freshen the air. Out here, things couldn’t be more different.

  We’ve crossed over into the “screaming sixties” of high winds and waves, and we’ve run into a force nine storm, with icy winds of over ninety kilometres per hour, and waves over seven metres high. The weather reports predict the storm will blow itself out in a few days, but right now the Syrenka rolls and lurches like a drunken pirate.