The Byron Journals Read online

  The rhythm exploded back to life. He kept playing but started laughing; he lost the beat, found it again, laughed and kept playing. And when the lead drummer howled and others shouted with him, Andrew threw back his head and joined them, howling into the night. A girl in a long yellow cotton dress squeezed through the crowd, picked up a drum and strapped it to her shoulders. She had wide-set eyes, a long nose and dark unkept hair, and Andrew liked the way she moved, kind of lazy but confident, as she played a fill and joined the rhythm. He smiled when she looked his way and, to his surprise, she held his gaze and smiled back.

  Ten minutes later, Benny appeared at the edge of the group, unsteady and shaking his head.

  Reluctantly, Andrew set down his drum and slipped through the crowd. ‘You smoked the weed, didn’t you?’

  Benny nodded gravely, his eyes hooded and bloodshot. ‘Richie too?’ Even as he said it, he could see Benny was absolutely blitzed. He was going to have to take him home.

  ‘The taxi number?’ Benny said. ‘Where are we staying? Richie’s vomiting. I don’t know what to—’

  Andrew felt a slap on his shoulder and turned to see the lead drummer. His forehead was beaded with sweat and he stared as if he never blinked.

  ‘Where ya from, bro?’

  ‘Adelaide,’ Andrew replied. ‘Just got in tonight.’

  ‘Adelaide, eh?’ He nodded towards the jam. ‘Heidi’s from Adelaide, too. Ha! Not that she’ll admit it.’

  Heidi, Andrew mused, almost tasting the sound of her name.

  ‘I’m Tim.’

  ‘Andrew.’

  Tim gripped his hand and drew him into a sweaty hug, then glanced over his shoulder at Benny. ‘What’s up with your mate?’

  Benny was swaying and struggling to keep his eyes open.

  ‘He’s too stoned.’

  Tim shrugged, shook his head. ‘That solo you played was freaky. Drop around for a jam sometime if ya want.’ Without saying goodbye, he headed back to the group. Andrew took a last look at Heidi and the drummers before turning to Benny. ‘Let’s go.’

  two

  Andrew lay back on the hammock, the salt from his morning swim still crusted on his skin. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this relaxed. The sky was cloudless blue, Bob Marley’s ‘Redemption Song’ played on the stereo and he had all day to do anything he wanted.

  ‘So, Andrew,’ Richie said, dropping sausages onto the barbecue hotplate. ‘Tell me about that case your mum did recently—’ ‘I don’t keep track,’ he replied.

  ‘C’mon, Andrew. The murderer she defended, it was everywhere in the media—’ ‘He was acquitted,’ Andrew said, unable to stop himself from an argument. ‘So technically he’s not a murderer.’

  ‘But everyone knows he did it.’

  ‘Look, Richie,’ Andrew sighed. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, okay?’

  ‘I just don’t understand how she defends murderers, paedophiles and psychopaths.’

  ‘I guess that’s because you don’t know much about it.’

  Richie sipped his beer. ‘I am studying Law, Andrew— so I do know a bit about it.’

  ‘And I’m sure they go into a lot of detail in first year.’

  ‘Well, from what I can gather, it seems to take a special breed of person to do that kind of work…’ Richie waited for a response but Andrew just lifted his head from the hammock and stared at him. He could feel Benny watching him.

  ‘My dad reckons,’ Richie said, ‘that all lawyers are alcoholics. He says that’s how they preserve their consciences—in alcohol.’ He laughed. ‘Is that why you’re not drinking? To show everyone that you’re different from your mum?’

  Benny grimaced. ‘C’mon guys.’

  Andrew sat up in the hammock and put his feet on the ground. ‘The only reason you’re here, Richie, is because you booked this apartment.’

  The sausages sizzled and spat, and smoke drifted up the brick wall.

  ‘And you wouldn’t be here if last year I hadn’t raved to Benny about Schoolies in Byron.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Andrew said. ‘What are you even doing here? You finished school last year. You’re just here to sleaze onto—’ ‘Whatever,’ Richie cut him off. ‘We’re talking about your mum…I want to know how she sleeps at night—’ ‘What about your mum?’ Andrew snapped. ‘How does she sleep at night knowing that she lives such an idle, pointless fucking existence?’

  ‘You don’t know anything about my mum.’

  Andrew stood up. ‘I know she’s on Prozac and she’s fucking half the dudes in Adelaide behind your dad’s back.’

  ‘Guys!’ Benny called.

  Richie ignored him, licked his lips. ‘Hey, that’s funny. I heard it was the other way round. Benny told me your dad’s fucking all the fresh young first-year students at the music college behind your mum’s back.’

  Andrew’s face prickled.

  ‘I guess at least,’ Richie continued, ‘your mum will be able to defend him when he gets done for paedophilia.’ Andrew charged forward and pushed Richie against the brick wall, a fistful of his shirt twisted in his hand. Richie took a swing but missed, and Andrew swung back, hit his ear, and tackled him to the ground. They strained and wrestled but neither of them landed any good punches. Andrew managed to get on top and press

  Richie’s face into the ground, but Benny grabbed him and pulled him away. His arms were pinned to his sides when Richie rolled to his feet and thumped him in the guts. Andrew dropped to his knees, gasping.

  ‘Jesus!’ Benny shouted. ‘What are you guys doing?’

  Richie paced beside them, coughed, cleared his throat and spat into the garden. ‘You better find somewhere else to stay, mate. It’s just a technicality, but the apartment is booked in my name.’

  Benny moved in to help Andrew up and saw the bruises on his torso. ‘Shit, Andrew. What the hell happened to you?’

  Andrew shrugged him off and pressed unsteadily to his feet. He was sick of Benny letting him down. And Richie was a waste of space.

  ‘You guys…are...arseholes,’ he managed, trying to catch his breath. ‘I’m out of here.’ He pulled open the screen door and lurched into the house.

  ‘C’mon, Andrew!’ Benny called after him.

  But Andrew kept going. He grabbed his phone, wallet and the pot from the bedroom, and walked out.

  Tim’s house was more run-down than Andrew remembered from the night before. The paint was faded on the corrugated iron roof and flaking off the weatherboard panels. He walked behind a newish red Mazda sedan in the driveway and cut across the scrappy lawn, still littered with empty beer bottles and cigarette butts. He knocked on the front door and waited. Someone was moving inside the house, but no one came to answer. He knocked again—this time louder. He was about to leave when a girl wearing tiny denim shorts and an old cotton T-shirt, without a bra, opened the door. She had a sour pout, sleepy blue eyes and short, tousled black hair cut sharp at the front.

  ‘Hi,’ he hesitated. ‘I was at the party last night. I’m Andrew…’ She shrugged. ‘Jade. What’s up?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘I’m looking for Tim?’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  He tried not to look at her breasts. ‘Do you know where he is…or when he’ll be back?’

  ‘Do I look like his secretary?’

  ‘No.’

  She dropped a hand on her hip and nodded down the street. ‘He’s playing at the markets…with Heidi.’

  Andrew glimpsed the edge of a tattoo, something written in cursive, along the underside of her left arm. He looked down the street and turned back to thank her but she closed the door.

  He followed the sound of drums between crowded market stalls selling fruit and vegetables, second-hand books and tropical plants. The heat and humidity had doubled since his swim that morning and he wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his T-shirt.

  When he found Tim and Heidi, they were in full flight—Tim on a large African drum, and Heidi on a stripped-bac
k drum kit. They were surrounded by people—some dancing, but most just watching. The high hat sizzled, the snare crackled, the bass drum kicked off the back-beat. Tim punctuated her rhythm with rapid-fire fills, spinning in circles, jumping and shouting, his chest and back slick with sweat. Andrew moved to the front of the crowd and looked at Heidi, who, in spite of the heat, was wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt under a lime-green patterned dress. She held time beautifully, everything in its place. Up until then, most of the girls he knew played classical instruments—viola, cello and piano. Yet here was this girl—from Adelaide, of all places—smashing the be-jesus out of a drum kit. The rhythm ended and applause rippled, then broke from the crowd. A couple of sharp whistles lanced the humid air. Tim lifted his hands and raised his voice. ‘If you like what ya hear, don’t be scared to come forward. Dance! Enjoy! Give gener—’ Heidi cut him off with a galloping rhythm and Tim glared, but she ignored him and kept playing.

  They finished and the crowd dispersed. Andrew had planned to approach Tim and wait for an introduction to Heidi, but Tim disappeared through the crowd with his drum slung under his arm. Heidi muttered under her breath as she dismantled her kit.

  ‘Need a hand?’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s—’ She glanced up. ‘It’s fine.’

  Andrew took a chance. ‘Let me help you. We can drop off your drums and…I don’t know, head out for a while…go to the beach, or…’ She smiled. ‘Thanks, you’re sweet.’

  He was sweet. He was caramel-fudge-sundae sweet. He wondered how he could be sweeter.

  ‘I’m Andrew.’

  Her hand was sweaty but delicate. She looked him over with her quick, grey eyes and gave him an off-centred smile. ‘Heidi,’ she said. ‘I remember you from last night…you played that funny solo.’

  ‘What do you mean, funny?’

  ‘I don’t know—weird. Then you left suddenly.’

  ‘I had to take a friend home.’

  ‘Let me guess—too drunk?’

  ‘Too stoned.’

  He helped her stack the drum kit onto a flat-bed trolley and pushed it through the market lanes.

  She left her drums in the corner of the living room behind a couch draped in a faded Batik sarong. Other instruments lay around the room: African drums, maracas, a battered old acoustic guitar. But what caught Andrew’s attention was the dusty old Rhodes keyboard leaning against the wall near the stereo. And the pornographic way Jade was kissing and straddling Tim on the back verandah.

  ‘Cute, aren’t they?’ Heidi said, then raised her voice. ‘Feel free to clean the house when you’ve finished fucking!’

  She smiled at Andrew’s raised eyebrows, took his hand and led him into her room. He could smell unwashed clothes and lavender oil. The sheets lay twisted on the mattress and there were clothes, shoes and paperbacks strewn across the floorboards.

  ‘I need a shower,’ she said. ‘I’ll be quick.’

  He heard the tap whine, followed by the patter of water. He liked the thought of Heidi naked; he liked the thought of her naked with water streaming over her. A couple of photos were stuck to the dressing-table mirror and he moved closer to look. They were old, professional shots, curled at the edges and faded with age. Heidi as a little girl, her hair in plaited pig tails, and her parents, he assumed, looking severe and conservative. The drawer beneath was open and overflowing with underwear, rich, silky colours. And stuck to the wall were paintings on butcher’s paper, mostly lumpy, badly composed female nudes.

  Heidi opened the door and walked in with a stained purple towel wrapped around her. ‘Can you just…?’

  He turned and moved towards the window. She pulled some clothes out of the drawer and he caught a whiff of honey-scented soap. When he heard her towel drop to the floor, he stole a glimpse in the dressing-table mirror: her long, dark hair hanging wet over her shoulders and her small, pale breasts, spattered with moles. There was also a long Y-shaped scar running up the inside of her left forearm. She caught his eye in the mirror. He looked away, heart thumping. ‘Sorry.’

  He heard the snap of her bra, and the sound of her putting on the rest of her clothes. He picked up a book from the floor. The author was Anaïs Nin. He skimmed the back cover: a glittering cascade of sexual encounters… ‘Read it?’ she asked.

  ‘Not this one,’ he said, still thinking of her naked. ‘But I’ve read a few of his other—’ ‘You mean her other?’ Wearing a red patterned dress and long sleeved shirt now, she fixed her hair in front of the mirror.

  ‘Yeah…her other.’

  She looked at him sideways, her eyes twinkling with delight, then she sprayed herself with perfume and grabbed her sunglasses. ‘Let’s go.’

  She lit a joint on the front verandah and they started walking. Dark clouds hung low and heavy in the south, infusing the air with the sweet smell of approaching rain. Heidi drew on the joint a couple of times before offering it to him.

  ‘I thought I told you not to look,’ she said.

  He took the joint. ‘I didn’t do it on purpose.’

  ‘The scar on my arm—just so you know—it’s not what it looks like. I got pushed through a window when I was a kid.’ She lifted her arm in front of her then let it fall to her side. ‘I wear long-sleeved shirts ’cause I get sick of people staring.’

  He decided to say nothing, then replied too late. ‘I barely noticed.’ The smoke burned his throat and he struggled not to cough as he handed the joint back to her. An image of her half-naked flashed through his mind. Anyway, her scar was sexy.

  They crossed over disused train tracks and passed between the vehicles in a potholed car park. She stopped beside an old silver Mercedes, looked around, then bent the Mercedes badge forward, snapped it off with the base of her palm, and shoved it into her purse. Her technique was efficient enough for him to assume she’d done it before. He opened his mouth to say something, but she gave him a look that told him to keep quiet. They continued through the car park and finished the joint.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘The café where I work.’

  They turned onto the main street and headed towards the supermarket. A couple of surfers, still wet from the ocean, walked past with boards under their arms, and on the other side of the road some Schoolies slid through the traffic, pushing each other in shopping trolleys.

  ‘How long are you staying in town?’ Heidi asked.

  ‘I don’t know…but I don’t want to go home.’

  She shrugged. ‘So don’t.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He looked away. ‘Tim mentioned you were from Adelaide.’

  ‘Fucking hole,’ she said and scratched her cheek. ‘You?’

  The pot was kicking in. Would she go cold on him if she found out it was his hometown too?

  ‘Melbourne,’ he replied, immediately regretting it.

  She bit her lip. ‘Where in Melbourne?’

  ‘Just…the umm…eastern suburbs.’

  They sat at the back of the café near a palm tree potted in a half wine barrel, and ordered coffee. Stoned, his thoughts slipped out of his grasp before he could put them into words. To his relief, Heidi started talking. She spoke quickly, her hands dancing—the weed animating her, rather than mellowing her out. She talked about drumming on the streets with Tim, swimming naked in the ocean, and crazy parties in the hinterland. She told him about her first time scuba diving at Julian Rocks out in the Bay. How scary and exciting it had been descending the anchor chain surrounded by schools of fish. The wobbegong sharks she’d seen sleeping on the sea floor and the huge manta ray that had passed directly over her. The white pointer fatality at a nearby submerged pinnacle, twenty years earlier, when a man on his honeymoon saved his wife by lunging into the path of the attacking shark.

  ‘But everyone keeps quiet about any bad stuff that happens here,’ she said. ‘Shark attacks, drug overdoses and Rohypnol rapes. Stuff like that doesn’t really fit with people’s idea o
f Byron.’

  Her eyes slid over him, a breeze rustled the palm fronds behind her, and the hem of her dress lapped at her thighs. He was entranced by the lilt that came into her voice at points of the conversation, her bursts of nervous laughter and the way she drew her fringe away from her eyes.

  She stopped talking to look over his shoulder and he turned to see two of the café staff ushering a man out of the cafe.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, he’s just one of the local crazies,’ she replied, her voice cooler now. ‘He comes here every now and then, trips out and starts upsetting customers. Apparently he used to be some hot-shot lawyer down in Sydney.’

  Her contempt was unmistakable.

  ‘And what happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Came up here on holidays, tried some hallucinogens— mushies, DMT, or something—and completely lost it. Apparently some people have genetic predispositions. Dormant enzymes—switch them on and they’re crazy for life.’

  ‘My grandfather went crazy towards the end of his life,’ he said. ‘He was crippled with arthritis, but he’d go out and play eighteen holes of golf, then sit in a stupor for days. Bipolar disorder.’

  ‘Yeah, well you should probably give hallucinogens a miss.’

  ‘How come you know so much about it?’

  ‘I’ve read up on it.’ She paused and looked over his shoulder again. ‘That lawyer…He mustn’t have had any close friends or family because no one’s ever come for him. Now he’s just lost up here, stuck in his own private hell. Sometimes you see him walking down the street banging his hand against his head, other times you see him shouting and crying at the sky.’

  ‘Sounds horrible,’ he said.

  She glanced at the man once more before turning her gaze on Andrew. ‘Yeah, but like I said—he was a lawyer—he’d probably fucked a lot of people’s lives, so he probably deserves everything he gets.’