The Byron Journals Read Free

only one left. His thoughts raced as the beat approached the end of the bar, and he looked up to see the lead drummer nodding at him. Andrew shook his head but the drummer just smiled and nodded again.
    Andrew stopped playing and someone spluttered with laughter. He began again but his rhythm sounded frail. Then he thought of Beethoven’s Ninth, the second movement. He mimicked the contrapuntal rhythm, letting each hit grow louder and faster, louder and faster. He heard a rising cheer and a whistle, and began adding his own hits, creating a rhythm that was half Beethoven’s and half his own, until he was playing something he’d never played before, something that was wholly his own. He felt like an engine gathering speed down a hill, racing, racing, until he could no longer bear it and he thought he was about to derail and crash— Two! Three! Four!
    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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Where ya from, bro?’
    â€˜Adelaide,’ Andrew replied. ‘Just got in tonight.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I’m Tim.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜But everyone knows he did it.’
    â€˜Look, Richie,’ Andrew sighed. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, okay?’
    â€˜I just don’t understand how she defends murderers, paedophiles and