The Byron Journals Read Free Page B

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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜He’s not here.’
    He tried not to look at her breasts. ‘Do you know where he is…or when he’ll be back?’
    â€˜Do I look like his secretary?’
    â€˜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-back 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.
    â€˜Need a hand?’ he said.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜What do you mean, funny?’
    â€˜I don’t know—weird. Then you left suddenly.’
    â€˜I had to take a friend home.’
    â€˜Let me guess—too drunk?’
    â€˜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