The Byron Journals (6 page)

He strode out the back door onto the verandah. ‘Mum…What are you talking about?'

‘C'mon, Andrew. Who caused the damage?'

He paused, wondering if his dad had confessed his infidelity. ‘How should I know?'

‘Well, you were staying there.'

‘So?'

‘So—Richie's father has just presented me with a bill for eight and a half thousand dollars.'

‘Richie and I had a fight, and I moved into a different house. Whatever happened to the apartment after that has nothing to do with me. I barely even stayed there.'

‘He claims that you broke in and trashed the place to get him back.'

‘And you believe him?'

‘You're the one with an obvious motive.' She cleared her throat. ‘But I told him I wasn't doing anything until I'd spoken to you.'

Andrew stopped by the frangipani tree, picked a flower and twirled it between his fingers. ‘Thanks.'

‘So you had nothing to do with it?'

‘No.'

‘Fine…I'll call Richie's father back now and tell him where we stand. I think he'll decide against making a civil claim for damages. And I'll let him know that if he decides to refer the matter to the police, he'd better be prepared to take it to court.'

Andrew dropped the flower. ‘Court?'

Through the screen door he saw Tim sit up at the mention of the word.

‘Don't worry, he won't have the balls,' she said, then she sighed. ‘When are you coming home?'

‘I don't know…have you—' He was going to say, spoken to Dad, but was cut short.

‘Jesus, Andrew…you know, there are better, more productive ways for you to spend your summer than growing your hair and smoking pot in Byron Bay.'

‘I just cut it, actually.'

‘Andrew, I'm serious.'

‘Well, there are better, more productive ways for you to spend your life than defending scumbags who mess up other people's lives.'

‘Oh, get off your high horse.'

He wanted to tell her about getting bashed—how he'd been hunted down by some kid because of her, because of a case she'd run. How he'd been thrown onto the ground, punched and kicked in the back and ribs, and the only reason he hadn't been seriously injured was because someone had called out and the kid had run off. But he held it in. If he told her what had happened, she'd turn it around and convince him that she wasn't to blame. Holding it back gave him the power. ‘It's your own fault you're so unhappy,' he said.

‘I'm perfectly happy.'

He laughed, hoping to hurt her.

‘I believe that what I'm doing is important, Andrew.'

‘Do you know how much bullshit I've had to cop because of what you do for a living.'

‘You're being ridiculous.'

‘What would you know about what happens to me, anyway?'

‘Jesus, Andrew. What's wrong with you?'

‘Can't you see that it's your work that causes all the problems? Everything that's wrong with your life. All the stress, the fights with Dad, and how much you drink.'

‘Well, maybe I'll just quit my job and become a florist. Would you like that, Andrew? Would that make you happy?'

‘At least if you were a florist, I wouldn't have got bashed.' He hadn't wanted to say it. But there it was. And it thrilled him how good it felt finally to tell her.

His mother sighed. ‘You've never been bashed because of me.'

‘What? You don't believe me?'

‘You're just being silly now. You're trying to hurt me.' There was a long silence down the line and when she next spoke her voice sounded tired. ‘I have a meeting with a client. After that, I'll sort things out with Richie's father for you.'

The line cut out and he walked back inside, his thoughts churning.

‘Was that your mum?' Tim asked.

Andrew nodded, sat down and began spreading the mix of weed and tobacco along the cigarette paper.

‘Sounded intense. What was that stuff about court?' ‘They're blaming me for damage to the apartment.'

‘Did you do it?'

He didn't answer.

‘Are you worried it'll go to court?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

He sat back and sighed. ‘Because everyone is too scared of my mum. She's a criminal defence barrister— one of the best in South Australia.'

‘Really?' Tim stared at the floorboards. ‘What kind of people does she get off?'

‘I'd rather not talk about it.'

‘Drug dealers?'

Andrew shrugged. ‘Sometimes.'

‘Does she have Mafia connections?'

‘Probably, I don't know.'

Tim had a fit of laughter, then fell silent, staring at him. ‘Man, that's fucken cool…So you can pretty much do anything you want and get away with it?'

‘Not anything…' ‘Does Heidi know that your mum's a lawyer?'

‘No—and I'd rather keep it that way…for now.'

‘So you know she hates lawyers.'

‘Scum of the earth, I think she said.'

Tim looked up then back at Andrew. ‘Stand up.'

‘Why?'

‘Just do it. C'mon.'

Andrew stood, palms raised. ‘What?'

Tim motioned him aside. ‘Move. C'mon, get off the rug.'

Andrew looked at his feet and stepped off the worn Persian rug. ‘What? Why?'

Tim moved the coffee table against the wall and flipped back the rug. It took Andrew a moment to register: there was a cellar door cut into the floorboards.

Without explaining, Tim grabbed two pairs of sunglasses from the kitchen bench and passed one of them to Andrew. ‘Put these on.' He lifted the cellar door, revealing a rickety wooden staircase. ‘Follow me.' He made his way down the stairs and disappeared through a slit in two heavy blankets. ‘C'mon!' he called. Edging down the staircase, Andrew heard a faint hum—the sound of a small engine running. The concrete was cool against his feet; it was dark and he could smell damp. Sunglasses in hand, he pushed through the blankets, then reeled back at the shock of light. He shielded his eyes, slipped on the sunglasses and looked around. The cellar was packed full of plants. Large ones, with stalks as thick as tree trunks and branches heavy with buds. He couldn't tell how many—but they filled most of the room. Each plant sat in a suspended pot that was connected to a plastic feed tank via a series of black hoses. The walls and ceiling were taped with white reflective plastic, fans blew from fixtures on the walls, and three huge lamps with large white-hot globes hung on chains from the ceiling. He breathed in the potent stench of ripening buds and his heart fluttered. No wonder Tim hadn't paid much attention to his bag of weed upstairs.

Tim surveyed the room proudly and laughed. ‘You should see the look on your face!'

Andrew touched one of the plants and examined the sticky residue on his fingertips. ‘Holy shit.'

‘Holy shit, indeed!' Tim said. ‘So, let's cut a deal.'

‘A deal?' Andrew studied the thick head of buds crowning the nearest plant. ‘What?'

‘You guarantee me your mum's legal protection if we run into any trouble and I'll cut you in on the profits.'

‘Is Heidi in on it?'

‘Yep.'

‘Jade?'

He nodded.

Andrew gazed around the room at the set-up. It looked pretty professional. Becoming a business partner would cement his relationship with Tim, Jade and Heidi so he could stay in Byron longer. And if they got caught, embarrassing his mum—and forcing her to defend him—would be a good way to get even.

‘One condition,' he said.

‘What?'

‘I don't want Heidi to know why you're cutting me in.'

‘What should I tell her?'

‘I don't know, make something up.'

‘She's going to find out eventually.'

‘I know. I'm planning to tell her myself, but in my own time.' He looked at the plants, which were about to become his plants. ‘How much do I get?'

Tim scratched his head. ‘I don't know. Ten percent?' ‘Jesus! Do you know how much my mum charges an hour? Not even an hour. She normally charges in six minute increments.'

‘Bullshit.'

‘I want twenty-five percent of profits—minimum.'

‘Fifteen.'

Andrew paused. ‘Twenty.'

Tim drew a breath, held it, then exhaled. ‘Deal.'

They shook hands and Tim hugged him. Andrew still wasn't used to the hugging thing and was glad when Tim released him. He nodded and looked around at the plants. He guessed this meant he wasn't returning to Adelaide anytime soon.

Halfway through dinner, Tim clapped his hands, leaned forward and rested both elbows on the table. ‘I've got an announcement to make.'

Heidi regarded him warily. ‘What?'

Tim looked nervous. ‘I'm cutting Andy in on the pot.' She glared sideways at Andrew. ‘What for? And how much?'

‘Twenty percent.'

‘What?!'

‘Twenty percent.'

‘No way! That's more than Jade and I get!'

‘Yeah, but Andy's gonna help me with the manual labour—system flushes and, you know, technical stuff.'

Heidi slouched in her seat and crossed her arms. ‘I want twenty percent too.'

‘But you're not doing anything.'

‘I'm sharing the risk.'

‘What risk?'

‘The risk of cops kicking down the door, seizing the set-up and arresting us. The risk of thugs breaking into the house with baseball bats and breaking our legs.'

Andrew hadn't considered those possibilities.

‘Heidi,' Tim said. ‘There's no way—' She silenced him with a look.

He sighed. ‘Shit…okay, twenty percent each.'

The front door clicked shut and Jade walked into the living room. She dropped her bag on the couch and looked at the three of them.

‘Hi, babe,' she said to Tim. ‘What's going on?'

‘I've cut a deal with Andy.'

‘On the pot?'

‘Yeah.'

‘How much?'

He glanced at Andrew, then Heidi. ‘Twenty percent.' Jade smiled. ‘So, I guess that means I get twenty percent too, doesn't it?'

He looked away, nodded. ‘I guess it does.'

The next morning, Andrew sent a text telling his dad to stop contacting him. He received one back:
Understand
if you need space. Difficult period for everyone. Let me
know if you're stuck for cash. Dad.

So his dad still hadn't confessed to his infidelity. Andrew wished he hadn't accepted the other money from him in the first place. He still had savings from the piano lessons he'd given over the last two years, and he was making enough from busking to take care of food and bills. It was good knowing that he didn't have to rely on his parents, that he could get by without them.

When his phone rang, he checked the caller ID. Benny. He'd tried to call repeatedly since returning to Adelaide and Andrew had ignored him.

‘What?' he fumed, banging through the back door.

‘Oh!' Benny said. ‘Finally!'

Andrew stopped in the middle of the backyard. ‘What do you want?'

‘I'm calling to let you know I'm stuck working to pay half of
your
damage bill.'

Andrew started pacing, a lump forming in the back of his throat. ‘The apartment was in Richie's name. You don't have to pay.'

‘That's a technicality, Andrew. Not everyone can get by on technicalities.'

‘Richie's an arsehole. That's not a technicality, it's a fact.'

‘I'm not even going to bother arguing with you about this 'cause you know what? You're always right.'

‘Exactly. I am right. Richie caused the problems—so he should pay the bill.'

‘It's out of my hands. Richie's parents and my parents have agreed to split the bill. But Richie's parents won't make him pay them back. So he gets out of it and I'm stuck paying.'

‘Shit, Benny.' Andrew sat on the verandah. ‘I'm sorry—' ‘Sorry doesn't cut it. You have to take responsibility.' ‘I can't. It'll make Mum look like an idiot.'

‘So what? You got bashed because of her.'

‘I'm not doing it.'

Benny sighed into the phone. ‘I'll have to work all summer to pay for this.'

‘I'm sorry.' Andrew thought of the plants. ‘I'll pay you back, I promise.'

‘Whatever, mate. Thanks for nothing.'

The phone beeped and fell silent. He was wondering if he should call Benny back, when Heidi came out to the verandah and passed him a joint, a Heidi special— no creases.

‘You okay?'

He nodded and she smiled, sparked the lighter. Andrew put the joint in his mouth and leaned towards the flame. She didn't pry into who he was talking to, or what he was talking about and it was only later, when Heidi refused to discuss her problems at all, that Andrew realised the extent to which she would expect the same degree of privacy.

seven

Stoned on the couch, Andrew re-opened his book,
The
Doors of Perception,
by Aldous Huxley, and made a fifth attempt at the page he'd been stuck on all morning. Something about looking at a chair and becoming the chair, or realising that he existed simultaneously within himself and the chair. Getting stoned hadn't helped, nor had Jade stripping on the back verandah and rubbing herself down with tanning oil.

The back door clicked shut and Jade, now clad in a white bikini, dropped her towel on the couch, walked into Tim's room and returned a moment later with her camera.

‘Andy?' she said, flopping onto the couch beside him.

He looked up at her clear blue eyes, her tanned skin. The tattoo along the inside of her arm,
No Regrets
, was written in elaborate cursive—the irony of which he suddenly found amusing. ‘Hi,' he said and placed the open book on his lap.

‘Can you do me a favour?'