Free Rain Music by Di Morrissey Page B

me.’
    â€˜Good time to stay, now. Before the wet. Some people go stir crazy at the rain, storms and not being able to drive ’cause the roads get flooded. So who’s this bloke?’
    â€˜Normie Brown. Everyone calls him Hashie. As in hash browns, I guess. Works in the music business.’
    Yolanda nodded. ‘Hashie? Yeah, I know him. Bit of a pothead. I thought that was how he got his name.’ Yolanda looked thoughtful as she yanked out the cloth she’d tucked into her apron pocket and wiped it along the damp counter again. ‘Heard he was moving on for a couple of months. But geez, I don’t know that you’d want to move into his joint. A flophouse, if you ask me. Still, you musos are all into sex and drugs and rock and roll, aren’t you?’
    â€˜Some are,’ Ned replied. ‘Well, my friend painted an interesting picture of this area and I thought I’d like to spend a bit of time here. I tried calling, but the phone rang out.’
    â€˜Well, let me give you the directions to Hashie’s place. Come back to me if it doesn’t work out. The house is on the hill, you can’t miss it.’ She scribbled out some directions on a coaster and handed it to him. ‘It’s an old Queenslander with a lurid pink verandah.’
    â€˜Yes, Hashie said it was very pink.’
    â€˜Someone’s not-very-smart idea, as far as I’m concerned,’ said Yolanda wryly. ‘But if you like, I might be able to put you on to another place. It’s low-key, peaceful like. Pretty remote, but it might suit. See how you go.’ She moved down the counter to serve some of the other customers. Ned finished his beer before heading out into the glaring light.
    It took only a short time for a taxi to get him to the house on the hill, which was exactly as Yolanda had described. He looked at it in dismay. It was very run-down, and there was an old lounge chair sitting in the middle of the overgrown garden.
    â€˜You going in here?’ asked the driver dubiously.
    â€˜I’m supposed to be staying here. I’ll go and see if someone’s around, but I think you’d better wait for a couple of minutes, if you don’t mind.’
    Leaving his guitar and backpack in the taxi, Ned knocked on the front door of the house. He could hear music playing very loudly in the background. He knocked again and eventually the door was opened bya man who looked to be in his twenties and very spaced out.
    â€˜Yeah?’ he mumbled.
    â€˜I’m Ned. Hashie said I could stay here while he was away.’
    â€˜You want his room? It’s out the back. You’ll like it here, man. Lotsa music and anything you want, if you know what I mean.’
    Ned knew straight away what he meant. This was not what he had envisioned. There was no way he could stay in this place and be productive.
    â€˜Thanks, but I think I’ve made a mistake,’ he told the man, and walked back to the taxi as fast as his sprained foot would let him. The taxi driver nodded sympathetically.
    â€˜That place has a pretty unsavoury reputation. Can I take you somewhere else?’
    Ned decided that the best thing to do was to book into a motel, at least for a couple of nights, while he waited for a replacement car and for his stitches to heal. The taxi driver took him to a clean and attractive place in the middle of town. When Ned found out how much it was a night, he knew it was not at all suitable for a long-term stay, especially as he was going to have to put money into another car. Quickly he googled the pub and called its number, thinking he could ask Yolanda about the alternative accommodation she’d mentioned, but he got an answering machine. He left a message asking her to call him back. Having no other option right then, he booked in for the night and was shown to his room. He tooled around on the internet for twenty minutes looking at various accommodation websites but the