‘Wayne St Peters—dead? Good God, Joe, I can’t believe it,’ she said almost in a whisper, then slumped slowly into the seat in front of the desk.
‘That was his flatmate David on the phone. He’s completely distraught.’ Dr Connely rose from behind his desk. ‘Look, I’m going to have to go up there and give him an injection. The way he sounded over the phone he might try and take an overdose. You know how close those two were. God imagine the shock the poor bastard must be in—and he said the police are coming back for him to identify the body.’
Gina stared up at her husband still shaking her head. ‘Christ Joe,’ she said, ‘I’m in a bit of a bloody shock myself. Wayne St Peters? He was one of the nicest gentlest people you’d ever want to meet. Wayne wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘I know. And Bob Davis has never had a fight in his life as far as I know.’ There was silence for a few moments while Dr Connely paced absently around the room as if he didn’t quite know what to do. He came back and stood in front of his wife. ‘Look, get a locum in for a couple of hours, if you can’t find one close the surgery for the morning. I’ll have to go and identify the body—there’s no way David would be able to do it.’ He noticed his wife shiver slightly and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Yeah I know. It’s not a very nice thought is it. And when I’m finished there I’d better go into St Vincent’s and see how Bob is. And, Gina, it might be an idea if you tried to get in touch with Bob’s parents. Or even his ex-wife.’
Gina stared desultorily out the surgery window at the light traffic whizzing along Blair Street in the cloudy winter sunshine. There was a tremor in her voice when she spoke. ‘Jesus, Joe I don’t know what to say. Wayne only done my bloody hair on Tuesday.’ She put a hand over her eyes as Joe, noticing the look on her face, patted her on the shoulder.
‘I know how you feel,’ he said. ‘But I’d better get moving. I don’t want to leave David on his own for too long.’ He began throwing a few things in his bag as his wife slowly rose from the seat and began making phonecalls. In five minutes he was heading for David’s flat.
Dr Connely knew what to expect when he got there; he comforted David as best he could for a few moments then led him straight back into the bedroom. He rolled up the sleeve of David’s pyjamas, daubed some spirit on his arm and injected him with 10 milligrams of Valium. In no time David was completely out to it and would stay that way for around twelve hours: when he came to he’d be too groggy to think of doing anything drastic. As a precaution, Dr Connely removed all the sleeping tablets from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom on the way out and placed them in his bag. Then, without wasting any more time he was on his way; he wanted to get the next unpleasant bit of business out of the way as quickly as possible.
It had been some years since Dr Connely had had reason to visit the Glebe Coroner’s Court on Parramatta Road, but when he pulled up opposite the long flat brick building it looked just as grim and forbidding as usual. Remembering how there were always rows of police cars and ambulances parked outside the enquiry office in Ross St, he decided to leave his car next to the long green hedge that runs alongside the university grounds on the other side of the road. As he stepped from his station wagon and pulled the collar of his coat up against the chilly westerly wind, he glanced briefly up at the voluminous, grey clouds starting to fill the winter sky: their spreading ashen colour somehow seemed to add to the sombreness of the miserable task facing him.
He identified himself to the girl on the desk who phoned through to the director downstairs. Out of habit she asked him if he knew how to get there. Dr Connely said yes and proceeded along the long purple brick corridors that run past the various autopsy rooms to catch the lift for the short ride down to the identification area. The first person he saw when he stepped out of the lift and started walking along another corridor was a square-jawed, incongruously cheerful-looking young attendant in a green smock and white plastic apron, carrying two huge pairs of shears in his rubber-gloved hands for cutting the clothes off the various bodies. Joe asked him if Dr Oswald Joyce was around. The young bloke nodded his head happily and led him into the identification area past four extremely po-faced police officers sitting quietly in the waiting room.
‘Just wait here a sec, mate,’ said the young morgue attendant. ‘I’ll go and get him.’
Dr Connely stood leaning against a large red set of oldfashioned Avery scales in the corner while the attendant disappeared into the open sliding door of the huge holding room. As he gazed idly around the stainless steel and shiny white plastic walls, sets of scales and large plastic tubs and buckets, he was reminded of a smallgoods factory. The only thing that looked out of place was a long steel pressurised cylinder of Deodour-Gas on a trolley next to another set of digital scales.
Before long the attendant returned with Dr Joyce. As soon as the head coroner saw Joe a warm smile lit up his pale blue eyes and spread across his happy somewhat fullish face. As he walked over to Dr Connely, he adjusted the thin steel-framed spectacles on his slightly broken nose and pushed the small white cap he was wearing across his spiky, grey crewcut.
‘Joe,’ he said cheerfully, extending his hand. ‘How are you old mate? Gee it’s good to see you.’
‘Same here, Ozzie,’ replied Dr Connely, not quite as brightly, as he returned the coroner’s warm handshake. ‘It’s been a while.’ Both doctors were old friends from their waggish university and rugby union days and though they had both gone their separate ways over the years, had kept in touch right up to their early forties.
‘So what brings you down here, Joseph? Nothing too serious, I hope.’
‘Well . . . it’s not the best, Ozzie.’ Dr Connely explained to the coroner the reason for his visit to the morgue.
‘Ah yes. Sounds like that young bloke that came in late last night. I did him first thing this morning. Hold on a sec.’ Dr Joyce went to the front office and returned with a beefy police sergeant carrying a clipboard with a P79A. ‘Barry,’ he said, glancing at the document in the sergeant’s hand. ‘Bring out 2041 will you?’
The attendant placed his shears on a wooden bench and went into the cool room.
‘Yeah, massive brain damage, Joe,’ said Dr Joyce. ‘Evidently he and a mate were beaten up by a gang somewhere last night.’
‘Yes, it was after a rock concert. I’m going to check on the other bloke at St Vincent’s when I leave here.’
The young attendant returned with Wayne laid out on a steel trolley, which he placed in the middle of the room. Dr Connely looked at it and shook his head sadly. Even in the pallidness of death with the dreadful bruising on his face, Joe still couldn’t picture Wayne as anything else but the bright handsome young hairdresser from Bondi Junction. He was suddenly filled with a feeling of absolute helplessness and, even though he knew Wayne was dead, looking at him lying there in the chill of the morgue with nothing on but a hospital smock he felt like covering him with a blanket to try and keep him warm.
‘Was he a friend of yours Joe?’ said Dr Joyce. Dr Connely nodded his head slowly without taking his eyes off the corpse. ‘Well, I won’t bore you with the details too much,’ continued Dr Joyce, walking over and placing a hand on Wayne’s head. ‘Apart from all the other lacerations and contusions what killed him was a massive extra-dural haemorrhage of the posterior fossa.’ The coroner shrugged his shoulders. ‘Could’ve been a house brick or a pipe? Some heavy, blunt instrument? He could’ve hit his head against something when he fell down?’ Dr Joyce noticed the dejected look on his friend’s face. ‘You seen enough, Joe?’
Connely took a deep breath. ‘Yeah, Ozzie,’ he said quietly.
‘Okay, put him back, Barry.’ Dr Joyce took the P79A from the sergeant and handed it to Dr Connely. ‘Sign this Joe and you may as well get going.’
Dr Connely absently signed the form and took one last look at Wayne as Barry wheeled him back into the cool room, then they all went out to the waiting room. The police sergeant rejoined the other three officers still sitti
ng there and Joe and Ozzie stood out near the front door.
‘You feel like a cup of coffee Joe?’
‘No,’ replied Dr Connely, shaking his head as he walked over to one of the abundant bubblers positioned around all the walls. ‘A drink of water’ll do.’
They stood there talking for a while longer. Dr Joyce said it was a shame he couldn’t have met his old mate under happier circumstances. Dr Connely brightened up a little and told Ozzie they’d have to have a drink some time or, better still, he and his wife should come over for some of Gina’s Italian cooking one night. Dr Joyce said he would for sure. They shook hands again then Joe left for St Vincent’s to check up on Davo.
Dr Connely introduced himself to the ward clerk on the desk at St Vincent’s who called the charge sister from intensive care: Sister Hayes. After a short ride in a lift she led him along a wide echoing corridor to a small room where she introduced him to the day resident Dr Allan Carmody, who was halfway through a chicken sandwich and a cup of coffee. Joe shook hands with the sandy haired, slightly tired-looking young doctor and explained the purpose of his visit. Dr Carmody politely asked Joe to wait just a minute while he finished his snack, then he would take him to Davo and he could check it all out for himself.
There were three others in the room with Davo: Davo was propped up on a bed in the corner next to a large curtained window. He still hadn’t regained consciousness and his head was covered in bandages as were both his hands. Joe moved over a bit closer and checked out the monitors next to the bed which showed his pulse rate was a little more rapid than normal and his respiration slightly shallow; which was only to be expected. He noticed that behind the tubes sticking out of Davo’s nose were two massive black eyes, swollen lips and other bruising, but apart from that he appeared to be comfortable enough.
Dr Carmody unhooked the chart from the end of the bed and handed it to Joe. ‘As you can see doctor,’ he said, ‘your friend’s got two fractured metacarpals and a broken nose. The ribs are mainly cartilage damage—I think his being a bit overweight saved him there—but nothing’s broken. His skull isn’t fractured but there’s a lot of deep contusions there, which one would expect from a beating like that, but the CAT scan has revealed no serious brain damage, though there is some. He’ll be alright, but I’d say he’s going to be a sick boy for a while.’
‘Mmhh.’ Dr Connely nodded his head while Dr Carmody spoke to him. He studied the chart. ‘I see he’s got some scrotum damage?’
‘Yes, he’s taken several hard blows there: kicks I’d say. Is he married?’
‘No, divorced.’
‘Well I don’t think he’ll have to worry about sex for a while.’
‘Could that be permanent?’
‘I. . . doubt it. We’ll know in a few weeks.’
Dr Connely replaced the chart at the end of the bed. ‘Well, that’s good, doctor, I’m glad he’s in no immediate danger. Thanks.’ Joe sounded quite relieved. ‘How long do you think you’ll keep him here?’
‘Ohh, we’ll keep him here a few more days then put him in a public ward. He should be out in less than a fortnight. But, like I said, he’s going to be a sick boy for a while.’
Dr Connely had another close look at Davo then satisfied he’d found out all he needed to know went back to the same room he’d found Dr Carmody in. They had a bit of a talk for a while then Joe thanked him again, got the lift downstairs and went out to his car. He felt a little better driving back to his surgery than when he’d left earlier. That business at the morgue was over and although Wayne was gone at least Davo was going to be alright. The only immediate worry would be David; but that would sort itself out in time.
Gina was unable to get a locum so Dr Connely decided to take the rest of the morning off and take her to lunch somewhere. There were no serious appointments and they both could do with something to relieve them after the morning’s unpleasantness. She was also unable to get in touch with Davo’s parents. An aunt, staying in the house they’d retired to at Swansea, said they’d both gone on a cruise and wouldn’t be back till September. Rather than alarm her she told her it was nothing important.
So by that evening everybody concerned, except poor David, was over their initial shock; though they were all still hurt and angry and hoping to Christ the police would be able to find the bastards that did it. Dr Connely called around to see David, leaving him with some more strong sedatives but not too many, and, apart from that and a couple of paragraphs in the Saturday papers life returned almost to normal. Except of course, for Bob Davis still propped up in the intensive care ward at St Vincent’s Hospital.
Davo regained consciousness just before lunchtime on Saturday.
It was quite an effort to get his eyelids apart because of the swelling and when he did manage to blink them open for a few moments everything was just a blur. Then, just as it all started to focus the pain hit him.
It was a headache like nothing he had ever felt before in his life. It seemed to start in his neck, pulse through his temples and bounce round the roof of his skull. Like someone had bound barbed wire round his head, jammed a piece of wood in it and was tightening it. At the same time he could feel a pressure building up inside his head like his eyeballs were about to explode out of their sockets. Every beat of his heart seemed magnified a hundredfold and sent shock waves of pure searing agony rocketing from one side of his skull to the other that were so intense he broke out in a cold sweat; his stomach churned and he could taste the bitter bile coming up in his throat. He tried to bring his hands up to his face but could only lift his arms a few inches and when he dropped them back on the bed the pain in his hands hit him and the vibrations seemed to shake the bed from one end to the other. He tried to scream but it got caught up in his swollen tongue and lips and came out as nothing more than a hideous, rasping rattle.
The charge sister sitting in the corner heard it, dropped her magazine and came running over. She took a quick look at Davo then ran out and got the resident. He hurried back in and they both stood at the side of the bed; the resident felt Davo’s pulse and checked the monitors.
His face twisted with anguish Davo’s eyes pleaded up at them and with all the strength he could muster he managed to croak out one word. ‘Paaiinn!’
The resident nodded to the sister and said something Davo couldn’t comprehend. There was another tiny prick of pain in his right arm then, a second or two later the room started to darken—and everything wasn’t so bad after all.
By Sunday afternoon Davo was starting to feel slightly better. With light sedation the pain, although by no means gone, was at least bearable, providing he didn’t move too much. He was propped up in bed awake, but awfully groggy and although it hurt even to think, for the last half hour he’d been trying to work out where he was and how he got there.
He figured he was in a hospital somewhere but where he didn’t know. There were three others in the room besides him and there was a large curtained window to his left; outside appeared to be daylight. It was a slow, laborious process, almost as if his mind was trying to keep something from him. He lay there concentrating and, gradually, hesitantly, it all started to filter back to him.
He remembered going to the Grand with Colin then back to his place and going to work the next day. Then he went out somewhere with Wayne that night. Where? A concert: that’s right. They saw Santana at the Entertainment Centre. And they had some coffee with brandy in it. Was that before or after the concert? Doesn’t matter. Then they walked back to the car. Was it his car? No it was Wayne’s. They parked in that alley. That dark, dingy alley. And someone was trying to steal the car. Those kids in the lane. With their denim jackets and jeans, and punk haircuts, and . . .
A shudder went through his body as like a bolt out of the blue his mind was suddenly filled with the sight of that ginger-haired thug’s leering snarl and that huge red swastika-daubed boot crashing into his face. He closed his eyes and lay back on the pillow trembling slightly as the bits and pieces
began tumbling around before him. He realised what had happened.
Knowing his, at times, big mouth he must have said something to the gang and they’d given him a bashing. Probably serves me right he thought. And Wayne must have brought me to the hospital. But did Wayne get hurt? No, he was alright. He must have been to get him to the hospital. He glanced over at the window to see the sunlight filtering through the curtains forming uneven stripes across the end of his bed. Well, that was Thursday night: it must be bloody Friday afternoon. Christ, they sure gave me a decent old hiding.
After the initial shock an odd pensive calm settled over him. He lay there trying to assess what injuries he had.
Apart from the throbbing headaches he didn’t feel all that bad. Gingerly, he ran his tongue around his mouth. His lips were swollen and he could feel the knots in the stitches and although several of his teeth were chipped none appeared to be missing or loose. His hands were sore under the bandages and it hurt to open and close his fists but they weren’t plastered so nothing must be broken. His breathing, although short, didn’t seem impaired so he probably didn’t have any broken ribs—but he sure had some bruises. He moved his body slightly; yes he could feel the bruises alright. All in all, not too bad considering. But there was something else Davo felt as he lay there thinking. A feeling he’d never experienced before. Even in the state he was in, Davo would usually have somehow seen the funny side of it. But not this time. There was nothing funny about this. Nothing. Instead, he could feel a deep, burgeoning hatred spreading through his body. A hatred so vast and intense it didn’t frighten him, instead it seemed to give him a strength that started to overcome the pain. He seemed to be developing such a profound hatred for people, that the way he was feeling it wouldn’t have worried him if he never spoke to another person again. It was almost as if he was a different Bob Davis. As he lay there, staring straight ahead at nothing, Davo didn’t fully realise it but there definitely was a different Bob Davis lying on that bed in St Vincent’s Hospital.
Davo's Little Something Page 10
