Davo's Little Something

by Robert G. Barrett

  Davo had trained as usual in the morning but settled for a long head-clearing walk in the afternoon to steel himself for what he had to do that night rather than train in the afternoon. He rested till 9.30, then showered and changed into an almost wornout pair of dark blue, cotton training pants, running shoes and an old blue sweatshirt with the sleeves hacked out. He’d been tense most of the day, apprehensive, even a little frightened, but he’d managed to relax in the evening, even catching an hour or two’s sleep after a light tea. Now, as he switched the motor off and sat there alone in the surrounding darkness, the fear and apprehension began to trickle back. However, he’d trained like a demon ealier in the day and beneath the fluttering nervousness he was still extremely confident about what he was doing. He got out, locked the car and jogged in front of some oncoming traffic towards the Beauchamp Hotel; a reassuring pat felt the two lethal gloves tucked securely in the waistband of his cotton pants. He paused for a moment at the hotel corner then, not knowing at all what to expect or how long he was going to be, joined the boisterous bizarre throng heading towards Taylor Square.

  Davo couldn’t remember the last time he’d been down that area and he sure as hell had never been wandering around there alone at that hour on a Thursday night. The noise, the car fumes, the atmosphere of sheer intensity mixed with an undercurrent of danger and apprehension seemed to almost engulf him and the people he encountered made him feel as though he were a visitor from another planet. Deviating punks, anomalous new wave weirdos, vacant-looking junkies of both sexes in an array of either outrageous colours and styles or drab unkempt black and white. If Davo felt like he came from outer space the crowd around him certainly looked it and to his mind’s eye he was convinced not one of them had been near a drycleaning shop or a laundromat since the day they left school. So far though, he hadn’t noticed any skinheads.

  He skirted around a knot of sourfaced androgynous oddballs, milling outside a nightclub, Toreadors, all arguing with a hardfaced doorman for refusing them admission because he claimed they were too drunk and too soapy. A couple of them looked away from the doorman and caught Davo’s eye; he gave the gloves another pat as they glared at him and strode on.

  A mob of louts and their equally obnoxious girlfriends in an old Ford swore at him and one spat on him from the rear window as he waited on a traffic island in the middle of Taylor Square. His adrenalin rising Davo watched their tail-lights disappear into the night traffic and then sprinted across the busy road to pause outside the Courthouse Hotel and wipe the spit from his sweatshirt.

  The crowd had thickened considerably now and Davo could pick the nervous looking gays wandering around; some arm in arm, others with their hands thrust in the pockets of their baggy trousers as they pushed through the crowd. None of them remotely resembled Wayne or any of his friends. He started walking past the porn shops, foodbars and seedy looking upstairs nightclubs towards Crown Street—still not knowing where he was going, what he was actually going to do when he got there and why in the hell he’d chosen that particular part of town in the first place.

  Then he saw them. Eight of them. All swarming menacingly around an old wooden fruit-barrow on the corner of Oxford and Crown Streets like they owned the place. As soon as he laid eyes on them a thin film of cold sweat formed on his forehead and he felt a knot in his stomach which quickly exploded into a violent surge of hatred and adrenalin reaching into every corner of his body. They were almost identical to the skinheads who had bashed him and Wayne in Barker Street that night, but something told Davo it wasn’t them. They looked uncannily the same though. Faded, tattered jeans rolled up over calf length boots, ripped T-shirts and braces, only some had their braces hanging loosely down their side instead of supporting their jeans. They all had the same vicious faces and short hair with studded belts and studded leather bands round their wrists. Davo melded quietly into a bank doorway and checked out their boots just in case but none had swastikas daubed over them.

  Davo stood there seething, he wanted to tear straight into them and smash them to bloody pulp but eight was too many and he was in a main street. He propped in the doorway quivering with frustration as he watched the skins cluster around the old barrow, mouthing off at the passers by and patted the gloves tucked in his waistband, wondering what to do as waves of loathing, anger and revenge swept through him. Unexpectedly, the skins went into a huddle for a minute then, as if by a miracle, they split up with six heading across Oxford Street to a bar called Paris’s Tavern and the other two, after calling out something obscene to their mates, doubling back up Crown Street towards Surry Hills. Davo gave the two about five seconds start then stealthily fell in behind.

  Naturally Davo wasn’t quite prepared for this sudden turn of events. He’d expected to be prowling around back alleys and lanes possibly for hours picking his mark and even then he could have missed out; however this unanticipated opportunity arose and it could not be ignored. With his nerves on edge now and his heart beating slightly faster than normal, Davo continued to follow the two skins as they sauntered bumptiously along Crown Street, their braces flapping provocatively behind them as they seemed to deliberately harass and intimidate the people passing by.

  Unexpectedly the two skins turned sharp left at the small Gaslight Hotel and disappeared up a narrow dimly lit alley. Davo stopped in the shadows on the corner and watched quietly as they began walking up a bit of a rise about fifteen metres in front of him. Despite his nervousness and apprehension, Davo couldn’t help but be curious as to why the two skins would be wandering up that alley on their own—probably going to a car or to have a piss he shrugged; but if ever there was a golden opportunity, this was it. He had a last check around him. There was quite a bit of traffic but no people. Then suddenly any fears or nervousness vanished and that familiar diabolical evil almost maniacal smile began to appear on his face. He eased the gloves out of his waistband and, like a tiger spreading its claws as it stalks its prey ready for the kill, slipped them over his hands and tightened them up.

  After sprinting up and down the almost vertical steps behind Waverley Oval, the short dash up past the two skinheads was a breeze. A startled ‘hey shit’ was all he heard as he zoomed around and stopped just a few feet in front of them, his hands enclosed in the deadly gloves dangling loosely by his side. There were a few cars parked facing up the lane next to some garbage tins and several overflowing boxes of rubbish. A couple of black and yellow detour signs with a small round lamp blinking on and off stood to his right; which no doubt added to the menace as he stood there bathed in the flickering yellow glow, that same fiendish grin on his face. The two skinheads stopped in their tracks at the sight of him.

  ‘Hello boys,’ smiled Davo, his voice dripping with hatred. ‘What’s doing?’

  Despite their surprise the two skins were still arrogantly confident. Davo was on his own and they had their boots and studded belts.

  ‘Hey—what d’you want arsehole,’ said the taller of the two standing at Davo’s right. As he spoke his mate began loosening the thick studded belt around his waist.

  ‘What do I want?’ replied Davo, bringing his hands up as he moved slowly forward. ‘How about a few pints of your blood—arsehole.’

  ‘What!’

  They were the last words the tall skinhead ever said on this earth. He’d no sooner opened his mouth than Davo’s left fist slammed into his face like a battering ram, audibly crunching the bones and flipping him backwards straight over the bonnet of the Commodore parked behind him. He gave a quick scream of pain and crashed down among the garbage tins and boxes of rubbish in the gutter.

  Davo looked to his left just as the other skin got his studded belt off and raised it to flay him across the head. Davo smashed a right into his face which pulverised his nose in a spray of blood, smashing more bones and sending splinters up under his forehead into his brain. He too gave a little scream as the force of it sent him cannoning back across the lane and up against the wall to sit shuddering against
it, his legs spread across the footpath.

  Quick as a snake, Davo sprang back to the first one. He picked him up roughly under the armpits, flung him against the Commodore then holding him up by the T-shirt, gripped in his left hand, he pounded his face with his right. Davo could feel the flesh rip and the bones disintegrate as plumes of blood splashed against the car and across the windscreen. Before long the front of the skinhead’s face was a crimson gory mess flat as the bottom of an iron.

  Davo dropped him and ran back to the other one. He was like a man possessed now as all the hatred and venom came pouring out of him. In the concrete jungle the roles had suddenly been reversed and now he was the tiger turning on the hyenas. He didn’t bother to pick the skinhead up but just crouched at the waist and slammed punches into his head where he sat slumped against the wall. His head rocked from side to side and banged violently back against the bricks. In a very short time there was hardly anything left worth punching.

  Like he’d just come out of a trance Davo stopped, blinked several times and stood there in the soft eerie glow of the street lights: his breathing only slightly heavier than normal. He walked across to the first skinhead sprawled behind the car and could scarcely believe the damage he’d done. Where his face had been was now just an unrecognisable flattened mass of what looked like black jelly; his Dead Kennedys Tshirt was a thick wet shine of saturated blood. The other one was lying face down across the narrow strip of footpath. Davo kicked him over with his foot to see that he was in the same condition except that the blood had run across the narrow footpath and was starting to trickle down the rise of the gutter.

  Instead of being revolted however, Davo experienced a feeling of high elation, his burning desire for revenge had been sated slightly, there was even a faint stirring in his loins; the first time since he’d got out of hospital. He smiled cruelly and gave a grunt of satisfaction as a tremor of excitement went through his body. With a final satisfied look at his two victims he slipped the gloves off and tucked them back in his waistband then strolled back down the alley towards Crown Street.

  He stopped in the shadows underneath the hotel awning and checked his reflection in one of the windows. Miraculously the passing headlights showed only a few splashes of blood on his sweatshirt, which in the dim light were barely discernible against the dark blue. There were some smears and drops on his face which he wiped off on the ragged piece of shoulder. Happy with that, Davo started walking back along Crown Street towards Oxford; easy, casual, as if he was just another person in the crowd strolling around on Thursday night. He paused briefly at the barrow on the corner, where across the road he could see the rest of the gang still standing impatiently outside Paris’s Tavern waiting for their two mates. Davo chuckled to himself—he’d have loved to see the looks on their faces when they found them. Still chuckling quietly to himself, with his hands in his pockets, he joined the noisy rag-tag multitude swarming along the grimy neon-lit footpath towards Taylor Square. A few minutes later he was sitting in his car, hardly believing what he’d done; the whole thing had taken less than thirty minutes.

  Of all the detectives patrolling the eastern suburbs that night it was a complete stroke of irony that the first two to answer the call over the VKG when the bodies were found were Ray Blackburn and Greg Middleton; who could scarcely believe their eyes at what they eventually discovered in that dark narrow back alley. The person who stumbled across the bodies, a skinny fair-haired New Zealand disc jockey, working in a bar nearby, couldn’t quite believe his eyes either. He’d finished work early that night with a headache and was expecting to go home, smoke a nice hash joint and get to bed at a respectable hour for a change; he certainly wasn’t expecting the gruesome sight which awaited him when he went to open his blood-spattered light green Commodore. He was leaning against the rear door and still dry retching when the two detectives pulled up in the lane just behind him.

  ‘Ah well, I wonder what we’ve got this time?’ said Detective Blackburn, as they climbed out of the car.

  ‘Don’t even bother to bloody ask,’ replied his disgruntled partner, wishing they’d never been transferred to Darlinghurst and heartily sick of seeing shooting, stabbing and assault victims one after another, in a part of Sydney that was becoming more and more like a sewer every day.

  ‘Are you the person who called the police?’ asked Detective Blackburn. The DJ nodded his head briefly but didn’t say anything. ‘Where are the bodies?’ The DJ still didn’t say anything but pointed behind him across the bonnet of his car. Detective Blackburn walked around the front and stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he exclaimed. ‘Have a look at this Greg.’

  His partner walked around and shone his torch over the crumpled body of the first skinhead, still shining red in the soft glow of the streetlight. ‘Shit! What happened to him?’ He glanced up at the DJ. ‘Where’s the other one?’ The DJ pointed the short distance across the alley without looking in that direction.

  Detective Middleton walked over and crouched down next to the body of the second skinhead. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he almost yelled, as the torch beam picked up the gory sight. ‘Ray. Get here and have a look at this!’

  Slightly mesmerised, Detective Blackburn forced himself away from the first skinhead, walked across and squatted down next to his partner. ‘Jesus! What in the hell’s been going on here?’

  ‘Have you ever seen anything like this Ray? There’s hardly any face left. Look—no eyes. No nose, No mouth. Nothing.’ A funny sound coming from the Commodore made them look up to see the DJ dry retching again.

  ‘What do you make of it?’

  Detective Blackburn shook his head slowly. ‘Dunno. I’ve never seen anything like it. The bodies are alright, but there’s just . . . just no face. The other one’s the same.’

  By now the DJ, after hearing all this, sounded like he was going into convulsions.

  ‘Are you alright mate?’ asked Detective Blackburn, as they got to their feet.

  The DJ nodded ashen-faced, as another trickle of bile dribbled from his mouth.

  ‘I’ll call the forensic boys, Ray, they’re gonna love this one—it’s like something out of an alien from outer space movie. You want to question our mate here?’

  ‘Yeah righto.’ Detective Blackburn moved over to the Kiwi disc jockey while Detective Middleton got on the two-way radio. He got out his notebook and biro. At the look of excruciating discomfort on the young DJ’s face Detective Blackburn couldn’t help himself. ‘I don’t suppose you happened to notice any flying saucers around earlier did you matey?’

  The DJ looked at Detective Blackburn in horror, rolled his eyes and started dry retching again.

  While all this was going on, Davo was home in his flat enjoying a cup of coffee, still absolutely ecstatic. When he’d arrived home earlier he was that excited he was almost running around the flat in circles. By rights he should have been a little worried; he’d just brutally murdered two men. But instead of showing any concern, Davo was the complete opposite—he just wanted to party. He couldn’t believe the feeling and emotions running through him. All those months of training and pain had paid off. It was revenge, joy, rapture, ecstasy: better than all his birthdays and Christmases rolled into one. He put the gloves back on and shaped up to himself in the bedroom mirror, throwing punches all around the room before finally falling back on the bed, almost doubled up with laughter.

  ‘What do you want—arsehole,’ he roared out loud.

  ‘How about a few pints of your blood—arsehole,’ he replied to himself, then roared laughing again. Which wasn’t the first time Davo had been talking to himself—and answering himself back lately.

  He wiped the blood and picked the pieces of flesh from the gloves and hid them in the bottom of his wardrobe, then threw his dirty clothes in the laundry; now he was sitting in the loungeroom sipping a cup of coffee and listening to his stereo-radio. This new euphoria had started to settle down a bit and although he was still quite pleased with himself a f
ew sobering thoughts were starting to occur to him.

  He’d been lucky tonight—bloody lucky. Those two skinheads splitting up from the rest of the gang, and managing to get them alone in that alley was luck in itself. But he hadn’t anticipated all that blood flying around. What would have happened if more had gone on him than the few drops that did. Considering the amount splashing about that was almost a miracle. He’d have looked nice walking back up Oxford Street with great splotches of red all over him; if there had been any police around they would have arrested him in two minutes. Lucky again he was wearing dark clothes. Next time he’d make sure he was wearing dark clothing and carry a hanky or a small face towel to wipe off any blood; and probably a dark, long sleeved sweatshirt over his shoulders to throw on if he couldn’t get it all off. Yes. In retrospect he’d certainly been lucky tonight alright.

  Davo stretched his legs out in front of him and settled back further into the lounge. Next time. Was there going to be a next time? He smiled callously into his coffee as he reflected on the night’s events. Was there what. The feeling when his fist connected with that first skinhead’s face and the look on it when he barrelled him straight over the front of that car proved that. Then there were their screams of pain and the sheer joy of pounding their faces to pulp. It was just a pity those two weren’t the ones that gave it to Wayne and himself; but you never know—you just never know. Maybe one day. But oh yes. There was going to be a next time alright, and a next time, and another, until he got sick of it. And brother, it would be a while before he got sick of smashing those creeps. In the meantime, a bit of caution to be observed and everything should be just peachy. That’s all.