Davo's Little Something

by Robert G. Barrett

  Davo shook his head in reply. ‘I haven’t had a drink since I got out of hospital. The doctors told me not to—it’ll make my headaches worse.’

  ‘You still getting them are you?’ said Colin, with his head in the refrigerator.

  ‘Yeah. I’m getting used to them now though.’

  Colin returned with a can of Carlton Draught and settled back down on one of the lounge chairs. ‘Cheers anyway, mate,’ he said, raising the can.

  ‘Yeah. Cheers, Colin.’

  He took a lengthy pull of beer and let go an equally lengthy belch. ‘So what’s been happening anyway, mate?’ he burped.

  ‘Not a thing,’ replied Davo, with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘What about yourself?’

  That was all Colin needed. He then proceeded to give it to Davo with both barrels about his nagging mother, his stinkin’ bitch of an ex-wife, the dirty rotten molls he’d been forced to put up with lately, how hard it was to find a flat or a decent place to stay and how, socially, everything had been up to shit in general. All without letting on that he was breaking his neck for Davo to come good so they could get out on the run again. Davo, on the other hand, was having more than a hard time keeping the hangdog look on his face and was almost pissing himself inside at some of Colin’s stories and the expressions he was using. It had been a while since Davo had had a good laugh that wasn’t edged with cruelty and, though he didn’t want to let on he was glad Colin had come around, the easy-going truck driver was a tonic in himself and for the moment managed to erase a lot of the hatred smouldering inside him.

  ‘But fair dinkum,’ continued Colin. ‘That old lady of mine is unbelievable. She’d turn a baked dinner cold.’

  ‘Yeah. It sounds like she’s dirty on the world.’

  ‘It’s taken me thirty years to realise what a good bloke me old man is. He must have a heart of gold. I don’t know why he doesn’t flatten her. I reckon if he did I’d help him put the boot in.’ Colin grinned at Davo over his third can of beer. ‘Not a very nice way to talk about your mother is it?’

  ‘Can’t say I blame you, Colin,’ sympathised Davo, taking a sip from a mug of Ovaltine he’d made himself. ‘Sounds like she’s turning into a nice nark.’

  ‘She is mate. She’d give a bottle of castor oil the shits.’

  They kept talking away for a while longer, with the stereoradio playing softly in the background, till Davo decided it was time for him to put on his sick act or Colin might start thinking there wasn’t all that much wrong with him that a night out couldn’t fix. He leant back, closed his eyes and started massaging his temples.

  ‘Are you okay, mate?’ asked Colin, after a moment or two of silence.

  ‘Yeah—I just get these twinges now and again, mate. That’s all.’

  Colin looked at him for a few seconds with genuine sympathy. ‘I’ll finish this then and let you get to bed.’

  ‘It’s alright. I can take a painkiller.’

  ‘No, I’ll get goin’. I got to get up early myself anyway.’

  ‘Okay. Suit yourself.’

  They chatted for a little while longer while Colin finished his beer then he got up and Davo walked him to the door.

  ‘Well thanks for calling round, Colin, I’m glad you did. Sorry I’m still a bit of a lemon but . . . you know.’

  ‘That’s okay, mate, I understand.’ Colin shook Davo’s hand warmly again then paused for a moment at the top of the stairs. ‘Do you still think you might . . . feel like slipping out for a bit of a drink one night though. I’ll look after you if there’s any trouble.’

  Davo nearly burst out laughing at the sincere way Colin offered to look after him but he somehow managed to remain straightfaced. ‘Just give me another couple of weeks or so and I’ll come out and have a drink with you for sure. I’d like to anyway.’

  ‘Fair dinkum?’

  ‘Yeah for sure.’

  ‘Beauty. See you, Bob.’ Colin flashed a happy grin and disappeared down the stairs. ‘See you in a couple of weeks,’ he called from halfway down.

  ‘See you Colin,’ Davo called out after him, then closed the door and went inside.

  For some strange reason Davo felt like a drink when he got inside; Colin had somehow left him in a good mood, the best he’d been in for weeks. He got the bottle of Old Grandad out, made a tall bourbon highball then turned the stereo up and sat in the lounge sipping it to a little bit of Renee Geyer on 2DAY-FM. Before long he was laughing out loud at some of the things Colin had told him then he started laughing at the farcical side of it all.

  ‘Ohh, Colin me old mate,’ he chuckled out loud. ‘If you only knew. If you only bloody knew.’

  That afternoon Detective Middleton had rung Dr Joyce but the coroner had left a message that he would be busy all day and to see him at 2.30 on Friday. At 2.25 the two detectives walked into the morgue where Dr Joyce was waiting for them in his office on the first floor; two brown cardboard folders sat on his desk in front of him.

  ‘You said in your message that you might have something for us Oz,’ said Detective Middleton, after they’d all said their hellos and he and his partner had each pulled up a chair.

  ‘Well it’s nothing definite. Only a possibility.’ The coroner pushed the two folders across to the two rather avid detectives. ‘Do you want a cup of coffee?’ The two detectives shook their heads in unison, anxious to see the contents of the two files. ‘Okay.’ Dr Joyce started talking as they carefully studied the contents.

  ‘Well now what got me thinking was two of those killings from Sunday night. The one that got what looks like a kick in the sternum and the one that got his larynx crushed. Well I had a case in here something like that about four years ago. That bloke there.’ Dr Joyce tapped the file in front of Detective Blackburn. ‘Neil Floyd. He was killed by that bloke there.’ He tapped the file in front of Detective Middleton. ‘Konrad Mrakovcic. It was pretty much the same thing. A throat chop, massive bruising around the stomach, fractured ribs, jaw and so on. You see, Konrad was a karate champion back in Hungary—he represented his country and all that rattle—he came to Australia in the late sixties and ended up working for one of the mobs in The Cross: drugs, prostitution, pornofilms etc.’

  ‘I remember this guy now,’ said Detective Middleton, tapping the file. ‘Real big bloke about six-four, muscles everywhere. And bad news.’

  ‘That’s him,’ nodded Dr Joyce. ‘Anyway, to make a long story short, he killed Floyd with karate blows; over a prostitute of all things. I traced it to him and he got eight years.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ asked Detective Middleton.

  Dr Joyce smiled at the two detectives. ‘Unfortunately, Konrad tried his karate out on the wrong people in Grafton and got a jug of boiling water tipped over his head. Then they jammed his head in a vice, tightened it right up and about ten old lags rooted him. Now he’s a vegetable up in Morriset.’

  ‘Christ!’ exclaimed Detective Middleton.

  Detective Blackburn thumbed idly through Mrakovcic’s file. ‘So what’s this got to do with us? It’s obvious he didn’t do it.’

  ‘No,’ replied the smiling coroner, easing himself back from his desk. ‘But what I’m getting at is that the injuries that killed those skinheads are consistent with the ones that killed Neil Floyd.’

  Detective Blackburn stared intently at Dr Joyce. ‘You mean . . .’

  ‘What I’m trying to say,’ said the coroner, the same smile still on his face, ‘is that your killer could possibly be some crazed karate expert.’

  There was silence for a moment then Detective Middleton turned to his partner. ‘That makes sense, Ray—you were into martial arts once weren’t you. Karate or kung-fu or something?’

  ‘I got a brown belt for judo when I was in the air force—that’s all. But I agree with what Ozzie says.’

  ‘Yeah, so do I. But Jesus—this rooster must be good?’

  ‘He’s more than good,’ said the coroner. ‘If this is a karate expert doing this he must be as strong a
s an ox. Almost a bloody superman. And he’s obviously a psychopath as well.’

  ‘Shit! It’s certainly a cheery thought isn’t it.’ Detective Middleton looked thoughtfully at his partner then back at the coroner. ‘Do you reckon he’ll kill again Oz?’

  Dr Joyce grinned at the two detectives. ‘I don’t reckon. You couldn’t put enough money on it. This palooka obviously loves what he’s doing.’ Dr Joyce kept grinning at the two detectives. ‘Like you said, Greg. It’s a cheery thought. . . isn’t it?’

  Davo struck again on Friday night—with a vengeance. After another week of rigorous training he was almost screaming at the walls of his unit, and lusting like some mad dog to get out and kill again. The few laughs with Colin were forgotten and he was back to his insular savage self.

  He parked his car in the usual place and before long had joined the boisterous harlequin throng swarming along Oxford Street and around Taylor Square. He crossed Riley Street and stopped momentarily on the opposite corner to smile at where he’d killed the three youths on Sunday night. Where he would strike that night he wasn’t quite sure but something he’d read in the papers through the week had stuck in his mind. Something about some unsuspecting country visitor down from Tamworth who had been rolled and beaten up rather badly walking through Hyde Park one night. Hyde Park eh. A few trees, a bit of greenery. That would be a nice change from bricks and garbage tins. The grass would blend in lovely with all the blood too.

  He strolled briskly down to where Oxford Street turns into Liverpool; the light was green so he sprinted across College Street, pausing briefly on the corner before running up the short set of steps and stopping at the old war memorial of the deck gun taken from the German raider Emden during the Second World War.

  Doesn’t seem to be many people around he mused, as he ran his hand along the circle of iron pickets surrounding the old grey-painted gun and peered into the gloomy badly lit park. The dim glow from the few lights that weren’t broken cast strange spooky shadows among the trees and flowerbeds; where once a situation like this would have daunted, even frightened him, now he was in his glory. If ever there was a place to get rolled, he chuckled wickedly to himself, this is definitely it. A path led straight ahead and another veered to the right; he took the one going straight ahead where in the short distance he could see the huge squared silhouette of the Anzac War Memorial.

  The trees were scarcely moving in the cool night breeze. Nor were the flags around the Pool of Remembrance but in the shallows the moon picked up the ripples of the odd piece of paper or drink carton being scudded around. He stopped there in the shadows as if he were peering into the slightly murky water. He looked furtively out of the corners of his eyes; oddly, there still didn’t appear to be anyone around.

  A narrow path veered off to his right. He strolled along it with his hands still in the front pocket of the black cotton jacket, past some rubbish-strewn park benches and shelters, stopping in the half glow of the one working overhead light to have another quick look around and feel the security of the metal studded gloves wrapped tightly around his fists. There still didn’t seem to be anyone around. Then, just as he passed a short row of tall pine trees, he definitely heard a twig or a small branch snap, somewhere out in the shadows. The animal instinct Davo had somehow developed over the last weeks immediately told him he’d picked up a tail—and there was more than one.

  Smiling to himself now he moved across to a huge statue of Captain Cook, stopping again to take his hands out of the front pocket of his jacket and fold his arms loosely across his stomach. Looking up at the bewigged frock-coated figure on top of the pedestal holding a telescope he could hear and see the traffic moving noisily along College Street past the Museum, but in the darkened park it was quite still, almost silent and still appeared to be deserted except for whoever was following him.

  Davo’s adrenalin was racing now as he tried to control his excitement while he waited for their approach. It wasn’t long before three shadowy figures emerged from the thick bushes surrounding the statue—they were skinheads—and he heard a gruff badly spoken voice trying to sound polite say.

  ‘Hey, mate. You got a light?’

  Davo grinned to himself in the darkness, barely able to control his sadistic delight. ‘Yes certainly,’ he replied, in the same lisping, effeminate voice he’d used on the Sunday night. ‘I’ve got a cigarette too—if you’d like one.’

  Like a red rag to a bull Davo’s voice was all the skinheads needed; quickly now they advanced towards him. Like he was suspecting nothing Davo stood there with his hands folded across his stomach watching the three figures coming at him one in front and one on either side. As soon as they got within range he let go with a murderous right back-fist with all that training on the chest expander behind it. It hit the skin on his right across the bridge of his nose like a cannon ball, snapping his back and jerking his feet straight out from under him; with a quick gasp of pain he landed straight on his back with a thump, gave another little rattly moan and lay still.

  He’d barely landed when Davo moved towards the one in the middle and fired out a straight left. But in the darkness it almost missed only grazing him across the jaw but still hard enough to stun him. He threw his hands up over his face and stood there cursing with shock while Davo attacked the third one.

  In a gesture of futility the remaining skinhead shaped up to the now rampaging Davo. He saw one of his mates flattened in a matter of seconds right before his eyes and like all cowards who hunt in a pack, was about to turn and run once he could see that some pain was about to come his way, when a lightning fast straight left whistled through his upheld hands into his open mouth knocking out several teeth and spinning him back against the statue of Captain Cook. He slumped down on his backside at the base, blood bubbling through his hands out of what was left of his mouth as Davo sprang on him like a panther. Mercilessly he rained punches onto the hoodlum’s head with both hands, the metal reinforced gloves ripping off pieces of scalp and fracturing bones till he flopped helplessly at the foot of the statue half dead. Davo stood over him for a moment relishing the dreadful sight then drew back his right arm and drove his fist into the helpless skin’s temple. By the shock that ran up his arm Davo knew that final blow had killed him for sure.

  The last one, although dazed and confused, was still wobbling around on his feet, his hands over his face trying to stem the flow of blood where Davo’s first glancing blow had opened up his bottom lip. Davo stood in front of him for a moment studying him—even with his shaven head, boots and studded leather jacket and belt he didn’t look very tough now; if anything he looked pitiful. But Davo was unmerciful.

  ‘Please mate,’ he whimpered. ‘Give us a go willya.’

  Davo’s answer was a short callous laugh.

  Davo decided to try something different to pounding the skin’s head in. Bending slightly at the waist, he pivoted and drove his right fist into his chest something like he’d done to Ken in the boxing ring. The skin gave a tortured gasp of pain and even in the darkness Davo could see the whites of his eyes rolling as he fell forward clutching at his faltering heart. Taking him by the scruff of the neck, Davo held the choking skinhead out in front of him and punched him ferociously several times in the middle of his back; in the still of the park his spine cracking sounded just like the snap of that twig Davo had heard earlier. Before he dropped him Davo smashed the side of his fist against his neck breaking that also.

  Davo wasn’t too sure about the first skinhead, still lying on his back with his arms spread out alongside him, so he simply bent down and slashed the side of his gloved hand across his Adam’s apple squashing it like it was nothing more than a couple of overripe bananas.

  It was all over now but Davo remained there crouched down on all fours amongst his latest victims his head twitching from side to side like some creature out of a horror movie as he peered into the darkness to see if it was all clear. Satisfied it was, he rose to his feet and walked quickly through the b
ushes and down the steps into busy College Street removing the gloves as he moved briskly along. He stopped once to check his reflection in the window of a building, and satisfied there was no blood on his face he rejoined the busy throng in Oxford Street and headed back to his car.

  On Saturday night Davo was tempted to go back along Oxford Street, where the hunting thus far had been both successful and well hidden, however he decided it might be an idea to try somewhere else for a change. He also remembered telling himself he should cool it and going out two nights in a row wasn’t cooling it by any means, but by Saturday night his bloodlust was well and truly up and he could scarcely contain himself. There hadn’t been a great deal in the papers that morning about the killings either, he mused over breakfast; probably because they happened so late on Friday night. There was something on the radio however and a small paragraph in red ink in the stop-press of the Daily Telegraph—which he dutifully cut out and placed in the drawer with the others. So later that night, instead of turning left at South Dowling, as usual, he turned right and drove down past St Vincent’s hospital, to where, in a sprawl of narrow dirty alleyways and equally narrow dirty terrace houses, Darlinghurst meets Woolloomooloo. He finished up near the bottom of Forbes Street opposite the ABC carpark, and decided to park there and walk up William Street to Kings Cross.

  There didn’t seem to be any people about when he got out of the car, a stray dog and a few rancorous-looking alleycats but no people. As he locked the door he absently looked up at the signpost on the corner, it brought a brief smile to his grim face. St Peters Street. He laughed then glanced up at the night sky powdered lightly with stars, thinking of Wayne. Pity I never had these on that Thursday night mate. He patted the pocket on the front of his jacket. It might have been a different story.

  He walked down Forbes Street to where a small sandstone arch topped by a pair of copper street lamps flanked the top of a set of steps leading down past the old 2JJJ building to William Street which led up to the Cross. At the top of the stairs he noticed another long high-walled lane, Premiers Lane, which ran up under the ABC carpark to the Cross as well. It looked like a shortcut and although it was dark and rather forbidding he figured he’d duck up there instead.