Davo's Little Something

by Robert G. Barrett

  Davo rubbed his hand nervously across his face. He couldn’t go out killing tonight. He hadn’t had his afternoon sleep, he was confused and he knew there’d be police everywhere. But the bloodlust in him was too strong. In fifteen minutes he was changed, the gloves were jammed in the front pocket of his black cotton jacket and he was driving over the bumps in the freeway behind Bondi Junction heading for Kings Cross.

  It was after ten when Davo turned right off Bayswater Rd to take the back way into the Cross and come up Victoria Street. He’d hardly got past the El Alamein fountain when he noticed the increased numbers of patrol cars and uniform police on foot. Even from inside his utility he could see they weren’t just walking aimlessly around but appeared to be intently checking out all the passersby, especially any men on their own. They’d stop them, take notes and talk into their twoway radios for a few moments before letting them go to continue on their way. There was fear and apprehension on the faces of the police too, and although Kings Cross always has that atmosphere of danger about it, tonight Davo could notice a sense of urgency in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. Shit! This is no good he thought. If the cops are as thick as this in the main streets you can bet the back alleys will be swarming with undercover ones: like those two the other night. He hung a left at South Dowling and further on turned right into Oxford Street. The strip was the same. Police everywhere and people walking around that looked like police. But the more this hampered and frustrated Davo the more determined it made him to get out and kill someone. Anyone. He turned left into Riley Street and came up Bourke past the old Crown Street Women’s Hospital, all rundown and forlorn and daubed with graffiti now that it was closed down, then turned right into Bourke. It was a lot quieter here and there didn’t seem to be any cops around. He cruised slowly through Surry Hills, carefully scanning the streets for both cops and victims when just up ahead on his left, walking past a deserted hotel, he noticed what could be promising.

  Two punks. Fairly big blokes in overalls, boots and denim shirts with close-cropped hair. As he cruised past Davo couldn’t help but notice their surly faces and an air of aggravation about them in the way they hunched their shoulders and swaggered as they walked. Well, well, well smiled Davo. These two big punks or whatever they are look like they’re out for a bit of ag. Well they’ve come to the right place. In the rear-vision mirror Davo saw them abruptly turn off into a lane on their left. Davo had to kill someone tonight and this was too good an opportunity to miss. That’ll do me. He swung left into a narrow street, quickly grabbed the first parking space he could find, locked the car and dashed off into a lane opposite which he was sure would make his path cross that of the two men in overalls.

  He sprinted to the end of the lane, stopped on the corner and there were the two punks, still walking towards Moore Park, about twenty metres to his right. Apart from the three of them there didn’t appear to be anyone else around but it was a narrow street this time, there were houses on either side and it could have been a lot darker. It was risky, but it was a chance he would just have to take: he had to kill someone tonight. This’ll be just like the first one he thought, as he sprinted past the two big punks and stopped a few metres in front of them, the adrenalin pumping through him, the gloves on and his arms hanging loosely by his sides.

  The two men slowed down slightly but the swagger was still in their walk and they showed absolutely no signs of fear. There was a street lamp not far away and as they got closer Davo noticed something odd about the two men. Their faces were still full of aggro, which seemed to intensify at the sight of Davo bobbing up in front of them, however there was something else about them that Davo couldn’t quite put his finger on. Then it dawned on him. They weren’t men. The two punks were women. Davo’s victims had turned out to be a couple of huge vicious lesbians.

  The two lesbians didn’t hesitate when they saw Davo standing there on his own. They hated all men and as far as they were concerned Davo was a rapist; the worst kind. They’d spent months training and getting advice at the Rape Crisis Centre for just such an occasion and were really quite delighted at Davo dropping in. They’d have his balls for this. Davo was still staring at them slightly uncertain what to do. He just had time to get his hands up and hear one say ‘you go for the bastard’s balls’ when they attacked.

  Davo could scarcely believe the ferocity of the onslaught. One rained what seemed like a hail of solid punches at him while the other aimed several hefty kicks at his groin. He managed to block most of the punches and slip most of the kicks though some did get through. Only his lightning fast reflexes and stamina saved him; any normal person would have been beaten to the ground by now getting kicked half to death by their huge boots. Of all the fights he’d been in this was far and away the toughest.

  He covered up under another rain of kicks and punches as the two cursing lesbians tore into him, then sighting an opening, he set himself up and belted the one on his right on the jaw; it only half connected but it stoppd her, rocking her back a metre or so on her heels. Davo followed up with a left to the stomach and another left to the jaw. He was about to let her have a huge short right when the other one jumped on his back and started clawing at his eyes. Davo put his left hand up to protect his face and jammed his right elbow a couple of times, as hard as he could, up under her floating ribs. She gave a cursing grunt and her grip slackened slightly. He reached up, grabbed the shoulders of her shirt, bent quickly at the waist and flipped her over his head. She gave another yell, louder this time, and crashed heavily down on her back onto the footpath. That was all Davo needed. The next thing his steel bound fist slammed into her face pounding her head into the concrete with a spray of blood from her shattered nose and that was it.

  Davo looked up to see the other one sitting on her backside holding her jaw. He felt he didn’t have time to muck around too much so he walked over to her, pivoted on his left foot and gave her a Thai kick with his right instep up under her ear that raised her up off the ground and dumped her back down with a broken neck. She died without making a sound. He returned to the other one who looked like she was dead lying on the footpath with her hands out by her side and blood bubbling out of her nose. He crouched down alongside her and brought the side of his gloved hand down across her throat. Her head jerked forward as she gave a little choking rattle and that was it. Davo gave her another one just to be certain. The other lesbian was lying on her side, her head bent around at a weird angle. There was no doubt she was dead but Davo gave her a throat slash too that nearly took her head off.

  He looked at them for a second or two and although with their faces starting to turn black they looked quite gruesome, he would have loved to pound their heads in and leave them unrecognisable. But he was in a half-lit lane with houses around and there’d been a bit of noise so he got his breath, shook his head slightly with disbelief at the way they had fought and sprinted for his car.

  Back in his unit, Davo couldn’t believe the mess he was in. There were scratch marks all round his eyes, one eye was starting to turn black, his lip was split and huge, purple bruises were already starting to appear around the sides of his groin. Jesus Christ he thought, as he dabbed at the scratches with antiseptic. What about those bloody two. Weren’t they a nice couple of hellcats. If ever there was a prime example of that old saying—it’s not the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog. They were it. Shit! Look at my face. Bloody dyke bitches. Let me fight men any day. Bloody hell.

  But Davo had had another kill: albeit a hard-fought one. He’d managed to murder another two denizens of the night and almost under the noses of all those cops looking for him, so that made it all the sweeter. And that extra aggression in him had been released. Apart from his bruising and a little discomfort he slept pretty soundly that night.

  Davo spent the rest of the weekend and the following week training, resting and watching TV. By Monday his face had coloured right up and he reluctantly realised that he wouldn’t be
able to go out killing the following weekend. His black eye and the scratch marks all over his face would stick out like a neon sign and the cops being everywhere checking everyone out, they’d have him in five minutes. Bloody lesbians he cursed to himself again.

  It didn’t say anything like that in the paper. After a furious training session on Thursday morning, Davo was sitting in the kitchen having a cup of coffee, gently running his finger over his scratched and blackened eye and puffed lip. On impulse he reached into the kitchen drawer, took out the clippings from Sunday and Monday’s coverage of the killings and moodily read them again.

  TWO WOMEN SOCIAL WORKERS LATEST M/ RAMBLER VICTIMS said the Sunday Telegraph. CRAZED KILLER’S WOMEN VICTIMS CONFOUND POLICE said the Sun Herald. ODD NEW TWIST IN SLAYING OF TWO WOMEN said the Mirror. The Sun said pretty much the same thing going on to say how Ms Elaine Collis and Ms Jennene Wells both of Balmain, members of the WEL and Women Against Rape in War, were brutally slain in Surry Hills late on Friday night.

  Women against rape in war? Davo gave a grim laugh and softly pressed at the huge bruises around his groin. Jesus, who’d want to try and rape those two? King Kong? They’d be safe working topless on a Greek freighter. Bloody Balmain basketweaving molls with their hairy legs and army shorts. I’m glad I necked the two ugly bitches now. In fact I might even go out and get a few more once I heal up. He fingered the bruising around his face again. No bugger that. It’s too much like hard work. I think I’ll stick to the skinheads. He finished his coffee and went for a nice long walk with a hat and a pair of sunglasses on before training that afternoon.

  By a strange coincidence, Detective Blackburn’s widowed mother Ivy lived barely a kilometre from Davo around the corner in Birrell Street, not far from Waverley Oval. She lived in a small but comfortable, home unit, alone apart from a budgerigar called Cha-Cha and her fox terrier Socks. Detective Blackburn had bought Socks for her to replace Brandy, who’d got run over about two years ago. Blackburn only lived over at Randwick, not far from Centennial Park, so he used to go and see his widowed mother quite frequently, especially as the rest of the family lived in the country. But now, with this Midnight Rambler thing, he hadn’t had much of a chance. In fact lately he hadn’t had much of a chance for anything. His superiors in the police force, spurred on by the commissioner and other politicians trying to appease the media were pressuring him constantly. However, this particular Thursday night he wasn’t going anywhere or even going to think about the socalled bloody Midnight Rambler. His son was at judo lessons and his daughter had gone to jazz ballet with her cousins and an aunt. His wife had cooked him chicken Kiev, one of his favourites, and he was going to eat that, watch ‘Miami Vice’ for an escapist laugh, and then drag his wife giggling and screaming into the bedroom and make savage unbridled love to her. After that he’d drop a Mogadon and shout himself about twelve hours sleep. And nothing was going to stop him.

  Nothing except a phone call from his mother just after 6.30 saying how Socks had got out into Waverley Oval again and she was worried sick. He’d been gone over four hours now which had her just about on the verge of tears. Detective Blackburn could picture his mother sitting there, with her blue rinse, Edna Everage glasses and chiffon scarf round her neck; wringing her hands together and overreacting, as usual, to the whole situation. He closed his eyes in disbelief as the succulent aroma of chicken Kiev wafted out from the kitchen.

  ‘Raymond, you’ll have to come over and find him,’ wailed Mrs Blackburn over the phone. ‘He’s been gone all afternoon and I don’t know where he is. I’m worried sick.’

  The poor little bastard’s only up the oval trying to get a root, Blackburn felt like saying. Because he can’t get one locked up in that bloody unit all day. ‘Mum, he’s only up the oval playing with some other dogs. He’ll be back. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Oh, Raymond how can you be so callous. He’s such a little dog and I’m scared something will happen to him. If he finished up like Brandy it would break my heart.’

  ‘Yeah, Mum, I know but . . .’

  ‘I’d go up there myself only you know I’ve got this bad leg. And Doctor Trachtenberg’s got me on this new medication for my asthma that leaves me dizzy.’

  ‘Mum, I’m sure Socks is . . .’

  ‘Look don’t worry about it, Raymond. I’ll go myself. If anything happens to me it doesn’t matter. I know I shouldn’t have called you. I can manage.’

  Hello, here it comes. The martyr. Blackburn sniffed again at the cooking smells coming out of the kitchen and shook his head in despair. ‘Alright, Mum, don’t worry. I’ll come over and sort it out.’

  Which was why about twenty minutes later Detective Blackburn happened to be tramping up and down the slopes and playing fields of Waverley Oval in the dark, with a lead in one hand, calling out ‘Socks, here Socks,’ and whistling every minute or so instead of sitting at home getting stuck into his wife’s chicken Kiev.

  Bloody stupid mongrel he thought. Fair dinkum, if I find it I’ll kick its bloody little arse right up through its flea collar. Prick of a thing. I wish I’d never bought it in the first place. I was gonna get her a cat too. Oh well. He glanced at his watch: it wasn’t long after seven. Anyway, if I don’t find it by eight I’m pissing off. I’m not missing ‘Miami Vice’ and I sure as hell ain’t missing Helen’s chicken Kiev.

  With his patience starting to wear a bit thin, he half walked, half jogged around to the Birrell Street end of the oval, swinging the lead like a key chain as he whistled and called out the dog’s name. There weren’t many people around. The occasional jogger going past now and again and a few commuters taking a short-cut through the park from Bondi Road. Eventually he reached the back of the grandstand where he stopped in the shadows to get his bearings. He was just about to whistle and call out again when a lone solid figure in a blue tracksuit, at the bottom of the steps behind the playground leading up to the water tower, caught his eye. Out of nothing more than idle curiosity Detective Blackburn stopped to watch him.

  The lone figure propped at the bottom of the steps for a moment, looked around him, then almost like he’d been fired out of a cannon took off up the steep set of steps like a rocket. In what seemed like only a matter of a few seconds he’d reached the top, where he paused, stretched his arms out at his sides then trotted back down. He stopped at the bottom of the steps for what seemed like just another matter of seconds and bingo, he shot off up the steps again. Detective Blackburn stood concealed in the shadows fascinated while the solitary figure did this five times in a row. Jesus, how fit’s this bloke he thought. He’s a bloody superman. It wasn’t until the tenth time he went up the steps that Blackburn’s professional interest pricked his mind.

  Hey. I’ve seen that bloke before somewhere. It was a little difficult to make out his face at that distance in the dim glow from the lights in the park, but there was definitely something familiar about him. The build was slightly different but he was sure he knew that head. Blackburn’s mind began ticking over rapidly as his detective’s brain started filing through the thousands of people in his memory banks trying to match a name to a barely discernible face. Hey wait a minute. Is that the butcher Greg and I saw in hospital—and at the coroner’s court? David? Dennis? Davis. Something Davis. But hang on a second. The last time I saw him he was almost a cripple. Well he’s not a bloody cripple now, that’s for sure.

  Detective Blackburn counted as fifteen times the figure went up and down the almost vertical steps with hardly a break in between. Christ he thought. No matter who it is the bloke must have a heart like Phar Lap. He was standing there watching just as much in admiration at the man’s fitness as anything else, when the figure bent down at the bottom of the steps, picked up a walking stick and started shuffling off in the direction of Bondi Road. What the bloody . . . Blackburn could hardly believe his eyes. Some man, whether it was that butcher Davis or whoever it was, had just done fifteen heart-breaking sprints up a set of steps that would daunt an Olympic gold
medallist, then turned around and shuffled off on a walking stick. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this he thought. He pushed himself off the wall to go after the figure in the blue tracksuit when another little figure, a white one with its nose up an equally small black kelpie’s bum trotted past and caught his eye.

  ‘Socks, you little bastard.’

  The dog stopped at the sound of its name and walked towards Blackburn. Just as he was about to grab it, it put its front paws and nose on the ground, stuck its backside up in the air, then spun around on its back legs and ran off after the kelpie.

  ‘Come here, you rotten little prick.’

  Detective Blackburn watched the dog out of one eye and the rapidly disappearing figure on the walking stick out the other, not quite knowing what to do.

  I suppose I’d better go after the bloody dog he cursed. As he did he watched the man on the walking stick vanish up Bondi Road. But something, an idea or a notion he couldn’t quite grasp was bouncing around inside his head like a pingpong ball and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  After a general meeting of all the senior police involved on the so-called Midnight Rambler murders the following day, Blackburn was left alone with Middleton in the detectives’ room. Blackburn had eventually ‘apprehended’ Socks then got home in time for ‘Miami Vice’ and his chicken dinner. The kids came home early and knocked his chances of a bit of the other with his wife on the head, but he did get his twelve hours sleep and today he was feeling in reasonably good shape; the best he’d been for weeks. He was mildly excited as he related to a moderately interested Detective Middleton the odd event he’d seen on Waverley Oval the previous night.