Davo's Little Something

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Well, what do you reckon we ought to do Frank?’

  Frank. That was it. At the mention of that name things began spinning around inside Davo’s head and a rush of adrenalin burst in his stomach like a bomb making him almost go weak in the knees. He had to turn away and lean against the wall for support as his mind was suddenly flooded with all different emotions. Anger, fury, confusion and most of all, vivid painful memories.

  He was immediately propelled back to that Thursday night in the lane with Wayne, when they’d come across the gang trying to break into Wayne’s car. He could hear the laughter when Wayne spoke to the skinheads and the words of one of the gang to the redhaired leader were still as crystal-clear and lucid in his mind as if they were being played on a tape.

  ‘Well what do you know, Frank. Looks like we found us a couple of poofters.’

  And the last thing Davo remembered seeing that night was one of Frank’s red swastikaed boots crashing into his face. Those same boots barely three metres from where he was standing. That was him alright. Davo had finally found the man he was looking for, the key to his torment; and also the key to his escape from this Jekyll and Hyde madness he was going through. He’d found him and soon his torture would be over.

  His eyes crushed tight against the flood of burning tears welling up inside. Davo kept his face turned away while he leant up against the wall and slowly counted to ten. As the initial adrenalin rush began to subside violent brutal hatred immediately took its place and it was an effort to stop himself from racing over, taking the redhaired hoodlum by the throat and choking him to death on the spot. But even though he was literally shaking with rage, the rage soon changed to icy evil vindictive revenge. Davo had something better planned for Frank. Something ghastly he’d planned in the back of his mind months ago just in the event that he might one day find his elusive quarry.

  Davo heard Frank say something to the others about cars down near Central. He moved away from the wall, walked slowly in front of the three skinheads without looking at them, and stood back among the crowds just round the corner in George Street; where he could remain unobtrusive yet keep an eye on the gang at the same time. A bus pulled up and Davo blended in with the people getting on and off. As it took off the skins suddenly got to their feet, and catching the green light ran arrogantly across Liverpool then started walking with their customary swagger down George Street towards Central Railway. Davo fell in about twenty metres behind.

  He followed them down past the Tivoli and through the white demolition hoardings outside the old Anthony Hordern building, slightly curious by now as to what purpose the gang had down that end of town at this time of night. They strode across Goulburn Street, past the Goulburn Hotel, stopped momentarily to look in Mick Simmons window then turned left into Campbell Street: with Davo still stealthily following about thirty metres behind. They turned right at Pitt then cut diagonally across into Hay Street and up past Belmore Park. Here, where it was a bit darker and more secluded, the gang spread out with Frank in the lead and the other two in the shadows behind. All three were looking in the windows of the parked cars and checking the doors. So that’s what they were doing. Breaking into cars and stealing the contents. This would undoubtedly take them further into the lanes and back alleys. A cruel grin began to form on Davo’s grim face. He couldn’t believe his luck as already a deadly plan formed in his mind.

  The gang regrouped momentarily before crossing Pitt into the tunnel leading to Elizabeth Street. Davo sprinted across and waited at the opposite end of the tunnel long enough to see them cross Elizabeth and enter a dingy laneway opposite with a tattoo parlour on the corner. There was a considerable amount of street noise from the traffic and the trains on the overhead going into and coming from Central Railway. This pleased Davo even more. He gave them a few seconds start while he slipped his hands into the gloves and absently watched a moving neon sign on a golf shop opposite, of a golfer sinking a ball on the nineteenth hole. With the gloves secure Davo’s grin spread even further. This was the big moment. All those months of training and searching were about to come off. Soon the debt to Wayne and himself would be paid in full: and in blood. He punched his hands together with an audible ‘whack’ then dashed through a break in the traffic to the tattoo parlour where he stopped and cautiously edged his head around the corner.

  There was a Salvation Army hostel just up the lane to his right; the door was open but there were no people around and hardly any light. It was as close to perfect as he could get. Barely fifteen metres in front of him one of the gang had his back turned while he jemmied at the three-quarter window of a Ford stationwagon with a screwdriver. Davo had a last quick look around then as quietly as a cat walking across carpet crept up behind him and slammed his left fist up under his ear almost breaking his neck. The skinhead didn’t even get a chance to let out a sound as he crashed to the footpath. The only noise was a slight rattle as the screwdriver flew up in the air and landed in the gutter. Davo didn’t have time to play games. He dearly would have liked to pound the hood’s head to jelly but he wanted to get the first two out of the way as quickly as possible so he could get to their leader. There was no way he was going to blow this opportunity. He reached down, placed his right hand on the left side of the hood’s head and left hand on the other, took a solid grip then gave a violent wrench that broke the hood’s neck with a horrible, grinding crunch, nearly turning his head completely around in the process. With that done, he dropped the body and hurriedly kicked it underneath the car the skinhead had been trying to break into. Now for the next one.

  Clinging close to the wall Davo crept along to the end and inched his head round the corner. The second hood was barely two car lengths away with the three-quarter window of a Toyota saloon open and his hand inside reaching for the door lock. The only problem was he was facing Davo and would probably have time to at least yell out before he got to him. But luck was with Davo again. On the next corner, almost opposite the skinhead, he noticed a sign saying White Hall Studios and about two storeys above, a band, a heavy metal one at that, was rehearsing. The drummer hit a lengthy burst, a guitar screeched and like a panther Davo sprang out of the shadows at the second member of the gang. The skin just had time to get his hand out of the car window and yell something but his scream was lost in the noise of the band and the rattle of a passing train. The next thing Davo’s right fist smashed into his face spinning him backwards across the mudguard of the Toyota to land face down in the gutter unconscious. Davo took hold of his head and did exactly what he’d done to the other one then also kicked his body under a car.

  After a quick look around Davo took a deep breath. There was another narrow alley angling off to the right under the rehearsal studios. A cruel smile began to flicker around the edges of his glowering eyes; he figured the last skinhead would be up that lane. He nodded his head slowly as the smile spread icily from his eyes to his mouth and across his face. Now it’s your turn Frank.

  Davo hurried over to where the lane started and keeping close to the furthest wall peered down it into the darkness. At first he couldn’t see anything then about fifteen metres away to his right he began to make out a white T-shirted figure rummaging around in the front seat of a Holden Commodore. Frank had obviously broken into the car and was now busy rifling its contents; even at that distance Davo could see him going through the glovebox, strewing whatever wasn’t worth stealing all over the floor. Davo chuckled to himself as he took his time moving closer towards the Commodore; he didn’t want to hurry this and he’d have to wait for Frank to get out of the car anyway. He edged into the shadows on the opposite side of the lane and stood there watching his victim intently.

  Eventually, the redhaired skinhead climbed out of the car, stuffed something in the back pocket of his jeans and slammed the door. In his hands was a Phillips head screwdriver, the point of which he ran over the car door in a zigzag scrawl after he’d closed it. He had a quick furtive look around him and not noticing Davo standin
g there in the shadows in his dark clothing moved on to the car in front of the one he’d just broken into. As he jammed the screwdriver into the threequarter window of the Cortina Davo moved away from the wall, watched him crouched over the car for a second then spoke.

  ‘Hello, Frank,’ he said quietly. ‘How are you, mate?’

  At the sound of his name the redhaired skinhead stood up and spun around. He wasn’t frightened. A little startled maybe but curious more than anything else at hearing his name being called out by what appeared to be a complete stranger. He stood there, the hand holding the screwdriver hanging loosely by his side and glared at Davo suspiciously.

  ‘Who the fuckin’ hell are you?’ he said indignantly.

  ‘Who am I?’ smiled Davo. ‘Why, I’m a friend of yours, Frank.’ He moved forward as Frank brought the Phillips head screwdriver up defiantly. ‘I’ve been looking for you for ages, Frank. Like you wouldn’t believe.’

  In the weak yellow glow of the distant streetlight Frank’s face still showed no fear: but he was wary. He knew something wasn’t right but he was still mystified as to who the stranger was and how he knew his name.

  ‘Listen, what are you on about, pal?’ he said quickly. ‘Do you want something? If you don’t, well fuck off.’

  He shifted his gaze away to Davo’s right to see if his two cohorts were around. They weren’t so he quickly shifted his gaze back to Davo. By now though the weird smile on Davo’s face and the veiled menace in his voice began to ring a few warning bells.

  ‘Listen you prick,’ he snarled. ‘I don’t know who you are or what you want but I’ve got a couple of mates just round the corner and if you don’t piss off, I’ll get them up here and we’ll kick you from one end of this lane to the other. So why don’t you fuck off while you’re still in one piece.’

  Davo’s smile turned into a grin then an ominous chuckle. ‘I just saw your two mates, Frank. And I wouldn’t count on them if I were you.’

  The defiant look on Frank’s face faded as quickly as Davo’s chuckle.

  ‘Frank,’ continued Davo, his voice now starting to drip with hatred. ‘You remember a Santana concert down at the Entertainment Centre some time ago. It was a Thursday night. You and some of your hero mates gave two blokes a kicking. You thought they were poofters.’

  Frank tightened his grip on the Phillips head screwdriver. He kept staring at Davo but his eyes were darting from side to side as he tried to remember what Davo was talking about.

  ‘Yeah, you remember now, Frank. It was in the papers. You killed one of them, a little hairdresser named St Peters. And you put the other one in hospital.’ Davo was starting to gulp in air now and his voice was beginning to crack slightly as all the emotions of the past months began to surface. ‘Well, I’m the one you put in hospital. The butcher from Bondi.’ Frank ran his tongue over his lips as once more his eyes darted down towards the end of the lane. ‘And you know who I am now, Frank? You greasy gutless little piece of shit. Yeah, you read the papers don’t you, Frank. Well I’m the cunt that goes around killing everybody. The one they call the Midnight Rambler. That’s right, Frank. You’ve just met him. Face to face. And there’s no one else around.’

  At that Frank screamed out at the top of his voice. ‘Ray! Donnie! Up here, quick!’ But as he called out his voice was almost silenced completely by another deafening crescendo from the band still rehearsing above them.

  ‘It’s too late for your mates, Frank. I just broke both their necks. They’re both dead.’

  The look of fear intensified on Frank’s face then just as quickly it changed to anger and hatred: like a rat when it’s been cornered. ‘Well I don’t give a fuck who you are, you cunt. But you ain’t gonna kill me.’

  The redhaired skinhead bounced off the car he’d been breaking into and made a savage lunge at Davo’s stomach with the sharp-pointed screwdriver. Easily, almost too easily, Davo stepped to one side and punched the weapon out of his hand sending it spinning off into the darkness. In almost the same quick movement he gave Frank a short sharp but not very hard backhand that spun him back against the car, then stood in front of him with his hands down by his sides. Frank threw a desperate left and right that caught Davo flush on the face. But he might as well have been punching granite; Davo didn’t even blink. Frank threw another right and was about to kick Davo in the balls with his heavy boots but Davo stepped inside and sank a short right up into Frank’s solar plexus that made him gasp and slump up against the door of the Cortina clutching at his stomach. In an instant, Davo had his hand around Frank’s throat and had his head held up level with the roof of the car.

  ‘No, Frank,’ he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘I’m not going to kill you.’ Davo’s wild-eyed face was barely an inch away from Frank’s, whose tongue was lolling out over his lips as he tried to force some air back into his lungs. ‘No, I’ve got something better lined up for you than that.’ He gave Frank’s throat an extra squeeze making him gag. ‘You’re gonna love it.’

  Davo punched him in the stomach again then spun him around and forced his face up against the window of the car with his left hand. With the same wild eyed look on his face he ran his hand up Frank’s spine till he found what he was looking for. The bony lump at the base of the neck just above the shoulders: the C7. Still jamming Frank’s face firmly against the window Davo drew back his right fist then smashed it straight into the skinhead’s clavicular region, snapping his spine below the neck. Frank gave a gasp of shock and pain and slumped to the roadway at Davo’s feet, a quadriplegic.

  Davo stood over him for a moment then seized him roughly under the armpits and sat him back against the car. The skinhead’s face was a mask of agony, horror and disbelief at the nightmare that was happening to him; and the terror of being conscious and knowing he was absolutely helpless now to defend himself.

  ‘Yeah, Frank,’ said Davo, crouching down in front of him. ‘Now you’re a cripple. You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair.’ Davo was smiling and his voice was almost friendly the way he spoke. ‘But, Frank,’ Davo’s voice trailed off into menace once more. ‘Like they say on the TV—And that’s not all.’

  Davo opened and closed his hands a few times in front of Frank’s trembling face then jammed his thumbs into his eyes gouging the eyeballs out of the sockets. Frank howled like some poor stricken animal but the howl was lost in the sound of the band still rehearsing above them. Davo ripped the strands of membrane away and flung Frank’s eyes down the street. He looked at the sickening gore-smeared mess of what was left of Frank’s face but still Davo’s hate-maddened mind showed no mercy. If anything it got worse.

  He reached into the front pocket of his jacket and got out his set of car keys with a small pocket knife attached. It was a bit of a trick getting the blade open with the gloves on but he managed it. Frank was sobbing pitifully as Davo forced his mouth open, plunged his fingers inside and pulled his tongue out. It too was a bit tricky to get hold of being wet and covered in blood but Davo’s madness made sure he managed this as well. When he got it out as far as he could he started hacking into it with the pen-knife. Frank sobbed and tried to scream but all that came out were indescribable horrible blubbering sounds as he gagged and coughed blood all over Davo. Finally Davo had it off. He looked at the grisly object in his gloved hand for a moment then flung it down the street where it landed in a stormwater drain.

  Still crouched in front of him Davo folded the knife and put it back in his pocket. Frank’s head was slumped forward and blood was bubbling out of his mouth all over his oncewhite Joy Division T-shirt. The helpless skinhead’s face was now only a hideous mattery blood-spattered mask just visible in the surrounding shadows and half light of the street lamp. But still Davo refused to show any mercy. All he could see in his crazed mind was Wayne getting kicked to death and those same boots just next to him crashing into his face.

  ‘Well, Frank,’ he said, with an eerie gentleness after the terrible thing he’d just done to him
. ‘Now you’re blind, dumb and a cripple. But there’s still one thing left.’

  Frank looked dead but he was still breathing alright. He gave a cough and a torrent of blood sprayed down the front of his already saturated T-shirt and across his jeans.

  ‘Frank. You can hear me can’t you?’ Davo gave Frank a slap across the chin. ‘Yeah you can hear me alright. Well, Frank, these are the last words you’re ever going to hear. When you’re in your wheelchair or in hospital, think of Wayne St Peters and Bob Davis. Think of us. And think of any Helen Keller jokes you might have heard over the years. See you later, Frank.’

  With that, Davo’s final hellish act was to thump his open hands over Frank’s ears bursting both eardrums. Then he stood up, took one last look at the pitiful figure at his feet and walked away wiping his face with a handkerchief. Above him the band was still rehearsing with a drum solo seeming to blend in perfectly with the rattle of a passing train.

  Davo was a seething cauldron of emotions as he left the scene of his latest, and undoubtedly most ghastly crime. He’d had his revenge in full. More than in full. The retribution he’d extracted from Frank was almost too obscene to contemplate. But instead of feeling some kind of revelation, with the crippling of Frank and the deaths of two members of the gang and the knowledge that the whole vile episode was finally over, he didn’t seem to feel all that different. A definite burden had been lifted from his shoulders and he’d got his satisfaction—but was it all over? Would he be able to stop now? He didn’t know for sure. Deep in thought he walked swiftly up Elizabeth Street and it wasn’t long before he was sitting behind the wheel of his car staring at himself in the rear-vision mirror.