Davo's Little Something

by Robert G. Barrett

  The sadistic almost inhuman face staring back at him seemed like that of a complete stranger. Was that the same person who less than a year ago was working happily in a butcher shop in Bondi Junction and who had hardly ever had an argument let alone a fight in his life? At one time even the thought of what he’d just done to that skinhead would have been enough to make him throw up. Now he not only accepted it: he relished it. Even laughed about it. He started the engine and found he was laughing at himself in the mirror. Cackling hysterically. He held his hands out in front of him and noticed he still hadn’t taken the gloves off. He turned his hands over and could still see Frank’s tongue and eyes sitting there. This made him laugh even louder. I don’t imagine there’ll be much chance of Frank going out and giving anyone a kicking for a while. What about when the cops try and get a statement out of him. I wonder what Blackburn and Middleton will use. Mental telepathy? Morse code? Davo roared with laughter. Maybe they’ll beam Mr Spock down and get him to use the Vulcan mind probe. He made a mental note to ring the police and tell them where to find Frank before he died from loss of blood. Still roaring with laughter he drove off, taking a left into Pitt as planned.

  He stopped at a phone box in Surry Hills and made the call, saying he was just a citizen walking past and he’d seen the bodies. They looked like victims of the Midnight Rambler. Also they should get an ambulance there in a hurry as one of them was still alive. No. He didn’t wish to leave his name and address. Davo was laughing like a drain when he got back in the car. He could just see the looks on the faces of the squads of detectives when they swarmed round there thinking they were finally going to get a positive identification of the elusive Midnight Rambler. And there was Frank. It would have to go down as the best prank ever pulled in Australian crime history.

  He cut up Albion Street, turned right into South Dowling, then left at the Captain Cook Hotel and up Moore Park Road past the showground. He was still laughing to himself, wondering vaguely what the future had in store for him when the headlights picked up two figures on his left walking towards the Olympic Hotel. A skinhead in boots and braces and his punk moll of a girlfriend with her torn clothes and spiked hair. The skinhead seemed to look at his car as he approached making the evil in Davo’s mind whirl into gear again. Hello he thought. Two little scumbags wandering around looking for a bit of trouble. Should I or shouldn’t I?

  Davo slowed the car down as he went past them. This would be a good time to test himself. Kill these two and see if it did anything for him. If it didn’t he’s over it. If it did? Well too bad. It’ll just have to be business as usual.

  The callous, indifferent way Davo regarded taking two people’s lives was an indication of how far his mind had now gone. Kill two young people and see how it felt. Regarding murdering someone as no more than trying out a bottle of wine or listening to a couple of new records. Sample them and if you don’t like them discard them when you’re finished. There’s always plenty more where they came from.

  He slowed down about 500 metres in front of the two punks, backed into a parking spot and got out of the car. There were no people and hardly any cars around. He found a dark secluded spot not far from his car, in front of a small block of flats behind some trees, and stood there waiting for his victims. He didn’t have to worry about changing into his gloves; they were still on his hands and still damp with Frank’s blood.

  Sandra Lessing was fairly drunk but Jimmy was roaring. The empty bottle of Bacardi left at the party along with the empty wine cask was proof of that. The party itself had been a ripper. Good music, good food and good people. Unfortunately though, when the party finished they couldn’t get a lift back towards Bronte as most of the other people there had decided to get drunk and leave their cars at home too; and those left at the end all lived in the opposite direction. Someone had buggered up the phone and they couldn’t ring for a cab so Jimmy and his sister decided to walk until they found one. This was easier said than done because for some unknown reason there seemed to be hardly any cabs around. But it was a lovely mild night so they thought they’d keep walking up past the showground and clear their heads a bit. By the time they made it to the Olympic Hotel Sandra’s head was clear but her feet were killing her.

  ‘Oh these bloody stupid boots,’ she complained, as they plodded along. ‘Why did I ever buy the silly bloody things. Why didn’t I go to the party as a red Indian. I’d be wearing moccasins.’ ‘I’ve got a pair of boots on and you don’t see me complaining,’ slurred Jimmy with a lopsided grin.

  ‘Oh you’re that drunk you dill, you wouldn’t know if you had shoes on or not.’

  Jimmy blew his sister a raspberry and they continued on in silence.

  Davo waited silently in the shadows, his muscles twitching, hardly breathing as he squeezed his hands open and closed inside the deadly gloves; his two victims still trudging slowly towards him, barely thirty metres away. Shit, this is going to be an easy one he thought. One guy and one chick: and not a bloody soul around. A malevolent grin began to spread across his face. Will I just take them out with a couple of punches and throat chops or will I pulverise them? He thought on it for a moment as they approached him. No, I’ll pulverise them. Make it harder for the cops to identify the bodies. Besides. It’ll make a nice contrast with those other two because I only broke their necks. The next thing they were in front of him.

  ‘Hello, arseholes,’ he snarled, springing out of the shadows. ‘Enjoying yourselves are you?’

  Although he was quite drunk and taken completely by surprise, Jimmy’s first instinct was to throw himself in front of his sister; knocking her back slightly and further away from Davo. Davo drew back his left fist. He wanted to take the girl out first to stop her from screaming but the boy got in the way; which didn’t really matter, he’d just have to go first, it would be all over that quick it would scarcely make any difference.

  Then something terribly strange seemed to happen. It was almost as if Davo were watching a movie or TV and, suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, it went into slow motion; while at the same time he had this almost total loss of control, like he was in a car on a wet road and he’d hit the brakes but just kept skidding. His uncanny instincts slowed everything down in his mind so much that, even in their weird get-up, he began to recognise who he was attacking. Something inside him screamed no and tried to resist. But it was too late. The killing machine had been set into motion and now there was no stopping it.

  Davo, on the other hand, wasn’t wearing any disguise or fancy dress and even in the semi-darkness Jimmy and his sister couldn’t fail to recognise him.

  ‘Davo, what . . .’ Jimmy screamed out wide-eyed through his drunken haze. It was to no avail. Davo’s fist came thundering towards him like an express train catching him straight in the forehead. His head rocked violently as he bumped past his sister cannoning into a car parked behind him. He gave a little gasp of pain and arms flailing at thin air slumped into the gutter.

  Sandra screamed and threw her tiny hands up in front of her face. ‘Bob, no! God no!’

  But it was too late again. Even though Davo’s confused mind was trying desperately to stop, his right fist had already been fired hitting Sandra on the cheekbone like a cricket ball. Her head lolled to one side as she too was spun against the door of a parked car with an audible thump. She hung suspended for a second then crashed forward onto her knees, her mouth open, her sightless eyes staring up at Davo before she pitched face forward onto the footpath; a crumpled beautiful flower, the blood already starting to trickle from under her face onto the dirty grey cement.

  His fists still clenched in front of him Davo stood there horrified; mad and all as he was he realised what he’d just done. Through his crazy savage stupidity he’d just killed the one thing in the world he knew he still loved; and that still loved him. Beautiful little Sandra Lessing. Pretty, adorable, almost angelic. And her brother. Likeable, cheeky young Jimmy. Everybody’s friend. Davo might as well have butchered the two babe
s in the woods.

  Remorse struck at Davo’s heart like an icy cold sword had been plunged into it. He stared down at the two broken bleeding bodies in front of him, then crushed his eyes tight as tears of anguish burst across his cheeks. ‘Ohh, Jesus no. No. No. No.’

  He threw back his head and let out a howl of heart-broken grief like some stricken animal that seemed to echo off every rooftop and window of the surrounding houses. Apart from never having felt so terrible in his life Davo finally found out where his bloodlusting trail of revenge had eventually led him.

  Lights started coming on above and around him. Windows began to slide open. ‘What’s going on down there?’ shouted a woman’s voice. ‘Hey you. What do you think you’re doing?’ came another. ‘There’s bodies down there. I can see bodies.’ screamed another woman’s voice. ‘Quick. Call the police, shrieked another. From across the road a dog started barking. Then another joined in, and another.

  In an instant Davo’s crazed mind, already filled with grief and confusion, was surrounded by a cacophony of sound that seemed as if it was going to engulf him like some huge wave. He couldn’t think. He broke into a cold sweat and his breath started to come in short heaving gasps as the voices and shouts started to rain down on him like arrows. Blind panic set in. He clapped his hands over his ears and let out another hideously pitiful moan of anguish that seemed to drag out from deep within his tormented soul. Tears streaming down his face he stared at the bodies of Sandra and Jimmy for a moment then with his hands held out at his sides he gazed up at the faces yelling down at him as if he were begging their forgiveness. The voices only seemed to increase in their abuse. Davo threw his hands down and ran across to his car. He jumped behind the wheel, started the motor and roared off into Moore Park Road towards Bondi Junction: smashing the tail-light of the car in front as he did.

  ‘Well, where would he be at eleven o’clock on a Sunday bloody night?’ Detective Blackburn checked his watch again as he and Detective Middleton walked back across the courtyard of Davo’s flats towards their police car. ‘If he’s as badly banged up as what that Dr Connely said he is, he should be in bloody bed.’

  Detective Middleton nodded slowly in agreement. ‘Yeah. You’d think so wouldn’t you?’

  The two detectives had finally got round to giving Davo a visit on that same Sunday night; missing him by about an hour. After checking through their records they’d called round and seen Dr Connely earlier in the week but other aspects of the Midnight Rambler case had prevented them from going straight up and seeing Davo. Dr Connely couldn’t help them all that much though he did inadvertently say something interesting about noticing how fit Davo had become lately; which Detective Blackburn dutifully jotted down in his notebook.

  Seeing Davo wasn’t home the two detectives decided to ask some of the other tenants in the block if they’d noticed anything odd or even slightly unusual about Mr Davis’s comings and goings lately. They were all a pretty tightlipped bunch who seemed to stick mainly to themselves: except for a Mrs Lagerlow, who lived alone in the unit above Davo. She said that sometimes she saw him going out on the weekends late at night from her loungeroom window and almost every day she saw him going into his garage either early in the morning or late in the afternoon. Yes, he always seemed to have his walking stick with him except when he went out at night, but she was almost eighty and in the dark she wasn’t quite sure of this.

  ‘So what d’you reckon we should do, Greg? Wait here for him or go and have a cup of coffee and call back.’

  ‘He could be any bloody where, Ray. Why don’t we go down the station, have a cuppa there, and call round in the morning.’ Middleton stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment and stared back at the block of units before he got behind the wheel of the car. ‘I wouldn’t mind having a look in that garage of his too.’

  ‘Yeah? Why’s that?’

  ‘Dunno. I just got this feeling, that’s all.’

  Blackburn smiled cagily. ‘That same feeling I said I had?’

  ‘Dunno what it is, Ray.’ Middleton shook his head as he started the car. ‘It’s just. I dunno. Just a feeling.’

  Immersed in their own private thoughts the two detectives cruised towards Bondi Junction on their way to Darlinghurst station. Both were tired and both were looking forward to a cup of hot coffee when the operator’s voice crackled over the police radio.

  ‘VKG to all units. VKG to all units. There has been an assault in Moore Park Road, Paddington. Be on the lookout for a male. Brown hair, well-built, wearing black clothing. Seen leaving driving a white late model Holden utility.’

  Alarm bells started ringing in the two detectives’ heads at the brief description.

  ‘That’s near us, Greg. We might as well go and have a look.’

  Detective Middleton nodded his head in agreement and put his foot down slightly on the accelerator. A second or two later the operator’s voice crackled over the radio again. This time there was a noticeable tinge of urgency to it.

  ‘VKG to car 37. VKG to car 37. Over.’

  Detective Blackburn snatched up the receiver. ‘This is 37 VKG. Over.’

  ‘37. There’s been another assault in Foster Street off Campbell. Cars are in attendance and it appears there is a positive link with your case. Over.’ Because of possible eavesdroppers the police operator’s voice was brief and succinct but the message immediately struck home.

  ‘Shit! It’s him again.’ Blackburn held his finger off the call button for a second as he and his partner exchanged apprehensive glances. ‘VKG. This is 37. Which cars are in attendance at Foster Street? Over.’

  ‘24. Repeat. 24. Over.’

  ‘24. That’s Steve Watts and Jimmy Leslie,’ said Middleton.

  ‘VKG. This is 37. Can you get 24 to switch over to channel 3. Over.’

  ‘Roger 37.’

  Detective Blackburn waited for a moment after he switched channels as Detective Middleton hit the siren and they sped towards Moore Park Road. ‘24. This is 37. Do you copy? Over.’

  ‘37. This is 24. Is that you, Ray? Over.’

  Blackburn recognised the voice at the other end. ‘Yeah, Steve. What’s going on down there? Over.’

  ‘Our mate’s been around again. He got three. But one’s still alive. Over.’

  ‘Alive.’ Both detectives chorused the word as one.

  ‘Did you say—one is still alive, Steve? Over.’

  ‘Yeah, Ray. But . . . I think you’d better get down here and have a look for yourself. You’ve never seen anything like this. Over.’

  Blackburn and Middleton exchanged curious glances. ‘We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes, Steve. Over and out.’

  ‘What do you make of that, Greg?’ said Blackburn, replacing the receiver and switching back to normal frequency.

  ‘Buggered if I know. But we’ll check this Moore Park Road thing out and get straight down there.’

  With the red light flashing and the siren wailing like a banshee they screamed along the Bondi Junction bypass towards the Sydney Showground.

  There was a small crowd of people and a patrol wagon on the scene when they sped past the scene, but no ambulance as yet. They did a U-turn at the end of the median strip opposite the Olympic Hotel, roared back and parked just behind the patrol wagon, slamming the doors as they got out and hurried over.

  Someone from the block of flats had brought down a couple of blankets and fortunately one of the residents was a retired nurse who had produced a small pressure bandage which, with the help of a young policewoman, she was applying to the gash in Sandra’s cheek. Another slightly older policeman was crouched down next to Jimmy, who was covered by a blanket, while another resident from the block of flats supported the back of his head with his hand.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Detective Middleton to the young fair-haired policewoman holding a pillow under Sandra’s head.

  The plumpish nurse looked up from the bandage she was holding and replied instead. She said she hadn’t had a ch
ance to see anything, but she pointed to a woman in the small crowd who claimed to have seen most of it from her loungeroom window.

  ‘How is the girl?’ asked Detective Blackburn.

  ‘She’ll be alright,’ replied the elderly nurse. ‘She’s badly concussed and I think her jaw’s broken—and there’s an awful cut across her cheek. But I’d say she’ll be okay.’

  After another brief look at Sandra’s ashen face under the blankets the two detectives walked over to the other uniform police officer squatting next to Jimmy.

  ‘How’s the boy?’ asked Detective Middleton.

  ‘He’s alright,’ replied the constable. ‘Apart from a whopping great lump on his forehead.’ The constable moved his face away from Jimmy’s and squinted his eyes. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he added. ‘He doesn’t half stink of booze.’

  ‘Did anybody here see what happened?’ asked Detective Blackburn, running his gaze across the faces in the now steadily increasing crowd.

  A tall thinish woman with her hair in a bun, wearing John Lennon type glasses and looking like she could have been a retired school headmistress, stepped forward and identified herself as Mrs Singleton, living in one of the flats facing the street. She said she was sitting in her loungeroom reading a book when she heard the girl scream. She went across to her open widow just in time to see a tall heavily built man, with what looked like dark hair, punch her in the face. Then he just stood there staring down at both the girl and the boy like he was in a trance, or some kind of shock. Then he too let out this terrible scream; which was when she and the other residents nearby had started shouting at him.

  ‘What did he do then?’ asked Detective Middleton.

  ‘He turned around and looked up at us. And . . . there were tears streaming down his face.’

  ‘Tears?’

  ‘Yes, tears. Pouring down his face. It was so . . . so odd.’

  ‘What happened then Mrs Singleton?’