Davo's Little Something

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘He got into his car and drove off. Like a madman.’

  ‘Yeah. And it was my bloody car he smashed into on the way,’ came a man’s gruff voice from the crowd.

  ‘Could you repeat that description of the suspect and his car again please, Mrs Singleton,’ said Detective Blackburn.

  When she had both detectives turned and stared at each other, almost accusingly.

  Just then, the constable squatting next to Jimmy looked up at Detective Middleton. ‘Hey, sir, the kid’s trying to say something.’

  Both detectives immediately left Mrs Singleton and crouched down beside Jimmy. Jimmy’s eyes, although half open, were rolling around crazily as his head shook and moved jerkily from side to side. He was mumbling something to himself but it sounded like someone muttering almost incoherently in their sleep.

  ‘Davo,’ he garbled. ‘Davo . . . why would . . . Davo . . . hurt Sandra? Why Davo? Davo . . . why Sandra? Davo . . . Davo.’

  Blackburn stared grimly at his partner. ‘Is he saying . . . Davo?’

  Middleton stared back at Blackburn then snapped his fingers, pointing his right index finger about an inch away from his partner’s nose. ‘What did that bloody Dr Connely say when we asked him when was the last time he saw Bob Davis?’

  Detective Blackburn thought for a second then his jaw dropped slightly. ‘He said, Davo hasn’t been in for a few weeks.’

  ‘Davo hasn’t been in for a few weeks,’ repeated Middleton.

  ‘Bob Davis. Davo. Shit!’

  ‘Yeah. Bob bloody Davis. That’s our boy.’

  In an instant both detectives were on their feet, sprinting for their car, without saying a word to the two uniform officers or the people nearby. Middleton started the car just as the ambulance came wailing up behind them.

  ‘Get every available car,’ he said to Blackburn who already had the receiver in his hand. ‘And every available man. Let’s get back to that bloody flat in Bondi Road.’

  Although he drove like a man possessed Davo didn’t go straight home; the thought of facing another night in that empty flat after what he thought he’d just done made him feel even more despicable than what he already did. He pulled up in Birrell Street on the opposite side of the park to his place, ripped the cursed gloves from his hands, flung them on the floor of the car and sat there staring miserably at the dashboard.

  As far as he was concerned he’d just killed Sandra Lessing and her brother Jimmy. He didn’t realise that mad and all as he was and powerful and vicious as he was his subconscious mind had slowed those two punches down just enough to stop them being lethal. The first one he threw at Jimmy could possibly have been fatal but Jimmy’s drunken staggering state had inadvertently helped him ride the punch then be limp enough to fall without hurting himself too much. By the time he turned to Sandra Davo’s subconscious had taken more of the momentum out of that next punch than he’d realised. But Davo wasn’t to know this. He sat in the car, great choking sobs racking his body as torrents of hot salty tears gushed down his face. Finally he let out one huge shuddering breath then flung open the car door and dashed off into the shadowy seclusion of Waverley Oval; not knowing what he was going to find there but hoping for just a few minutes of peace in its cool darkness.

  He ran across the field to the familiar steps leading up to the water tower then sprinted to the top where he found a space amongst some shrubs and small trees a few metres away from it. He threw himself down and sat there staring out across the oval at the impassive lights of the city and hoped the night would never end. Nothing could describe the emptiness he felt inside. From being almost on a pinnacle less than an hour ago, now his whole world had come crashing down around him in a blood-sodden heap thanks to a minute of pointless savage fury that could have been avoided. He didn’t know what to think. He couldn’t think. He just sat there sobbing unashamedly to himself: his face buried in his hands.

  Eventually he lifted his face up and stared into the stars flickering calmly in the inky cobalt of the night sky, hoping to find some sort of answer there. But there was just more emptiness. After a while he let his gaze wander back across the oval to his block of units. That’s when he noticed the police cars. He couldn’t believe it at first. There were at least six cars and two patrol wagons, some parked in the street, the others in his courtyard and all surrounded by shadowy figures moving stealthily in the darkness. Even at that distance Davo was positive he could make out the tall silhouette of Detective Middleton and his stockier partner Detective Blackburn. Along with the awful feeling of guilt and remorse already tearing at Davo a terrible sense of dread suddenly hit him in the pit of his stomach like a ball of lead. As well as finding out where his evil vendetta had ultimately led him he was now faced with the stark reality that the game was up. He’d been discovered. It didn’t matter how or when they’d discovered him: it was all over now.

  But although Davo was heartbroken and almost on the brink of insanity his sense of self-preservation was still strong. He ran a hand across his burning tear-swollen eyes, then ran back down the grassy slope to his car, looked at it for a moment, deciding to leave it there, and continued to run down Birrell Street instead. Just running and running. Before long he’d gone across the park at Bondi, past the pavilion, and with his perfectly conditioned lungs pumping air into his body and his powerful legs propelling him started sprinting up Military Road towards Dover Heights; his superb fitness moving him along at a pace that was nothing short of astounding.

  ‘I doubt very much whether he’s home,’ said Detective Middleton ‘I didn’t see his ute out the front.’

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ replied his partner grimly.

  With guns drawn and another two burly detectives behind them, while the rest of the squad surrounded the building, he and Detective Middleton entered Davo’s block of units and stormed up the stairs.

  They got to Davo’s floor and after checking the handle on his front door all four got either side as Middleton banged loudly on it a couple of times.

  ‘Open up, Davis. It’s the police here,’ he called out. He banged and called out again but there was still no reply.

  ‘You got your search warrant, Ray?’

  ‘Yeah. Right here.’

  Detective Blackburn stepped back, swung his right leg and sent the heel of his shoe smashing into the door next to the deadlock. The two other detectives put their shoulders to the door as he kicked it again. There was a sharp sound of splintering wood and shattering metal and the door swung open on its hinges. Immediately Blackburn crouched down in the opening, his revolver held straight out in front of him in full combat stance; behind and alongside him the others did pretty much the same. Blackburn stood up again and ran his hand along the wall next to the doorway till he found the light switch; it clicked on and all four of them burst into the flat. Quickly but carefully they searched every room, finally regrouping back in the loungeroom where they all looked at each other and shook their heads.

  ‘Well he’s not here,’ said Middleton.

  ‘There’s his bloody walking stick.’ Blackburn nodded curtly towards the rubber and stainless steel object propped up in one of the corners.

  ‘Let’s go down and have a look in that garage,’ said Middleton. He turned to the larger of the two detectives with them. ‘Bernie. You and Ron give this place the once-over. If anyone wants us we’ll be down in his garage.’ The burly detective nodded a reply as Detective Middleton and his partner trotted off down the stairs.

  ‘Which one did that old sheila upstairs say was his again?’ asked Blackburn.

  ‘The big one on this end.’

  Once down there Middleton checked the handle on the small door on the side. It too was locked but the lock was nowhere near as strong as the one on the unit. In no time they’d kicked it open and Blackburn was groping around on the wall for the light switch.

  ‘Holy shit! Have a look at that!’ he exclaimed to his equally surprised partner, a couple of seconds after the fluore
scent lights flickered on.

  To their right was Davo’s heavy punching bag. Behind it were the neatly stacked weights, the chest expander lying on the situp board and the skipping rope hanging evenly on the wall.

  Detective Middleton walked over to the punching bag and gave it a bit of a push. ‘Bob Davis the bloody cripple eh.’

  ‘Hey, Greg,’ said Blackburn, who had walked over to the workbench. ‘Come here and have a look at this.’ His voice sounded flat and coming from far away.

  Middleton left the heavy bag and walked over to where his partner was leafing through one of Davo’s manuals on martial arts training; on the wall in front of him were pinned most of the newspaper clippings on the Midnight Rambler murders. He gave them an interested look as he picked up Davo’s book on Thai boxing, flicked quickly through it before tossing it back on the workbench. Then another two objects next to the ghetto blaster caught his eye. He picked up one of the spare pair of steel reinforced gloves that Davo had made and slipped his hand into it. He looked at it curiously for a moment then zipped it up, folded down the self-sticking flap, made a fist and tapped Blackburn on the arm.

  In the soft cool light of the garage both detectives stared at the deadly black leather glove for some moments before looking up at each other open mouthed.

  ‘Can you imagine what this would do to your face,’ said Detective Middleton slowly.

  Blackburn continued to stare at the glove on Middleton’s hand before picking up the other one. ‘So that’s how he did it eh?’ he replied, just as slowly and a little quieter.

  Middleton rotated his gloved fist then stared in astonishment at his partner. ‘It was him all the time. Right under our bloody noses.’

  All Blackburn could do was shake his head in speechless agreement.

  At the rate he was going it wasn’t long before Davo had reached Dover Heights. His lungs felt like they were on fire and ready to burst and his heart was pounding like a trip hammer when he got to the top of Military Road, but his powerful legs kept pushing him up the hill almost to the point of fainting. Which was what Davo wanted. He wanted to run himself into exhaustion: or beyond. He would have welcomed a heart attack. To collapse and die at the side of the road would have been a blessed relief from the state he was in. But as he reached Dover Heights and Military Road levelled out he picked up speed again. As he flashed past Page Reserve he reflected on that first day he’d almost staggered up there. He’d been that ill and in that much pain he’d wanted to throw the towel in and give the whole crazy idea of getting fit away. Christ why hadn’t he. If only he had—he wouldn’t be going through the hell he was now.

  Faster and faster he ran: pushing himself to the very limits. His head swam, sweat stung his eyes. His breath was now coming in short choking bursts as his big heart did everything it could to pump oxygen from his lungs into his brain and bloodstream. He made it past South Head Cemetery and a couple of streets on from the old lighthouse and that was it. Even someone with his stamina and superb physical condition could only take so much. He gave one last gasp of pain that rasped straight out of his searing lungs and sprawled down next to a low whitewashed concrete wall in front of a small block of flats. He raised his head up just in time to see a set of headlights slowly coming towards him up the steep hill from Watsons Bay. Through his sweat-misted eyes he could just make out the blue POLICE sign on top of the cabin. With his last ounce of strength he dragged himself up over the wall and tumbled head first into a garden, just as the police wagon cruised stealthily past and on into the night.

  Davo lay face down in the dirt in the flowerbed, sheltered by some shrubs and small oleander trees and slowly began to get his breath back. He was absolutely exhausted and emotionally drained but his mind was in too much turmoil to let him rest. He just lay there in a kind of numbed limbo; too tired to sleep and too many crazy horrible thoughts screaming through his brain to allow him to let his mind rest. There were no tears left, but every now and then a great choking sob would rack every muscle of his body. Eventually he propped his back up against the wall and it was in this wretched manner that Davo spent the night: sobbing and staring into space.

  He was still lying there hours later when he began to notice the sun had risen and the first pink rays of dawn were streaming over the wall and through the oleander trees, tinting the leaves with gold and turning the windows of the block of flats in front of him into shimmering orange mirrors. As he looked up at them a sudden strange feeling of peace and deep tranquillity began to settle over him, like a wave breaking across his body, washing away all the tears and sweat and dirt, leaving him clean, refreshed and relaxed and feeling better than he’d ever felt in his life.

  The feeling didn’t come as any shock or great surprise to Davo. It was possibly a little arresting but the sense of elation and ecstasy was so thrilling and so enticingly blissful he just went with it. Then a huge grin lit up his face and suddenly he knew something wonderful was going to happen to him. Something strange, beautiful and wonderful. What or how—he didn’t know. He just knew. That was when he first began to hear the voices.

  They weren’t just any voices. They were voices he knew: and knew well. But even though he knew the voices he’d never heard them so clear and so beautiful before. They seemed to surround him. There were no other sounds. Just these two voices, as clear and deep as if he had a huge expensive stereo playing next to him: or a Walkman on his head. Not only that. The voices were calling his name. Talking to him. A man and a woman.

  ‘Well, come on, Bob,’ said the woman’s voice. ‘What are you going to do? Sit there all bloody day?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Bob Davis,’ said the man’s voice. ‘What are you going to do? Lie there all morning. We’re waiting for you you know.’

  Although the voices seemed to surround him, they also seemed to be coming from above him: from the sky. Smiling happily, like a little child, Davo got to his feet and peered out over the wall towards the ocean and the beautiful blue sky spread out above the Sydney Heads.

  It had turned out an absolute peach of a day. The sky was a magnificent pale turquoise with the sun climbing leisurely out of the ocean like a huge shimmering golden orb, painting the few dainty clouds drifting lazily before it with tinges of purple, amethyst, orange and crimson as it bathed the calm blue ocean with its caressing warmth. It was one of those early summer days in Sydney that Allah in his wisdom every now and then reserves especially for poets, artists and songwriters.

  Davo let his eyes drift from the horizon up to the sky and the grin on his face spread even wider. There above him was the source of the voices. Surrounded by an unearthly white glow were the huge smiling faces of Sandra Lessing and Wayne St Peters beaming happily down at him, and looking more beautiful and more warmhearted than they ever did before. Davo’s eyes immediately flooded with tears again: but this time they were tears of joy. He realised everything was going to be alright. It had only been a bad dream. A nightmare he’d been going through and now it was all over. They were both alive and he was safe. He had nothing to worry about. He gave a sigh of relief and the tears of joy continued to stream down his face as the voices, rich and clear, started calling out to him again.

  ‘Well come on, Bob,’ said Sandra with her usual mock anger. ‘What are you bloody well doing? You’re supposed to be taking me on a picnic.’

  ‘Yes. And you’re about due for another bloody haircut too,’ chimed in Wayne. ‘Look at the nice mess you’ve made of that last one I gave you. Tch. Really, Robert. I honestly don’t know at times.’

  Davo grinned up at his two friends and began laughing through his tears.

  ‘Yes, that’s it, Bob,’ continued Sandra. ‘Stand there laughing like an idiot. It’s only taken a year for you to get round to it. God. Talk about bloody slow.’

  ‘Oh, he’s been like that ever since school, the silly big goose. Really, Robert. You’re quite hopeless at times you know.’

  ‘Well I’m not waiting all day, Bob. Come on, hurry up! Are we go
ing on this picnic or what?’

  Davo grinned joyously up at Sandra. The smile on her face lovelier and warmer than ever as she waved down at him, beckoning him up towards her. He threw his hands out to his sides, tossed back his head and roared out laughing.

  ‘Are we ever, Sandra. Are we bloody ever,’ he shouted out to her.

  Davo took a deep breath, had a last quick look around him and started sprinting across the road towards the long narrow park running alongside the old lighthouse tower. He took the small white wooden fence in a bound and continued running across the grass, sparkling with dew, towards Sandra and Wayne. The sense of relief and knowing that everything was going to be alright now lifted the crushing burden from his mind and shoulders immeasurably. Next thing Davo felt lighter and happier than he’d ever felt before in his life.

  Dr Oswald Joyce and his good friend Dr Joseph Connely hadn’t been fishing for blackfish together since—since that long ago neither of them could remember. Probably their graduate days back at university. Which didn’t mean they’d forgotten how. Both men still threw a line in every now and then; but not together. Not for a long time. Today, they were glad they did. They’d arranged this particular day’s fishing over dinner and one or two bottles of good wine too many, back at Dr Connely’s house earlier in the week. Joe would get a locum in for the morning and Ozzie would take Monday off on flexitime. The Midnight Rambler murders might be an absolutely shocking thing and causing untold heartache, trouble and pain to a lot of people: but out of all evil there will often come some good. The murders did inexorably manage to bring two old mates back together again.

  They couldn’t have picked a better day for it both men remarked, as with their fishing rods in their hands and their knapsacks on their backs they clambered happily down the old rope ladders, rock ledges and wellworn steps near the Gap. Both were intelligent professional men, well into their forties but to hear their incessant giggling and laughter as they descended the cliffs you would have thought it was a couple of silly young kids wagging school for the day. Though not many schoolkids would have had bottles of chardonnay, imported cheeses, roast teriyaki chicken and other choice delicacies stuffed in their backpacks. Ozzie had to point out that it was a far cry from when they used to clamber down there together with a bit of bread and Devon sausage hoping to get a feed of fish just so they could fill their stomachs during their days as battling students of medicine at Sydney University.