Davo's Little Something Page 17

  ‘Did Len tell you the situation regarding your position?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks Murray, I appreciate it.’

  ‘That’s alright. If there’s anything the store can do. An advance on your holiday pay, some food. You let us know.’

  ‘I’m pretty sweet at the moment, but thanks all the same. I appreciate it.’

  ‘That’s quite alright.’ Brinsden shuffled his feet awkwardly and stared at the ground for a moment. ‘I ... I don’t quite know how to put this Bob. But I can imagine how you’re feeling. My youngest brother was coming home from tennis one night, years ago. He got off the train at Rockdale and six . . . heroes bashed him for no reason at all. Broke his arm, smashed all his teeth. Gave him a terrible beating. He was in hospital for a month. He’s almost blind in one eye now and got a permanent limp. For no reason at all.’ Brisden shook his head sadly. ‘Steve was one of the best young tennis players in the State too.’

  ‘Yeah? I never knew that, Murray. Did the cops get them?’

  Mr Brinsden shook his head.

  ‘That’ll probably be the same with me. But you never know.’ A curious tone suddenly came into Davo’s voice. ‘It doesn’t do them any good. Something always happens to pricks like that in the end. Don’t you think?’

  Brinsden smiled and shook Davo’s hand again. ‘Anyway, you’d better get going. Can you get home alright? I can get someone to drive you.’

  ‘No, that’s alright thanks. I’m trying to do a bit of walking if I can.’

  ‘Alright then. Well take care of yourself. I’ll see you soon—maybe.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Murray. I’ll see you.’ Brinsden turned and walked away as Davo shuffled out of the supermarket.

  He found a seat out the front in the Mall and sat down for a few minutes to calm down. At the mention of what had happened to Brinsden’s young brother Davo went cold inside and his hands began to shake. Then he felt like his blood was starting to boil and great surges of adrenalin began pumping through his chest and stomach at the same time. He felt like picking something up and smashing it to pieces there and then. Or grabbing the first hoodlum-looking type that went past and pounding him into a pulp on the floor. Now he knew what he was doing was right. Now there would be absolutely no stopping him. He couldn’t wait to get home and start training again—only harder this time. But he sat there and cooled down for a while; there was one more visit to make.

  Coincidentally, Sandra Lessing had been thinking about Davo earlier as she stood there in the aisle stacking up the shelves with shampoos and conditioners from a large carton lying on the floor near her feet. It still made her shake her head in bitter wonder every time she thought of it. It had taken her the best part of a year to get Davo to make a date with her and when he finally did; what happened? And now she couldn’t contact him. She didn’t know how or where he was, apart from that brief phone call to her brother, and she wasn’t even there when he rang. But now it was Friday and she was thinking about what she was going to do on the weekend—not a great deal—when a movement at the end of the aisle caught her eye. At first she didn’t recognise the figure in jeans and tracksuit top, wearing sunglasses and holding on to a walking stick as he shuffled towards her with a strange half-smile on his face.

  ‘Bob,’ she cried. ‘Bob, ohh, Bob. How are you?’ She dropped several, plastic bottles of shampoo back into the carton and ran over to him. ‘Oh it’s so good to see you.’ She took him by his free hand and put her arm around his waist.

  ‘Hello, Sandra,’ said Davo quietly. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Ohh, I’m good now. Bob I tried to ring you after I got your message but the phone never answered. Are you alright?’

  ‘I’m a lot better than I was, that’s for sure.’

  ‘God, you’ve lost so much weight. But . . .’ Sandra stood back a little and eyed Davo up and down. ‘I don’t know. You look . . . different.’

  ‘I’m still not the best,’ said Davo, shaking his head.

  Sandra ran her hand up his arm and across where the support for the walking stick wrapped around his forearm. ‘How long are you going to be needing this?’

  ‘Probably for a fair while yet.’

  Davo gave Sandra the same story he’d given Len and the others in the butcher shop. He didn’t feel all that good lieing to Sandra as she stood there looking concerned and sorry and staring up at him with those beautiful innocent blue eyes. She was still beautiful, there were no two ways about that, but somehow Davo couldn’t feel quite the same emotions he had had for her before; it was as if his mind was putting up some kind of invisible barrier. He knew he still had feelings for her but not like it used to be. There was something else on Davo’s mind now that seemed to encompass and shield him from everything else. Maybe in time things might change back to how they used to be.

  ‘Anyway, Sandra,’ he finally said, ‘I’d better get going. I’m tired already and I do have to get a lot of rest now.’

  ‘I understand.’ She held his hand quietly for a moment. ‘Would you like me to come over one night? I can do some cooking for you, clean your flat up. I don’t mind.’ The hint of a devilish twinkle flickered in her eye and she had to have a little joke. ‘I imagine I’ll be safe. If you try anything I’ll just hide your walking stick.’

  A slight stab of emotion momentarily pierced Davo’s steely veneer when she said that and despite the bitterness inside him he had to smile down at her; she was so lovely, so natural. But as quickly as that spark of affection ignited, Davo’s mind snuffed it out.

  ‘Yeah, maybe in a few weeks, Sandra,’ he said. ‘When I start to get a bit better. But at the moment I just want to be on my own for a while.’

  He noticed the look of disappointment in her eyes and was about to put that another way when her gaze shifted to someone or something behind him.

  ‘Oh, Bob,’ she said, ‘this is Mr Gilmore the owner.’ Davo turned around to see the proprietor, a man about the same build as himself but a few years older with stylish black hair tinted slightly with grey. ‘Mr Gilmore. This is Bob Davis, the fellow I was telling you about.’

  ‘Hello, Bob,’ said the owner pleasantly. ‘I heard all about what happened. That was terrible, absolutely shocking. Wayne was a friend of mine also. I’m very sorry.’

  ‘Thanks. Yeah, it was a bad thing alright.’

  ‘How are you feeling now anyway?’

  ‘I’m still not the best, but I’m a lot better than I was.’

  ‘That’s good. At least you’re able to get about a bit now.’

  ‘Yeah. I guess that’s something to be thankful for isn’t it.’

  They had a few more words between them then the conversation seemed to dribble off into an awkward silence. Davo figured this was as good a time as any for him to leave. He turned to Sandra and smiled briefly.

  ‘Well, I might get going, Sandra. I’m starting to feel as tired as buggery.’

  ‘Alright then. Well, if ever you want me to do anything for you just give me a call, okay?’

  ‘I will for sure. Well . . . I guess I’ll see you. Nice to have met you, Mr Gilmore.’

  ‘Ron’s the name. Yeah, you too, Bob. Take care of yourself.’

  ‘Yeah. Goodbye, Sandra.’

  ‘Goodbye, Bob. Don’t forget. . . any time.’

  Davo gave her a quick smile then turned and left them standing there watching him shuffle out of the shop.

  ‘He seems like a nice bloke,’ said the owner, as Davo disappeared amongst the other shoppers in the mall. ‘What a horrible thing to happen.’

  ‘Yes. You can say that again,’ said Sandra, almost in a whisper. She took a tissue from a pocket in her uniform and dabbed at her eyes for a moment before she resumed stacking the shelves.

  By the time Davo got home the novelty of the walking stick had worn off and he couldn’t wait to get rid of the bloody thing, but it was a good thing he had it because at one stage there he felt like breaking into a sprint just to get rid of the tension inside him. After wha
t Brinsden had told him about his brother and thinking of what he was missing out on with young Sandra he wasn’t in the best of moods when he tossed it in the corner and got changed into his training gear. And it certainly showed when he finished his weight training and started on his bag work; he almost punched and kicked the bag off the two meat hooks holding it.

  Davo trained like a man possessed over the next month or so, going to bed exhausted every night yet waking up fresh, vibrant and snarling like a tiger the next morning. By the end of even that relatively short space of time Davo’s stamina and strength had increased dramatically and the fitter he got the more he seemed to want to do. He was soon averaging five to six hours of solid training every day. He stayed on thirty minutes of skipping in the morning with another fifteen in the afternoon but at double pace. He’d increased the hand weights to 45 pounds each and was doing 100 sit-ups twice a day. Bag work was a good hour now, also twice a day, comprising five-minute rounds interspersed with several sixty-second bursts in which he’d probably throw twice that number of punches and kicks. As well as this he’d managed to find a way of getting in some sprint training.

  When Davo finished training late in the afternoon it was generally dark so he’d sneak across to Waverley Oval where a set of almost vertical concrete stairs ran from the back of the main stand to the water tower on the hill; fifty-two steps running straight up for four tiers. He’d check to make sure there weren’t too many people around then leave his walking stick hidden in the grass at the bottom and sprint to the top taking the stairs two and three at a time. The first few times were gruelling but gradually it became easier. These horrendous sprints made him feel like his heart was going to smash its way straight out of his ribcage and his thigh muscles were going to burst but it increased his stamina by almost a third.

  All Davo lived for was his training and all he looked forward to was the day he’d get his revenge. The only variation to his daily routine were visits to Dr Connely once a week on his walking stick, walks to Bondi Junction to get food and drives into town to buy or swap records to make new tapes to train to. He also grew a moustache.

  Towards the end of August Davo felt he’d gone as far as he needed to go physically. His confidence and endurance were sky high, the punches and kicks were thundering into the bag now and he’d added inches to his arms, shoulders and chest. However, despite all this two things still concerned him. When the crunch finally came and he went out seeking his revenge he would no doubt be taking on two or more people at once and no matter how tough he was he was still going to have to find that edge, that certain little something in his favour. He still didn’t know what that was. Also, although he could punch like dynamite and looked dazzling moving around the heavy bag, the bag still didn’t hit back. What would happen when a few punches started coming back his way? Would he panic and get all disorientated. Did he have a glass jaw? How would his headaches and the memory of that night with Wayne affect his thinking in a tight situation? Would he freeze up and forget everything. He didn’t know: but he had to find out.

  One night after tea, while he was making some more tapes, he got a phone number from the book and wrote it down. He rang it after he’d finished training the following Tuesday . . .

  ‘Hello, YMCA.’

  ‘I’d like to enquire about taking some boxing lessons.’

  ‘Yes, we have boxing here three afternoons a week. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. From four in the afternoon till seven, on the third floor.’

  ‘What do I have to do to join?’

  ‘Just be here at four with your gym gear. It’s $5 to join, and you pay at the reception downstairs.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Wednesday at four thought Davo, as he hung up. Oh well, that’s as good a time as any to find out I suppose.

  Davo didn’t quite know what to expect but he wasn’t unduly worried when he drove his utility into the city on Wednesday afternoon and parked it in a loading zone in Kent Street not far from the YMCA. He fronted an old bloke at the reception desk and after a brief conversation and giving him the $5, caught the lift to the third floor. In his grey tracksuit and carrying a small blue overnight bag, Davo looked just like anyone else out to do a bit of training after work.

  As far as boxing gymnasiums go the one at the Y certainly wasn’t Marvin Hagler’s training camp at The Sands in Las Vegas. A couple of well-worn punching bags, bound in the middle with black plastic tape, hung from the ceiling. Alongside but away from these was a boxing ring, with a stained canvas floor and sagging ropes bound with more tatty black plastic tape. A number of metal fold-up chairs were scattered haphazardly across the room and a chipped wooden benchtype seat ran around the walls. Above the seat were several grimy windows that probably never let in any light and had probably never been opened. There were around half a dozen people there, mostly in their teens, a couple of them were skipping around, others were doing calisthenics on the floor, another was pummeling away at one of the bags under the eye of what looked like the instructor, while another was trying to get a rhythm going on a speed-ball in one of the corners. Although the place was quite roomy it was still dingy and musty and under the flickering fluorescent lights showed obvious signs of having seen better days.

  Davo stood outside the lift for a while surveying the scene then moved towards the fellow he thought was the instructor; a neat fair-haired guy in his mid-twenties, about an inch taller but a little narrower across the shoulders than Davo, with long sinewy arms and the mandatory broken nose of a boxer. Davo watched him from behind for a moment or two then walked up to him.

  ‘Excuse me, mate, are you in charge?’

  The instructor turned to Davo and smiled. ‘That’s right, mate. What can I do for you?’ He sounded pleasant enough but Davo could sense by the way he looked at him that he was slightly curious as to why a man obviously a lot older than the other kids in the gym would want to take up boxing.

  ‘I’d like some lessons if I could, mate. I’ve got a chance of doing some movie stunt work through a mate of mine and I need to know the basics.’ It was the same line Davo had given the bloke at the martial arts store and it sounded believable. ‘I did a bit years ago when I was at school, but it was nothing really. Do you think you could show us a few things?’

  The instructor smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t see why not. What’s your name?’

  ‘Ah . . . Brian,’ replied Davo.

  ‘Okay, Brian, I’m Ken.’ They shook hands briefly. ‘Leave your gear over there somewhere and come back and have a tap on one of these bags for a while then I might get in the ring with you. There’s a pair of bag mitts on that table over there.’

  ‘Thanks, Ken.’

  Davo walked over and placed his bag on the wooden bench running round the wall, checking out the mitts Ken had referred to on the way: they sat on a table next to some old boxing gloves and a couple of skipping ropes. Apart from being almost worn out and filthy dirty they stunk of old sweat and liniment and were probably crawling with germs; Davo was glad he’d decided to bring his own with him. He left his tracksuit pants on and a T-shirt and walked back to where Ken was standing next to a vacant punching bag.

  ‘This one okay?’ asked Davo, nodding at the vacant bag.

  ‘Yeah. Just do a couple of rounds on it, take it easy, and I’ll keep an eye on you.’

  Davo nodded and began circling the bag slowly poking out lefts and rights. He deliberately made mistakes and only threw the punches at about a quarter the speed and power he could have, if that, but it still showed that he at least knew the basics. He didn’t feel selfconscious or embarrassed with Ken and the others watching him, Davo knew exactly what he was doing.

  Ken on the other hand was reasonably pleased, at least Brian seemed to have half an idea what he was doing so he wouldn’t have to be teaching a complete dodo.

  ‘Just keep your right up under your chin and your elbow over your ribs a bit more Brian. A
nd throw those lefts out straight from your shoulder. Here I’ll show you.’

  Davo stood aside while Ken moved around the bag and tossed out several straight lefts and one or two rights. Davo smiled to himself as he nodded in acknowledgement, then did as Ken told him.

  ‘Yeah that’s better. Much better. Do another round or so and we’ll get in the ring.’

  Davo finished another two three-minute rounds on the bag and hadn’t even raised his heartbeat or a sweat; after doing five-minute rounds at the furious pace he was used to, this was like an old time waltz. He finished his workout and put his mitts back in his overnight bag then walked back to Ken who told him to have a rest for a minute or two while he finished putting one of the young blokes through his paces. When he’d finished Ken got four large crinkled boxing gloves off the table and they gloved up ready to have a spar.

  ‘You done much boxing, have you Ken?’ asked Davo, as one of the young blokes helped him lace up the gloves.

  ‘Ohh yeah, I did a bit,’ replied Ken evenly. ‘I was amateur light-heavyweight champion of New South Wales for three years. I drew for the Australian title once. I was metropolitan heavyweight champion for two years.

  ‘Yeah? How many fights’ve you had?’

  Ken gave his shoulders a bit of a shrug. ‘Over a hundred.’

  ‘You never turned pro?’

  The tall instructor smiled briefly and shook his head. ‘Not really worth it. I could handle most of the pros alright, s’pose I should’ve . . . But . . .’ He punched the gloves together and moved towards the ring.

  ‘Hey ah . . . shouldn’t you be wearing headgear?’

  Ken shook his head again. ‘We’ll only be going easy. There’s some there if you want it.’

  Davo reflected on the filthy bag mitts he’d been offered and figured the headgear would be in about the same condition. ‘No it don’t matter.’

  As they climbed into the ring Ken turned to a young red-headed kid and nodded to a large timing clock on the wall above the ring. ‘Jimmy, give us three minutes off the top will you.’