Davo's Little Something Read online

  While he was taping the records Davo tried out his chest expander. The three coils were just a little too hard first up so he removed one and tried two. That was a lot easier, though he could still feel the strain round his shoulders, especially when he held them down low in front of him according to the chart that came with them. An hour or so later he had his tape done and it was time to go down and train in the garage again.

  Shit, this is a good track to skip to thought Davo, as Oz Crawl’s Trouble Spot Rock twanged and howled out of the ghetto blaster. If only I could understand one word the bloke’s singing it’d be even better. The rope twirled and away went Davo for another two hours of solid training in the cool soft light of the garage. He ended up doing 200 stretches with the chest expander in sets of ten at a time. After the two hundredth his shoulders seemed to be five metres wide and his hands felt like steel talons. This should prove interesting he thought. He had a light tea and was in bed by 10.30 that night. Although he was fit and jumping out of his skin through the day, early nights were now starting to become a habit and he rather enjoyed them. He would only have a late night now on a special occasion. Like going out to kill someone.

  Weatherwise, Sunday was pretty much the same as Saturday; it fined up a little in the afternoon with a few stringy rays of sunshine poking through the grey cloud cover but it was still quite cool. Davo had his two customary workouts but every time he was in the flat he found he was unusually fidgety and restless and he couldn’t work out why. He put a small pork and veal roast on in the afternoon and after some of that for tea settled back to watch one of the rugby league semifinals on TV. St George vs Manly.

  It was a particularly brutal game with elbows, knees and punches going in from the start and the TV cameras carefully freezing all the violence and savagery in slow motion, closeups and living colour. The referee had his work cut out just keeping the game under control without worrying too much about the rules and ended up giving nine players a stint in the sin-bin. Instead of being repulsed, the sight of all that blood and aggression turned Davo on, especially when the game went into overtime and St George squeaked home by a very bruised and battered two points. As soon as it was over Davo switched it off and made a cup of coffee. While the kettle was boiling Davo found himself pacing around the flat, more nervy and irritable than ever; for the life of him he couldn’t work out why he was so agitated.

  Sipping his coffee, he picked up the TV guide to see what movies were on that night—it was a pretty ordinary lot. Disgusted, he tossed the TV guide back on the coffee table and resumed pacing around the unit.

  Odd thoughts and emotions were swirling round inside his head and he seemed unable to control them. On the one hand he was tired, while on the other he didn’t want to go to bed. He was looking forward to an early night yet at the same time he felt like going out. Why? He couldn’t understand this feeling of intense agitation inside him while all the time his mind kept flashing back to that game of football. Not much point in going out tonight though. Where would he go anyway? And what would he do? Davo’s eyes moved slowly across the loungeroom in the direction of the wardrobe in his bedroom; a familiar gleam began to flicker in his eyes as he stood there scratching his chin thoughtfully. There wouldn’t be any skinheads around Taylor Square tonight would there? Sunday night? I doubt it. Davo took another sip of coffee, as his eyes once again moved back in the direction of his bedroom. Then again—you never know, do you?

  When Davo pulled up in almost the same parking spot in South Dowling Street at almost the same time as he had on Thursday night, the traffic was nowhere as intense. But there still seemed to be almost the same number of people around. There was a slight chill in the air as he stepped out of his car and he was glad he was wearing the long-sleeved jacket he’d bought on Friday. It was a wise choice. He’d bought it in a surf shop, black cotton with a hood and some brand of wetsuit printed on the back. In the front was one big open pocket to slip your hands in and the gloves fitted in there almost perfectly. He felt them under his hands and gave them a pat, smiling to himself as a warm feeling of both excitement and security spread through him. What was that he’d said to himself on Saturday? I won’t make it too willing. Once or twice a month at the most. Davo laughed to himself. Well it’s not my bloody fault. It was that game of football on television. They shouldn’t show all that violence on TV. No wonder the kids are as wild as what they are today.

  Before long Davo had meandered along Oxford Street, through the myriad sleazoids, dropouts, punks and others swarming along the footpath, as far as Taylor Square. He paused there for a moment then skipped across the busy intersection, pretty smartly this time not wishing to get caught in the middle and gobbed on again. He continued through the crowd as far as Crown Street stopping at the old barrow on the corner for a quick glance to his left in the direction of the lane where he’d killed the two skins on Thursday night. Standing there he couldn’t help but smile at the recollection of it, but unlike what they say about the criminal always returning to the scene of the crime, Davo had absolutely no intention of returning to that dark smelly little laneway tonight. He was still chuckling to himself as he sped across Crown Street almost knocking over some vacant looking girl with spiky blonde hair wearing a tartan mini-skirt and torn black stockings, standing on the opposite corner. She muttered something under her breath at his apology and stuck her fingers up at him as he kept walking down Oxford Street.

  He stopped outside the Brighton Hotel on the corner of Riley Street to watch a team of rancorous looking punks arguing over either money or something in a brown paper bag. He wondered where all the skinheads were when a glance across Oxford Street suddenly set the hairs on his neck bristling. Hanging around a phone box were what looked like three likely customers. Two were sitting on a white metal railing above a small set of steps waiting for the third who was inside the chipped red phone box using the phone. As he watched the two on the railing, banging the heels of their boots against the metal bars, Davo couldn’t help but think all these skinheads came out of one big mould; they were identical to the ones on Thursday night. Same hair, same boots, the only difference was that these were wearing studded Levi jackets, probably because of the cool night breeze.

  Davo leant against the shadows of the hotel wall and watched them intently. Three of them eh. That shouldn’t be too much of a problem, just get the first one out of the road and the other two would be easy. The only difficulty was to get them somewhere alone, make sure he killed all three and make sure there were no witnesses. He stood there in the shadows pensively picking at his chin.

  Before long the one in the phone booth came out and said something to one of his mates sitting on the railing. The listener was drinking a large bottle of beer wrapped in newspaper which he quickly drained and dropped in the gutter; Davo could distinctly hear the muffled sound of glass breaking as it hit the concrete. He then said something to the others, jumped off the railing and they all ran down a short flight of steps to their right.

  Immediately there was a break in the traffic, Davo zoomed across Oxford Street, pausing at the railing to see them disappear down the sloping part of Riley Street where it was closed off to the main road. He went down the steps in two bounds and ran into Riley Street only to find the skinheads had vanished from sight. Puzzled, Davo quickly crossed to the opposite side of the street wondering where they could have gone; he stood there for a few moments peering around the deserted street but couldn’t see them anywhere. Shit! he cursed to himself, bitterly disappointed. I’ve lost them. Just as he was about to turn away, the streetlights reflected on a small stream of water flowing steadily over the footpath from an alley across the street. A sinister excited smile appeared on his face. Quickly and stealthily he moved down a few paces to where, silhouetted in a small lane running off Riley Street, he could see the figures of the three skinheads all nonchalantly pissing up against the wall. Well now isn’t that convenient he grinned, slipping his hands into the gloves and tightening t
he straps as he quietly crossed the street.

  In the narrow darkened alley, the skins were oblivious of Davo walking up behind them as they finished pissing up against the wall—they were enjoying themselves immensely, laughing and letting great streams of urine splash all over the place. Somehow Davo had to lure them further up the lane then block off their escape—he needed an idea and quickly. Then, like a weird bolt out of the blue a preposterous idea suddenly occurred to him.

  ‘Ooh,’ he said, lowering his voice and deliberately effecting an effeminate lisp as he sauntered past the three skins. ‘This looks like a nice little place to do a wee wee. I might just have a tiny pee myself.’ He swished up the end of the lane and stood there pretending to fiddle with his fly.

  The skinheads couldn’t believe their ears or their luck as like one they immediately tuned in to the lisp in Davo’s voice. Three of them, alone in a darkened alley with one poofter: no one around and no way out. It was like a gift from the Gods.

  ‘Did you hear what I just heard?’ said the tall skin on the left zipping up his fly.

  ‘Did I what,’ said the one next to him. The third one didn’t say anything but just grinned at his two mates sadistically.

  ‘Come on,’ said the first one.

  Like three hungry barracudas they fanned out slightly and advanced towards Davo still standing in the shadows with his hands on his fly.

  ‘So you want to have a little pee do you?’ sneered the tallest skinhead as they got closer.

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Davo innocently.

  ‘Well we don’t want fuckin’ poofters around here.’

  ‘Really,’ replied Davo as a huge surge of adrenalin pumped into his stomach and burst through his bloodstream like a grenade exploding. ‘Well isn’t that just a big fat fuckin’ shame.’

  Davo bent slightly at the knees, pivoted at the waist and like a cobra striking drove an awesome short right straight into the first skinhead’s face. The skin tried to scream as he threw his hands over his face but all that came from his mangled lips and shattered jaw was a grunt of pain as the force of Davo’s punch flung him backwards against the wall. Almost in the same movement Davo spun around and smashed an unbelievable left hook into the second one’s temple which slammed his brains violently from one side of his skull to the other and cannoned him into the opposite wall where he flopped down on his backside, head slumped forward almost dead, a huge open gash running from his ear to his eye. The third one stood there slack-jawed, almost paralysed with shock and fear; this wasn’t in the script at all. They were supposed to get the gay in the black cotton top, beat him then give him an unmerciful kicking with their boots. Instead, before they’d even managed to get a punch in, he’d turned on them like some hammer-fisted Frankenstein monster. He scarcely had time to blink before Davo drove the ball of his foot straight up into his solar plexus like a ramrod. He gave a gasp of gargled agony and slumped forward straight into one of Davo’s right uppercuts that split his chin open like a carrot and broke his neck. He crashed sideways down onto the dirty asphalt: he was dead.

  Still all keyed up, Davo stood there, fists out in front of him, hardly believing his eyes. The battle had been won almost in an instant. In about five seconds the three skinheads were on the ground and out, one was already dead—and no one had seen a thing. But now it was time to finish the job and make sure he left no witnesses.

  He gripped the first skinhead by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his jeans, hauled him to waist level and ran him across the narrow alley ramming his forehead into the wall. It burst open with a sickening crunch leaving a grisly red patch across the stained dirty brickwork. Davo could tell by the force that vibrated up his arms that it had all broken open but he smashed it into the wall twice more to be certain then flung the body to the ground. The second one was still slumped against the wall with his head forward, Davo just bent over slightly and slashed the side of his right hand into his throat. The metal reinforced glove completely crushed both the skin’s Adam’s apple and larynx; his unconscious body gave a couple of rasping gurgles as he sat there and slowly choked to death. By the way the remaining skin was lying where he fell, his head twisted round behind him at a sickeningly awkward angle, eyes half open and not seeing anything, Davo was sure he was dead but he had to make certain. He picked him up by the front of his T-shirt and noticed it had Iron Maiden written across the front. Davo paused for a second and smiled.

  ‘So you like a bit of heavy metal do you matey,’ he sneered cruelly. ‘Well try a bit of this.’

  He drew back his right fist and slammed the steel glove into the skin’s temple, once, twice, paused and then gave him another one. The flesh ruptured, blood seeped into the skin’s ears and gushed out of his nose but his half open eyes didn’t even blink.

  His chest heaving slightly, his hands still subconsciously clenched by his side Davo stood there in the sickly half light of the alley smiling with satisfaction at the slaughter he’d left lying around him. There’d been hardly any noise, no one had come around or seen a thing and the whole dreadful business had taken less than two minutes. Luck was with him again.

  Cautiously he moved down to the end of the alley, stopped in the shadows and had a swift glance up and down the street; there was still no one around. Quickly he walked back up towards the noise and traffic of Oxford Street, stopping under a thick, shadowy grove of maple trees to remove the gloves and run a handkerchief over his face to wipe away any bloodstains. There were a few spots and a bit on his clothes but they were almost invisible against the dark cotton. After another quick look around he began walking smartly up another alley that ran into Crown Street, up into Oxford, past the Supreme Court and back to his car. In less than half an hour he was back home in his loungeroom laughing like a drain over a cup of coffee while he cleaned the blood and pieces of flesh from the gloves; in the background the radio was playing and Davo was almost dancing around the room at his success.

  ‘Two on Thursday and three on Sunday,’ he said out loud. ‘Not bad for a cripple.’ A Michael Jackson song came on the stereo-radio and Davo started moonwalking around the flat. ‘Yeah baby. That makes five and that ain’t no jive.’ He fell back on the lounge and roared with laughter.

  ‘I don’t believe this. I dead set, fair dinkum don’t bloody well believe it.’ Detective Middleton spat bitterly out the window of the Ford Falcon as he and Detective Blackburn pulled up at the small narrow lane running off Riley Street.

  Up until then it had been a fairly easy night for a change with only fifteen minutes to go before they could knock off, when the call came over the VKG that someone had found three bodies in a lane near Oxford Street. The caller however had obviously decided to remain anonymous because there was no one there when the two tired detectives arrived. Detective Middleton nosed the unmarked police car into the lane where the headlights picked up the three crumpled figures sprawled at the other end.

  ‘There they are,’ said Detective Blackburn, as his partner switched off the engine.

  They got out of the car and in the soft glow of the parking lights slowly walked towards the three bodies dumped haphazardly on one side of the alley.

  ‘Jesus don’t tell me it’s another three bloody skinheads,’ said Detective Blackburn as they got closer.

  Detective Middleton didn’t say anything at first as he and his partner let their torch beams play over the grisly sight at their feet. ‘Yeah—it sure looks like it. Doesn’t seem to be as much blood around this time though.’

  ‘Christ, Greg, there’s enough. How much do you want?’

  The two grim-faced detectives stood there in silence for a few moments shining their torches over the bodies and around the alley trying to figure out what they’d found. They were used to finding the bodies of gays or straights but never skinheads; and this was the second lot in four days. Both detectives began to get the same uneasy feeling in the pit of their stomachs.

  ‘Shit, have a look at this bloke’s neck, Ray
.’

  ‘Yeah, I noticed. What about this guy’s head. It looks like it’s been jammed in a vice.’ Detective Blackburn let his torch play over the dead skinhead as he peered at what was left of his forehead. ‘Jesus Christ. I can see his brains.’

  Detective Middleton straightened up, sucked a deep breath in through his teeth and let it out through his nose. ‘Greg. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ replied his partner shaking his head. ‘I don’t even want to think.’

  ‘It reminds me too much of Thursday night, Greg.’

  ‘Jesus, don’t say that.’

  ‘Yeah I know. It looks like we might have a nut on our hands.’ Detective Middleton stared at the bodies scattered around them for a few seconds, slowly shaking his head. ‘Anyway, Ozzie’ll be able to tell us a bit more tomorrow. I’ll radio the lab boys and get a meat wagon. They’re gonna love this one too.’

  The taller of the two detectives walked back to the car leaving his baffled partner shining his torch over the broken bodies while he gingerly avoided stepping in the pools of blood shining softly in the dull amber glow of the solitary streetlight. The same as Greg, Ray didn’t like the similarity between these murders and the ones on Thursday night and he also didn’t like Greg’s implication that they could have a maniac on their hands. Either way, it looked like being a long shitty night.

  In contrast to the chilly atmosphere of the morgue, Dr Joyce’s smile was warm and bright when he greeted the two slightly weary detectives the following afternoon. He had a good idea what they were after and before long the three bodies were brought out into the ID area. Detective Middleton was still studying the coroner’s report, with Detective Blackburn looking over his shoulder, when the morgue attendant wheeled the last one in. The two detectives continued studying the report for another moment or two then shifted their gaze to the blueish white corpses laid out in front of them.