Davo's Little Something (16 page)

Len Thompson had just got home from work and was genuinely pleased to hear he was out of hospital. Davo got straight to the point and said he didn't know when he'd be back at work—three possibly four months. Len said there was no problem there, they had a butcher in from one of the other stores and his job would be waiting for him when he got back. Davo said his headaches were bad and he had to get a lot of rest so he couldn't have people ringing him up: he'd ring them. He'd probably drop in and say hello in a couple of weeks. See you then. Colin wasn't home, he was working overtime—so Davo left the same message with his mother. Don't ring me. I'll ring you. Sandra Lessing wasn't home either but he left the same abrupt message with her brother: with maybe
just a little bit more conversation. After he hung up on Jimmy he stared at the phone for a few moments. Despite all the hatred inside him he found he still had some slight feelings for Sandra: but only slight. The last call was to David, who before long was crying into the phone, which instead of raising any sympathy from Davo, if anything disgusted him. He let David blubber on for a short while about how much he missed Wayne and how he was going to sell the unit because it brought back too many sad memories then gave him the same message and abruptly hung up.

Well at least I won't have them ringing me up and annoying me he thought. Good. He took a glance at his watch: it was almost two, so he decided to make a bit of lunch. He went into the bedroom to get some money and walked slowly down to the corner shop.

Over the years Davo had built up a bit of a rapport with George, the young Greek that ran the small supermarket with his wife Despina. The owner got a bit of a shock when Davo shuffled in with his black eyes, puffed lips and swollen nose.

‘Bob my friend,' he exclaimed. ‘Christ, what happened to you? I wondered why I hadn't seen you lately.' He noticed the swelling and marks where the bandages had been on Davo's hands. ‘You haven't been fighting have you?'

‘I was in a car accident,' replied Davo. ‘I had a bad concussion.'

‘Ohh Jesus, that's no good. You alright now?'

‘I'm still pretty shaky, but I'll be alright.'

Despina came out from the back of the shop and said hello, and also showed her concern. They continued to talk and ask questions but Davo more or less ignored them, just concentrating on getting what he wanted off the shelves. He had one or two words with the owners, picked up his fresh milk, bread and other odds and ends and shuffled back out.

As he was walking back home a thought occurred to him. He realised that even though he was filthy on the world and screaming inside he was going to have to be a little more polite to people as time went by; he was going to have to control his emotions a little more. He made a mental note to start doing this.

Back home he made some cheese, Vegemite and lettuce sandwiches and a fresh pot of tea. He put it on the coffee table in the loungeroom and decided to spend the afternoon watching TV. The choice of programmes was pretty ordinary. A cowboy movie in which old Randolph Scott looked about fifteen. The VFL live from Melbourne. A Turkish movie on SBS or budgerigar breeding on the ABC. Davo settled for ‘The Wide World of Sport' on 9.

After the cheap black and white set at the hospital, with its bad reception and scratchy sound, Davo's 67 centimetre colour TV with the sound coming out through the speakers on his stereo was almost like being in a private movie theatre. He was quite enjoying himself sitting back, eating sandwiches and watching skiers, mountaineers, wrestlers, swimmers and sportsmen and women from all over the world doing their thing. After about an hour or two it was still enjoyable but starting to get just a little mundane—when straight after a live race broadcast Daryl Eastlake introduced a segment that made Davo sit up and take notice.

Daryl was in a park somewhere with two visiting Korean martial arts experts. Davo didn't catch their names but standing there in their white cotton outfits with their grim, unsmiling faces and black crewcuts they looked like a couple of robots as they scowled menacingly from Eastlake back to the TV screen. After a brief introduction the two men squared off to each other and started sparring. Their speed and agility was nothing short of amazing as they spun and danced around each other throwing kicks and snappy little punches from all directions. Every now and then one would throw the other over his hip or shoulder who would then roll with the throw and bounce straight back up throwing kicks and punches just as quickly as before. This went on non-stop for about three or four minutes and Davo was suitably impressed; if he'd had the ability of one of those Koreans it certainly would have been a different story in the alley that Thursday night. But he soon realised that to get anywhere near the standard of those two would take ten possibly twenty years so any grandiose ideas he had of quickly becoming a martial arts expert were promptly dismissed. The next segment on the two Koreans was
more interesting though, and much more promising.

The scene changed to a hall or gymnasium somewhere and closeups of the two Koreans' calloused hands and feet. Eastlake gave a bit of a spiel about how the two men's hands and feet got that way then stood back in amazement as the two spiky haired robots started smashing things apart with them. First was a piece of timber about eight centimetres thick. The taller Korean held it near his chest while the other one threw a quick, snappy punch putting his fist straight through it like it was a slice of toast. Then it was roof tiles, more timber and concrete bricks, the two men taking it in turns to demolish them with either a punch or a kick with the ball or heel of the foot. Their last trick was to punch through some house bricks. Both Koreans were stripped to the waist and neither man was all that big. Wiry, with sinewy veined arms, but no bulging biceps or deltoids: if anything they were both rather flat chested. But the power they managed to generate, which appeared to come mainly from their stomach muscles, was nothing short of mind boggling. As Davo sat there fascinated while they smashed all those bricks he realised you wouldn't have to be Einstein to figure out what one of those fists—thrown properly—would do to your face. Obliterate it. Probably break your neck. More than likely kill you. He settled back down on the lounge and stared at the TV with that same cynical smile he had had on his face after Dr Connely had visited him in the hospital. Yeah he thought, nodding his head slowly. More than likely kill you. He was still thinking and staring at the TV hours later.

‘Wide World of Sport' had finished and it was now dark outside. The pot of tea sitting on the coffee table was like ice and the remaining sandwiches had dried out and curled up on the sides. A look at his watch told Davo it was almost seven o'clock. He stretched out, gave a yawn then took the mess out into the kitchen. As he stood next to the sink he suddenly realised that although he'd done nothing all day he was incredibly tired: the headaches had started up again too. He took two digesics and went back out into the loungeroom. He stared absently out the sliding glass windows, which moved slightly in the cold northwest wind whipping across Waverley Oval. Murky yellow lights trailed off across the park and through
the trees into the distance. Beyond the park he could see the lonely streetlights and the lights from the other blocks of home units spreading out across the city. Seven o'clock Saturday night. Any other night he'd be schmiking himself up now getting ready to go out on the run with Colin. Or more than likely taking little Sandra Lessing out somewhere. But some things just weren't meant to be. The smile on his face, as he stared out the window, was almost as bitter as the wind fluttering the clothes he'd left on the balcony and rattling the full-length windows just in front of him. Davo was in bed by 7.30. He was that tired he didn't even bother to take his tracksuit off.

He was up around eight the following morning: twelve hours of unbroken sleep. After all that rest he found he was still tired and sluggish, which he put down to oversleeping, so he went out on the balcony and took in a few deep breaths to try and clear his head. The sudden rushes of oxygen stirred up his headaches slightly but at the same time freshened him and got some of the sluggishness out of his system. It wasn't much of a day outside. There was already a fair bit of cloud around and although the wind had eased off considerably it still had quite a chill to it. After about five minutes he went back inside, got cleaned up, then walked down to George's to get the Sunday papers. He came back and had a light breakfast. By the time he'd finished reading the papers over more tea and toast it was close enough to lunchtime.

A game of junior league had started on Waverley Oval so he stood and watched it while he picked up the rain-soiled clothing he'd kicked into the corner of the balcony the day before. After a few minutes he went back inside out of the cold, tossed the clothes in the laundry and sat down in the loungeroom to listen to an FM station for a while.

All the time he was sitting there he couldn't stop thinking about those two Koreans and the brutally efficient way they had smashed up those roof tiles and other things with their hands and feet. It stuck under his skin and gnawed away at his brain. Davo would have given anything to be as good as those two men but he knew he wouldn't even get within striking distance of their ability as long as his backside pointed to the ground. But the hatred inside him told him he was going to
have his revenge. Somehow. Some way. He would have it. And to do it he would have to be fit. Superfit. He could do that if he wanted to—in time. But no one was to know: it was going to be very sneaky. And once he had achieved the standard of fitness he desired, all he needed then was an edge. Guns and knives were out but he would have to have some sort of an edge. Just an advantage—a something. A little something.

He sat there thinking and brooding a while longer then decided to go and clean out the garage.

Davo's garage was in a row at the rear of the large courtyard. His was on the corner so as well as the rollerdoor he had a side entrance too; he opened the roller. Well, at least I'm able to get around alright he thought, as the aluminium door curled up over his head. I might be slow but I can walk okay. His Holden utility had been sitting there for almost two weeks but it kicked over first time. He let it idle for a few moments then moved it to a safe spot at the end of the courtyard where the fence met the units next door. He locked it up, turned on the burglar alarm and walked back to the garage. When the carbon monoxide fumes had cleared a bit he started fossicking around.

Being on the end Davo's was a double garage, solid brick with a good high ceiling. He had a workbench down one end, which he occasionally used to sharpen his work knives and a couple of old metal lockers in one corner covered in dogeared
Playboy
and
Penthouse
pinups. One of the main reasons he had chosen the home unit when he was married was because of the double garage; he had intended putting a small gym in it and they were both going to get fit. He looked reflectively at his gym. A flaking sit-up board and a small pair of rusting handweights. Well that would all change soon he thought, brushing a couple of cobwebs off the sit-up board with his hand. He switched on a small radio he had sitting on the workbench and began getting things in order. Firstly he rolled up the two sacks he had on the floor to catch any oil leaking from his car and dropped them in the Otto-bin outside. The yard-broom felt like it weighed a ton as he ran it across the floor. To grip it hurt his hands and the strain hurt his body and exacerbated his headaches but he forced himself to keep
going, he had to keep active, the worst thing he could do was sit around feeling sorry for himself. As he swept and busied himself he thought more and more about what he was going to do and slowly, like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, the loose ideas began to form a solid plan in his mind. He'd start the ball rolling tomorrow. It was going to be hard, slow and painful but two months should see him out: ten weeks at the most.

In a little over an hour he had the garage finished to his satisfaction. He locked it up, went back upstairs and had a shower, made a cup of coffee then spent the rest of the afternoon taking it easy and watching TV. Although even that small amount of work had left him tired and proved just how sick he was, he still felt good inside. He might not have set the world on fire but at least he'd accomplished something and he was off his arse.

He cooked a few vegetables in a wok for tea, had them with a bit of rice and watched a bit more TV. He switched that off at nine and got into bed, setting his clock-radio for six am. Just before he dozed off he realised something—the phone hadn't rung all day. Good.

Davo didn't quite know what was going on at first when the radio started up at six am. He knew one thing though, as he groggily reached across to turn it down. His head still ached, though nowhere near as much as it had, and it was awfully cold and dark outside and nice and warm underneath the blankets. He lay there for a few minutes wondering if this was really going to be worth all the effort. Bloody oath it was: and today was step one.

He climbed out of bed, got cleaned up, then went into the kitchen and had a mug of hot Ovaltine, cereal and bran while he listened to the kitchen radio. After a few deep breaths on the balcony he put on a woollen beanie, gloves and sunglasses and headed out for a walk. He couldn't run yet—but he could walk.

It was cold and windy as he stepped out the front of the units. Sunny enough but a few scattered clouds were already starting to get pushed across the sky by the nor'wester. He zipped the front of his tracksuit up under his chin and set off
down Bondi Road towards the beach. There were plenty of things to look at as he trudged along: cars, buses, taxis, people huddled at bus-stops probably not too happy about having to get up in the cold and go to work. He wasn't able to walk fast but by the time he reached the beach front he found he'd loosened up quite a bit. He was getting increasing bolts of pain round his temples as the blood started pumping through his head and his face felt quite flushed. He could feel his heart thumping away underneath his ribs and although everything seemed to ache quite a bit, it still felt good—exhilarating. He'd brought some painkillers with him but didn't take them.