Davo's Little Something (29 page)

‘What!'

They were the last words the tall skinhead ever said on this earth. He'd no sooner opened his mouth than Davo's left fist slammed into his face like a battering ram, audibly crunching the bones and flipping him backwards straight over the bonnet of the Commodore parked behind him. He gave a quick scream of pain and crashed down among the garbage tins and boxes of rubbish in the gutter.

Davo looked to his left just as the other skin got his studded belt off and raised it to flay him across the head. Davo smashed a right into his face which pulverised his nose in a spray of blood, smashing more bones and sending splinters up under his forehead into his brain. He too gave a little scream as the force of it sent him cannoning back across the lane and up against the wall to sit shuddering against it, his legs spread across the footpath.

Quick as a snake, Davo sprang back to the first one. He picked him up roughly under the armpits, flung him against the Commodore then holding him up by the T-shirt, gripped in his left hand, he pounded his face with his right. Davo could feel the flesh rip and the bones disintegrate as plumes of blood splashed against the car and across the windscreen. Before long the front of the skinhead's face was a crimson gory mess flat as the bottom of an iron.

Davo dropped him and ran back to the other one. He was like a man possessed now as all the hatred and venom came pouring out of him. In the concrete jungle the roles had suddenly been reversed and now he was the tiger turning on the hyenas. He didn't bother to pick the skinhead up but just crouched
at the waist and slammed punches into his head where he sat slumped against the wall. His head rocked from side to side and banged violently back against the bricks. In a very short time there was hardly anything left worth punching.

Like he'd just come out of a trance Davo stopped, blinked several times and stood there in the soft eerie glow of the street lights: his breathing only slightly heavier than normal. He walked across to the first skinhead sprawled behind the car and could scarcely believe the damage he'd done. Where his face had been was now just an unrecognisable flattened mass of what looked like black jelly; his Dead Kennedys Tshirt was a thick wet shine of saturated blood. The other one was lying face down across the narrow strip of footpath. Davo kicked him over with his foot to see that he was in the same condition except that the blood had run across the narrow footpath and was starting to trickle down the rise of the gutter.

Instead of being revolted however, Davo experienced a feeling of high elation, his burning desire for revenge had been sated slightly, there was even a faint stirring in his loins; the first time since he'd got out of hospital. He smiled cruelly and gave a grunt of satisfaction as a tremor of excitement went through his body. With a final satisfied look at his two victims he slipped the gloves off and tucked them back in his waistband then strolled back down the alley towards Crown Street.

He stopped in the shadows underneath the hotel awning and checked his reflection in one of the windows. Miraculously the passing headlights showed only a few splashes of blood on his sweatshirt, which in the dim light were barely discernible against the dark blue. There were some smears and drops on his face which he wiped off on the ragged piece of shoulder. Happy with that, Davo started walking back along Crown Street towards Oxford; easy, casual, as if he was just another person in the crowd strolling around on Thursday night. He paused briefly at the barrow on the corner, where across the road he could see the rest of the gang still standing impatiently outside Paris's Tavern waiting for their two mates. Davo chuckled to himself—he'd have loved to see the looks on their faces when they found them. Still chuckling quietly to himself, with his hands in his pockets, he joined the noisy rag-tag multitude
swarming along the grimy neon-lit footpath towards Taylor Square. A few minutes later he was sitting in his car, hardly believing what he'd done; the whole thing had taken less than thirty minutes.

Of all the detectives patrolling the eastern suburbs that night it was a complete stroke of irony that the first two to answer the call over the VKG when the bodies were found were Ray Blackburn and Greg Middleton; who could scarcely believe their eyes at what they eventually discovered in that dark narrow back alley. The person who stumbled across the bodies, a skinny fair-haired New Zealand disc jockey, working in a bar nearby, couldn't quite believe his eyes either. He'd finished work early that night with a headache and was expecting to go home, smoke a nice hash joint and get to bed at a respectable hour for a change; he certainly wasn't expecting the gruesome sight which awaited him when he went to open his blood-spattered light green Commodore. He was leaning against the rear door and still dry retching when the two detectives pulled up in the lane just behind him.

‘Ah well, I wonder what we've got this time?' said Detective Blackburn, as they climbed out of the car.

‘Don't even bother to bloody ask,' replied his disgruntled partner, wishing they'd never been transferred to Darlinghurst and heartily sick of seeing shooting, stabbing and assault victims one after another, in a part of Sydney that was becoming more and more like a sewer every day.

‘Are you the person who called the police?' asked Detective Blackburn. The DJ nodded his head briefly but didn't say anything. ‘Where are the bodies?' The DJ still didn't say anything but pointed behind him across the bonnet of his car. Detective Blackburn walked around the front and stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Jesus Christ,' he exclaimed. ‘Have a look at this Greg.'

His partner walked around and shone his torch over the crumpled body of the first skinhead, still shining red in the soft glow of the streetlight. ‘Shit! What happened to him?' He glanced up at the DJ. ‘Where's the other one?' The DJ pointed the short distance across the alley without looking in that direction.

Detective Middleton walked over and crouched down next to the body of the second skinhead. ‘Jesus Christ,' he almost yelled, as the torch beam picked up the gory sight. ‘Ray. Get here and have a look at this!'

Slightly mesmerised, Detective Blackburn forced himself away from the first skinhead, walked across and squatted down next to his partner. ‘Jesus! What in the hell's been going on here?'

‘Have you ever seen anything like this Ray? There's hardly any face left. Look—no eyes. No nose, No mouth. Nothing.' A funny sound coming from the Commodore made them look up to see the DJ dry retching again.

‘What do you make of it?'

Detective Blackburn shook his head slowly. ‘Dunno. I've never seen anything like it. The bodies are alright, but there's just . . . just no face. The other one's the same.'

By now the DJ, after hearing all this, sounded like he was going into convulsions.

‘Are you alright mate?' asked Detective Blackburn, as they got to their feet.

The DJ nodded ashen-faced, as another trickle of bile dribbled from his mouth.

‘I'll call the forensic boys, Ray, they're gonna love this one—it's like something out of an alien from outer space movie. You want to question our mate here?'

‘Yeah righto.' Detective Blackburn moved over to the Kiwi disc jockey while Detective Middleton got on the two-way radio. He got out his notebook and biro. At the look of excruciating discomfort on the young DJ's face Detective Blackburn couldn't help himself. ‘I don't suppose you happened to notice any flying saucers around earlier did you matey?'

The DJ looked at Detective Blackburn in horror, rolled his eyes and started dry retching again.

 

While all this was going on, Davo was home in his flat enjoying a cup of coffee, still absolutely ecstatic. When he'd arrived home earlier he was that excited he was almost running around the flat in circles. By rights he should have been a little worried; he'd just brutally murdered two men. But instead of showing
any concern, Davo was the complete opposite—he just wanted to party. He couldn't believe the feeling and emotions running through him. All those months of training and pain had paid off. It was revenge, joy, rapture, ecstasy: better than all his birthdays and Christmases rolled into one. He put the gloves back on and shaped up to himself in the bedroom mirror, throwing punches all around the room before finally falling back on the bed, almost doubled up with laughter.

‘What do you want—arsehole,' he roared out loud.

‘How about a few pints of your blood—arsehole,' he replied to himself, then roared laughing again. Which wasn't the first time Davo had been talking to himself—and answering himself back lately.

He wiped the blood and picked the pieces of flesh from the gloves and hid them in the bottom of his wardrobe, then threw his dirty clothes in the laundry; now he was sitting in the loungeroom sipping a cup of coffee and listening to his stereo-radio. This new euphoria had started to settle down a bit and although he was still quite pleased with himself a few sobering thoughts were starting to occur to him.

He'd been lucky tonight—bloody lucky. Those two skinheads splitting up from the rest of the gang, and managing to get them alone in that alley was luck in itself. But he hadn't anticipated all that blood flying around. What would have happened if more had gone on him than the few drops that did. Considering the amount splashing about that was almost a miracle. He'd have looked nice walking back up Oxford Street with great splotches of red all over him; if there had been any police around they would have arrested him in two minutes. Lucky again he was wearing dark clothes. Next time he'd make sure he was wearing dark clothing and carry a hanky or a small face towel to wipe off any blood; and probably a dark, long sleeved sweatshirt over his shoulders to throw on if he couldn't get it all off. Yes. In retrospect he'd certainly been lucky tonight alright.

Davo stretched his legs out in front of him and settled back further into the lounge. Next time. Was there going to be a next time? He smiled callously into his coffee as he reflected on the night's events. Was there what. The feeling when his
fist connected with that first skinhead's face and the look on it when he barrelled him straight over the front of that car proved that. Then there were their screams of pain and the sheer joy of pounding their faces to pulp. It was just a pity those two weren't the ones that gave it to Wayne and himself; but you never know—you just never know. Maybe one day. But oh yes. There was going to be a next time alright, and a next time, and another, until he got sick of it. And brother, it would be a while before he got sick of smashing those creeps. In the meantime, a bit of caution to be observed and everything should be just peachy. That's all.

He chuckled into his coffee once more and settled back even further onto the lounge. When he'd finished it, he sat on the lounge for a while listening to his stereo-radio and letting his mind fill once more with the euphoria of the night's events. Then he went to bed. That night Davo slept like a baby. No bad dreams, he hardly even moved, and there wasn't the slightest trace of a headache.

He slept in till amost nine the following morning then bounded out of bed, got his walking stick and went down to get both the morning papers. He found what he was looking for, over a cup of coffee in the kitchen, in both the
Telegraph
and the
Herald
; both papers said pretty much the same thing in a slightly larger than normal paragraph on pages 3 and 5 respectively.

Police puzzled over the killing of two men in Darlinghurst lane. Darlinghurst detectives investigating the deaths of two men found earlier today in a lane off Oxford Street said they were shocked at the extent of injuries to the victims. Savagely beaten to death, Rodney Millar, nineteen of Glebe and Michael Longmuir, twenty of Rozelle, were found by a young disc jockey on his way home from work in the early hours of this morning.

Davo had a grin from ear to ear as he read on about how the crime had the police baffled by its ferocity and the victims weren't gay for a change. When he got to the end Davo spluttered on his coffee and took a bit in the wrong way that had him coughing over the papers. It concluded. Any persons who think they may be able to help police with their investigations are asked to contact Detective Middleton at Darlinghurst police-station.
When he stopped coughing, Davo roared with laughter, which made him start coughing again.

‘What did you say down the coroner's court on Wednesday Blackburn,' he roared out loud. “Don't worry mate. Something will turn up.” Well you were right, Ray. Something did turn up—didn't it.' Davo roared laughing again.

When he'd finally got himself together, Davo cut the two clippings out and put them in a drawer in the kitchen. He finished the rest of the two papers over a light breakfast then went down to the garage for his customary morning workout—today's being a particularly good one. After that it was a nice long walk, coming back through Bondi Junction to buy that black sweatshirt he'd been thinking about the night before, then another training session in the late afternoon and Davo with a smile on his face the whole day through.

‘Well I can think of better bloody places to spend a Friday afternoon than in here,' said Detective Blackburn, as he and Detective Middleton pulled up outside the rear entrance of the morgue in Ross Street Glebe.

‘Yeah, you're not wrong,' replied his partner, turning off the engine. ‘Ah well. Ozzie's always good for a bit of a laugh.'

‘Yeah. If you're Dracula. Come on, let's get it over.'

They climbed out of the car and reluctantly entered the building, finally stopping at the reception desk just in front of the identification area.

‘Is Dr Joyce around?' Greg asked the young fair-haired attendant.

‘Sure is,' he replied cheerfully. ‘I'll go and get him for you, Who'll I say wants him?'

‘Detectives Middleton and Blackburn—from Darlinghurst.'