Davo's Little Something (45 page)

Davo found a parking spot in Liverpool Street, not far down from the old Mark Foys building. It suited him ideally. After doing what he had to do he could take a quick left turn into Pitt and in no time be heading pretty smartly back towards Bondi. He gave his face a quick check in the rear-vision mirror; satisfied the Pinke Zinke was still doing its job he locked the
car and starting strolling towards George Street.

The gaudy neon-lit expanse of George Street was thronging with quite a crowd of people for Sunday night; mostly patrons coming and going from the number of theatres and theatre complexes abundant in that part of town. These numbers were swelled by Asians coming up from Chinatown, punks and other night people either milling around or spending money in the amusement arcades, icecream parlours and other venues still doing a roaring trade at that time of night. Davo dawdled cautiously outside Hungry Jacks on the corner for a few moments then walked right up George Street.

There was no way Davo intended doing any killing in George Street, it was too crowded and too well-lit, but he needed to see just what kind of people were around and check it out for police. He ambled along a bit further, stopping outside the Roma erotic theatre to see what was playing and have a look at the faces on the voyeurs huddled around out the front: but mainly to check out the passersby. He didn't notice any skinheads; there were quite a few punks and young street toughs but still no extraordinary numbers of police. Even when he stopped under the police sign on the corner of Central Street, indicating the station was just a few metres up the lane, there still didn't seem to be any more around than usual. Probably all up the Cross or prowling around Oxford Street he mused. Good.

He wandered past McDonald's and stood outside an amusement arcade, watching the crowds of people outside the huge Hoyts theatre complex opposite, either coming or going or stopping to watch groups of kids in tracksuits rap dancing to ghetto blasters placed strategically around the entrance. Still no extra police and still no skinheads. Oh well he thought. Looks like I'm going to have to settle for some punks. He gave the gloves, still sitting snugly in his jacket, a pat and decided to head down to Chinatown and peruse the lanes and back alleys around there and maybe Paddys Market.

He stopped among a small crowd of people waiting for the lights to change on the corner of Liverpool and George Streets. As he did he absently let his eyes drift back across to Hungry Jacks. Sitting in a small alcove right on the corner of the building
were three skinheads. Hello, smiled Davo to himself. This could be three likely little customers.

Actually none of them was all that little. All three were fairly solid, tattooed and appeared to be in their early twenties. They were all wearing braces to hold up their jeans, two had black T-shirts and the biggest one on the end had on a white Tshirt with Joy Division on the front. He also had spiky red hair. The lights changed and the crowd began to surge across Liverpool Street: but Davo didn't. Slowly he let his eyes drift down to the biggest skinhead's boots. Suddenly Davo felt as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. A cold sweat formed across his brow and his heart literally skipped a beat. He was a few metres away and the light wasn't all that good but there, unmistakably, all over the biggest skinhead's red boots were daubed dozens of little black swastikas. Davo felt almost paralysed. Like he was in the middle of some ghastly nightmare trying desperately to wake up. Was that him? Was that the skinhead with the red hair he was searching for. Those swastikas all over his boots. It had to be.

A calm collected rage quickly took over from the temporary paralysis and as unobtrusively as he could Davo slowly moved through the crowd and stood just up from the three skinheads' left, near the closed doorway of a small hotel. Although he couldn't help but shake slightly with excitement, Davo stood there as calmly as he could while he tried to pick up on their conversation and check the three of them out; especially the big one with the swastikas on his boots.

The three of them seemed to be, if not arguing, at least having a heated discussion about another two guys, possibly other members of the gang, who were supposed to have met them in town over an hour ago: and the general consensus of opinion was that they weren't going to turn up. A girl's name was mentioned and some hotel then the skinhead on the end leant across the one in the middle and distinctly said to the red-haired one in the Joy Division T-shirt, who Davo had figured out by now to be the leader:

‘Well, what do you reckon we ought to do Frank?'

Frank. That was it. At the mention of that name things began spinning around inside Davo's head and a rush of adrenalin
burst in his stomach like a bomb making him almost go weak in the knees. He had to turn away and lean against the wall for support as his mind was suddenly flooded with all different emotions. Anger, fury, confusion and most of all, vivid painful memories.

He was immediately propelled back to that Thursday night in the lane with Wayne, when they'd come across the gang trying to break into Wayne's car. He could hear the laughter when Wayne spoke to the skinheads and the words of one of the gang to the redhaired leader were still as crystal-clear and lucid in his mind as if they were being played on a tape.

‘Well what do you know, Frank. Looks like we found us a couple of poofters.'

And the last thing Davo remembered seeing that night was one of Frank's red swastikaed boots crashing into his face. Those same boots barely three metres from where he was standing. That was him alright. Davo had finally found the man he was looking for, the key to his torment; and also the key to his escape from this Jekyll and Hyde madness he was going through. He'd found him and soon his torture would be over.

His eyes crushed tight against the flood of burning tears welling up inside. Davo kept his face turned away while he leant up against the wall and slowly counted to ten. As the initial adrenalin rush began to subside violent brutal hatred immediately took its place and it was an effort to stop himself from racing over, taking the redhaired hoodlum by the throat and choking him to death on the spot. But even though he was literally shaking with rage, the rage soon changed to icy evil vindictive revenge. Davo had something better planned for Frank. Something ghastly he'd planned in the back of his mind months ago just in the event that he might one day find his elusive quarry.

Davo heard Frank say something to the others about cars down near Central. He moved away from the wall, walked slowly in front of the three skinheads without looking at them, and stood back among the crowds just round the corner in George Street; where he could remain unobtrusive yet keep an eye on the gang at the same time. A bus pulled up and
Davo blended in with the people getting on and off. As it took off the skins suddenly got to their feet, and catching the green light ran arrogantly across Liverpool then started walking with their customary swagger down George Street towards Central Railway. Davo fell in about twenty metres behind.

He followed them down past the Tivoli and through the white demolition hoardings outside the old Anthony Hordern building, slightly curious by now as to what purpose the gang had down that end of town at this time of night. They strode across Goulburn Street, past the Goulburn Hotel, stopped momentarily to look in Mick Simmons window then turned left into Campbell Street: with Davo still stealthily following about thirty metres behind. They turned right at Pitt then cut diagonally across into Hay Street and up past Belmore Park. Here, where it was a bit darker and more secluded, the gang spread out with Frank in the lead and the other two in the shadows behind. All three were looking in the windows of the parked cars and checking the doors. So that's what they were doing. Breaking into cars and stealing the contents. This would undoubtedly take them further into the lanes and back alleys. A cruel grin began to form on Davo's grim face. He couldn't believe his luck as already a deadly plan formed in his mind.

The gang regrouped momentarily before crossing Pitt into the tunnel leading to Elizabeth Street. Davo sprinted across and waited at the opposite end of the tunnel long enough to see them cross Elizabeth and enter a dingy laneway opposite with a tattoo parlour on the corner. There was a considerable amount of street noise from the traffic and the trains on the overhead going into and coming from Central Railway. This pleased Davo even more. He gave them a few seconds start while he slipped his hands into the gloves and absently watched a moving neon sign on a golf shop opposite, of a golfer sinking a ball on the nineteenth hole. With the gloves secure Davo's grin spread even further. This was the big moment. All those months of training and searching were about to come off. Soon the debt to Wayne and himself would be paid in full: and in blood. He punched his hands together with an audible ‘whack' then dashed through a break in the traffic to the tattoo parlour
where he stopped and cautiously edged his head around the corner.

There was a Salvation Army hostel just up the lane to his right; the door was open but there were no people around and hardly any light. It was as close to perfect as he could get. Barely fifteen metres in front of him one of the gang had his back turned while he jemmied at the three-quarter window of a Ford stationwagon with a screwdriver. Davo had a last quick look around then as quietly as a cat walking across carpet crept up behind him and slammed his left fist up under his ear almost breaking his neck. The skinhead didn't even get a chance to let out a sound as he crashed to the footpath. The only noise was a slight rattle as the screwdriver flew up in the air and landed in the gutter. Davo didn't have time to play games. He dearly would have liked to pound the hood's head to jelly but he wanted to get the first two out of the way as quickly as possible so he could get to their leader. There was no way he was going to blow this opportunity. He reached down, placed his right hand on the left side of the hood's head and left hand on the other, took a solid grip then gave a violent wrench that broke the hood's neck with a horrible, grinding crunch, nearly turning his head completely around in the process. With that done, he dropped the body and hurriedly kicked it underneath the car the skinhead had been trying to break into. Now for the next one.

Clinging close to the wall Davo crept along to the end and inched his head round the corner. The second hood was barely two car lengths away with the three-quarter window of a Toyota saloon open and his hand inside reaching for the door lock. The only problem was he was facing Davo and would probably have time to at least yell out before he got to him. But luck was with Davo again. On the next corner, almost opposite the skinhead, he noticed a sign saying White Hall Studios and about two storeys above, a band, a heavy metal one at that, was rehearsing. The drummer hit a lengthy burst, a guitar screeched and like a panther Davo sprang out of the shadows at the second member of the gang. The skin just had time to get his hand out of the car window and yell something but his scream was lost in the noise of the band and the rattle of a
passing train. The next thing Davo's right fist smashed into his face spinning him backwards across the mudguard of the Toyota to land face down in the gutter unconscious. Davo took hold of his head and did exactly what he'd done to the other one then also kicked his body under a car.

After a quick look around Davo took a deep breath. There was another narrow alley angling off to the right under the rehearsal studios. A cruel smile began to flicker around the edges of his glowering eyes; he figured the last skinhead would be up that lane. He nodded his head slowly as the smile spread icily from his eyes to his mouth and across his face. Now it's your turn Frank.

Davo hurried over to where the lane started and keeping close to the furthest wall peered down it into the darkness. At first he couldn't see anything then about fifteen metres away to his right he began to make out a white T-shirted figure rummaging around in the front seat of a Holden Commodore. Frank had obviously broken into the car and was now busy rifling its contents; even at that distance Davo could see him going through the glovebox, strewing whatever wasn't worth stealing all over the floor. Davo chuckled to himself as he took his time moving closer towards the Commodore; he didn't want to hurry this and he'd have to wait for Frank to get out of the car anyway. He edged into the shadows on the opposite side of the lane and stood there watching his victim intently.

Eventually, the redhaired skinhead climbed out of the car, stuffed something in the back pocket of his jeans and slammed the door. In his hands was a Phillips head screwdriver, the point of which he ran over the car door in a zigzag scrawl after he'd closed it. He had a quick furtive look around him and not noticing Davo standing there in the shadows in his dark clothing moved on to the car in front of the one he'd just broken into. As he jammed the screwdriver into the threequarter window of the Cortina Davo moved away from the wall, watched him crouched over the car for a second then spoke.

‘Hello, Frank,' he said quietly. ‘How are you, mate?'

At the sound of his name the redhaired skinhead stood up and spun around. He wasn't frightened. A little startled maybe
but curious more than anything else at hearing his name being called out by what appeared to be a complete stranger. He stood there, the hand holding the screwdriver hanging loosely by his side and glared at Davo suspiciously.

‘Who the fuckin' hell are you?' he said indignantly.

‘Who am I?' smiled Davo. ‘Why, I'm a friend of yours, Frank.' He moved forward as Frank brought the Phillips head screwdriver up defiantly. ‘I've been looking for you for ages, Frank. Like you wouldn't believe.'

In the weak yellow glow of the distant streetlight Frank's face still showed no fear: but he was wary. He knew something wasn't right but he was still mystified as to who the stranger was and how he knew his name.