Davo's Little Something (11 page)

‘Well, Bob. Was that a concert or was that a concert,' said Wayne, perspiration running down his face from cheering and dancing around.

‘Mate,' replied Davo, slumped back in his seat. ‘Have you got any of that brandy left? I'm absolutely rooted.'

They sat there talking for a while waiting for some of the crowd to drift out before finally leaving themselves. They were still quite excited as they stood out the front but seeing as it was impossible to get into either the coffee shop or McDonalds they decided to walk straight back to the car and go up The Cross for maybe one or two drinks before going home; after a concert like that neither felt like going straight home to bed.

The crowd milled around out the front for a while then the majority seemed to move off either towards up-town or Central Railway with not a great deal of people walking in the direction they were, back towards Barker Street. By the time they got to the old Darling Harbour goods yard there was nobody else around at all. The laneway leading towards the car was just as dim and menacing as it had been earlier but being in high spirits after the concert, neither of them seemed to notice it. Nor did they notice the misty, clinging dampness as they ambled along the deserted thoroughfare, chatting away, with the dingy streetlights throwing sickly muted shadows on the grimy greyblack of the footpath and street around them. They certainly didn't notice the gang of sullen faced youths coming in the opposite direction, checking car doors and just out looking for trouble in general.

There were six of them in the gang: all around twenty. Stockily built with close cropped hair and tattooed arms, wearing grimy denim jackets over grimy denim jeans supported by braces and rolled up over 10 hole Doc Marten boots. The
leader—a little taller than the rest with red hair—had several earrings in both ears and all over his cherry-red boots were stencilled little black and white swastikas. He was looking in the window of Wayne's car and debating with his cohorts whether to break the window and take the stereo, but none of them being too keen to lump it around town all night they decided to give it a miss. Knowing he'd never own an Alfa Romeo as long as his backside pointed to the ground the leader settled on giving the driver's side door a healthy kick instead.

Wayne and Davo had just turned the corner when they heard the crash and saw the gang standing in the darkness barely ten metres away. Davo spotted what they were up to first and put his hand on Wayne's arm.

‘Hey Wayne, that's your car they're kicking.'

Without really thinking they quickly advanced towards the gang.

‘Hey just what in the hell do you think you're doing?' Wayne called out.

One of the gang turned around at the sudden noise. Seeing only two people coming towards them they stood there smirking silent defiance.

‘Oh have a look at my bloody car,' said Wayne tightly when he saw the chipped paint and huge rent in the door. ‘You stupid bloody things.' He glared angrily at the youths.

At the articulate sound of Wayne's voice the gang's ears pricked up.

‘Who are you calling stupid—you greasy little poofter?' hissed the leader rancorously, as the rest of the gang surrounded Wayne and Davo.

‘Well what do you know Frank,' said one of the gang to the leader. ‘Looks like we found us a couple of poofters.'

An awful feeling centred in Davo's already fluttering stomach as it dawned on him that the gang was not only out looking to steal things, they were after a fight as well. Better still, just to beat someone up. The murky yellow light shining on the barely discernible but patently vicious faces surrounding them in the cold black alley seemed to add more menace to an already frightening scene. A horrible sensation of pure dread suddenly
filled Davo as he realised they were alone in an asphalt jungle surrounded by a pack of suburban hyenas.

‘Wayne,' he said, as slowly and as calmly as he could. ‘Don't say anything. Just get in the car and let's go.'

Wayne saw the fear in Davo's eyes and started for the car door but one of the gang barred his way then pushed him in the chest forcing him back.

‘Hey come on, turn it up fellahs,' said the normally easygoing Davo, almost pleading with them. ‘We're not looking for any trouble.'

‘You're not looking for any trouble are you, poofter,' hissed the leader. ‘Well you've just found it. You stinkin' faggot scum.'

In the poor light Davo didn't see the leader's punch come at him and it caught him flush on the mouth, knocking him backwards into the car parked in front of Wayne's. He let out an oath of pain as Wayne cried out—partly in terror, partly with shock. He'd never experienced a situation anything like this before.

The leader moved into Davo and threw several more punches at his head. Davo covered up as best he could and threw a wild haymaker in desperation and self-defence which caught the leader in the face, splitting his lip. The leader stopped momentarily, wiped his mouth and saw the blood on his hand; which only seemed to infuriate him more.

‘Why you . . .' His eyes glowed with rage as he turned to the rest of the gang. ‘Come on fellahs. Let's give it to this prick.'

The gang seemed to ignore Wayne and like a pack of wild dogs swarmed in on Davo kicking and punching like madmen. He did what he could to protect himself but soon started to slide down the front of the car under the fearful barrage of kicks and punches. Through his smashed fingers he saw Wayne screaming ‘Stop it! Stop it!' Then with unthinking courage he ran at the gang and tried to pull them off Davo. There were more screams now as two of the gang knocked Wayne to the ground and started kicking him while the remaining four kept hammering Davo.

He felt the warm salty blood flowing into his mouth and his head was ringing as what seemed like a hail-storm of punches
and kicks thumped into his head, ribs, arms and back. Stars were spinning before his eyes and the pounding bursts of pain were almost unbelievable. Would they ever stop? He tried to scream but couldn't breathe as he felt himself slowly slipping into unconsciousness. He opened his eyes briefly and saw the other two gang members still kicking into the still form of Wayne slumped on the roadway, his limp body shuddering under the impact of the gang's monstrous leather boots. The last thing he saw in that blackened alley, almost like it was happening in slow motion, was one of those reddish boots, covered in little swastikas, swing up into his face. There was a searing orange flash of pain then everything went black—and quiet.

Although Davo was unconscious and completely helpless as he lay on the roadway the four youths still kept kicking him: after a short while one of them broke off and joined the other two kicking and jumping up and down on Wayne. In their blind, senseless fury the two bleeding objects the gang were kicking weren't so much human beings as symbols of the rage and frustration they felt against a society which, to their warped cowardly way of thinking, had ostracised them. Whether they were gay, black, white or whatever meant nothing. They were simply objects to vent their pusillanimous spleen against; and they vented it for almost another five minutes. Their final act of outrageous malevolence was for the leader and another member of the gang to pick Wayne up by an arm each then run him across the street and slam him head first into the pillar between the doors of his car.

‘Oooh—have a look at my bloody car,' cackled the red-haired leader, trying to ape Wayne's voice. The others all laughed uproariously, then satisfied they'd had their fun ran off down the lane in the direction of Central Railway, still laughing amongst themselves like the pack of hyenas they were.

After the screams and pandemonium there was almost an unearthly silence in the lane when the gang left. The only discernible sound was Davo's laboured, rattling breathing, his chest heaving up and down as his unconscious body tried to force some air into his lungs through his smashed nose and mouth. There didn't appear to be any sound at all coming from Wayne, slumped against his car a few feet away from him.
Around them the faint, yellow glow from the one good streetlight seemed to make the silence more pronounced as it slowly turned the bright red blood gradually spreading across the road into pools of deep, dark crimson—almost black.

A passing taxi driver, slightly curious at the sight of the six youths suddenly running out of one end of the lane, slowed down for a better look as he passed the other end. Thinking he could see something, he pulled up and got out of his cab for a closer inspection. One look was enough. Ashen-faced he ran back to his cab and picked up the radio.

The driver's voice was noticeably shaky as he informed the base of what he'd found. They immediately rang 000 and expedited an ambulance and the police.

‘Will you be okay there on your own 23? You don't sound too good. Over.'

‘Yeah I'm okay base. It just looks bloody awful that's all. But whoever done it's miles away by now. Over.'

‘Okay 23.' The voice crackled harshly over the two-way radio. ‘Well the cops and the ambulance are on their way. If anything happens give us a yell. Over.'

‘Yeah righto base. Over and out.'

The driver stared absently at the radio for a moment then went and got a blanket from the boot of the taxi and walked back to Wayne and Davo. He could see Davo at least was breathing so he wiped his face with a corner of the blanket, straightened him up a little and left him there. He moved Wayne away from where the gang had dumped him next to his car, made him as comfortable as he could and placed the blanket over him. As the driver wiped his hands on the blanket he noticed the dim light shining on the blood seeping out of both Wayne's ears. He crouched there staring at him for a moment or two then shook his head slowly and swallowed hard.

Detective Senior Constable Greg Middleton and Detective First Class Ray Blackburn were cruising down George Street keeping a weather eye on the hordes of people swarming along its broad neon lit thoroughfare and debating whether to get a McDonalds or a pizza when the call came over the VKG.

‘Barker Street,' said Detective Middleton, who was driving. ‘That's just round the next corner Ray.'

‘Yeah. And that's the end of our feed.' Detective Blackburn picked up the radio. ‘VKG this is 1-21. We copy and will attend. Out.'

‘Looks like some fans didn't like the Santana concert,' said Detective Middleton, as he reached to switch on the flashing blue light.

‘Yeah.'

‘Can't say I blame them. One of my daughters has got every record the bastard's ever made. I reckon he sounds like a lot of screeching cats.'

‘You're just getting old Greg.'

‘Yeah? You didn't say that when I flogged you at squash yesterday.'

Detective Blackburn had to smile in agreement as they sped towards Barker Street.

The two detectives arrived on the scene with a squeal of tyres about three or four minutes after the ambulance which was now reversed into the lane with the back doors open: the red and blue lights steadily blinking on and off in the surrounding darkness. They pulled up alongside and walked over to where the two paramedics were crouched over the prostrate Wayne and Davo. Behind them stood the taxi driver; the glare from the flickering blue lights picking up the look of helplessness and shock on his face.

‘Shit! What happened here?' said Detective Blackburn, flashing his torch over the ghastly crumpled figures on the road.

‘Dunno,' replied the young paramedic working on Wayne. ‘Looks like there's been some sort of a fight. They're both in a bad way. This one . . .' The paramedic shook his head. ‘I dunno. I don't seem to be getting a pulse at all.'

‘It's no good us rooting around here, Phil,' said his partner. ‘We'd better get them straight down to St Vincents.'

‘Yeah you're right. You want to give us a hand to get 'em in the ambulance?' said the first paramedic, looking up at Detective Blackburn.

‘Yeah sure.' He had another quick look before he turned off his torch and jammed it in the waist-band of his trousers. ‘Jesus, whoever did it wasn't muckin' around. They're a mess
alright.' Detective Middleton nodded his head grimly in agreement.

As quickly as they could the two paramedics got the stretchers out of the ambulance and the four of them bundled Wayne and Davo in; they were a bit rough but they knew the two of them weren't feeling anything. The cab driver offered to help but they waved him away. The paramedic named Phil closed the doors on his partner, who had stayed in the back to immediately start applying oxygen and IV drips, then ran round and got behind the wheel.

‘We're going to St Vincent's,' he called out from the driver's window.

Detective Middleton waved in acknowledgement. ‘We'll have a look around here and be straight down.'

The paramedic hit the siren and the ambulance screamed straight out into the Thursday night traffic.

As the noise from the siren faded off up the road Detective Middleton turned to the cabbie.

‘Are you the driver who radioed the police?' The cabbie nodded in agreement. ‘Could you tell us what happened?'

The cab driver made a futile gesture with his hands. ‘There's not that much I can tell you.'

The still visibly shaken taxi driver related what he had seen to Detective Middleton who took down notes while Detective Blackburn flashed his torch across the scene of the assault; he picked up the blood splashed across the door of Wayne's car.

‘Is this the vehicle he was lying next to?'

The driver nodded his head. Detective Middleton took a note of the registration number while Detective Blackburn flashed his torch inside.

‘I'd better radio the base, Greg.' Detective Middleton nodded his head as Detective Blackburn walked briskly back to the Ford Falcon.

‘Hello VKG. This is 1-21.'

‘Go ahead 1-21,' was the crackling reply.