Davo's Little Something (14 page)

Davo regained consciousness just before lunchtime on Saturday.

It was quite an effort to get his eyelids apart because of the swelling and when he did manage to blink them open for a few moments everything was just a blur. Then, just as it all started to focus the pain hit him.

It was a headache like nothing he had ever felt before in his life. It seemed to start in his neck, pulse through his temples and bounce round the roof of his skull. Like someone had bound barbed wire round his head, jammed a piece of wood in it and was tightening it. At the same time he could feel a pressure building up inside his head like his eyeballs were about to explode out of their sockets. Every beat of his heart seemed magnified a hundredfold and sent shock waves of pure searing agony rocketing from one side of his skull to the other that were so intense he broke out in a cold sweat; his stomach churned and he could taste the bitter bile coming up in his throat. He tried to bring his hands up to his face but could only lift his arms a few inches and when he dropped them back on the bed the pain in his hands hit him and the vibrations seemed to shake the bed from one end to the other. He tried to scream but it got caught up in his swollen tongue and lips and came out as nothing more than a hideous, rasping rattle.

The charge sister sitting in the corner heard it, dropped her magazine and came running over. She took a quick look at Davo then ran out and got the resident. He hurried back in
and they both stood at the side of the bed; the resident felt Davo's pulse and checked the monitors.

His face twisted with anguish Davo's eyes pleaded up at them and with all the strength he could muster he managed to croak out one word. ‘Paaiinn!'

The resident nodded to the sister and said something Davo couldn't comprehend. There was another tiny prick of pain in his right arm then, a second or two later the room started to darken—and everything wasn't so bad after all.

By Sunday afternoon Davo was starting to feel slightly better. With light sedation the pain, although by no means gone, was at least bearable, providing he didn't move too much. He was propped up in bed awake, but awfully groggy and although it hurt even to think, for the last half hour he'd been trying to work out where he was and how he got there.

He figured he was in a hospital somewhere but where he didn't know. There were three others in the room besides him and there was a large curtained window to his left; outside appeared to be daylight. It was a slow, laborious process, almost as if his mind was trying to keep something from him. He lay there concentrating and, gradually, hesitantly, it all started to filter back to him.

He remembered going to the Grand with Colin then back to his place and going to work the next day. Then he went out somewhere with Wayne that night. Where? A concert: that's right. They saw Santana at the Entertainment Centre. And they had some coffee with brandy in it. Was that before or after the concert? Doesn't matter. Then they walked back to the car. Was it his car? No it was Wayne's. They parked in that alley. That dark, dingy alley. And someone was trying to steal the car. Those kids in the lane. With their denim jackets and jeans, and punk haircuts, and . . .

A shudder went through his body as like a bolt out of the blue his mind was suddenly filled with the sight of that ginger-haired thug's leering snarl and that huge red swastika-daubed boot crashing into his face. He closed his eyes and lay back on the pillow trembling slightly as the bits and pieces began tumbling around before him. He realised what had happened.

Knowing his, at times, big mouth he must have said something
to the gang and they'd given him a bashing. Probably serves me right he thought. And Wayne must have brought me to the hospital. But did Wayne get hurt? No, he was alright. He must have been to get him to the hospital. He glanced over at the window to see the sunlight filtering through the curtains forming uneven stripes across the end of his bed. Well, that was Thursday night: it must be bloody Friday afternoon. Christ, they sure gave me a decent old hiding.

After the initial shock an odd pensive calm settled over him. He lay there trying to assess what injuries he had.

Apart from the throbbing headaches he didn't feel all that bad. Gingerly, he ran his tongue around his mouth. His lips were swollen and he could feel the knots in the stitches and although several of his teeth were chipped none appeared to be missing or loose. His hands were sore under the bandages and it hurt to open and close his fists but they weren't plastered so nothing must be broken. His breathing, although short, didn't seem impaired so he probably didn't have any broken ribs—but he sure had some bruises. He moved his body slightly; yes he could feel the bruises alright. All in all, not too bad considering. But there was something else Davo felt as he lay there thinking. A feeling he'd never experienced before. Even in the state he was in, Davo would usually have somehow seen the funny side of it. But not this time. There was nothing funny about this. Nothing. Instead, he could feel a deep, burgeoning hatred spreading through his body. A hatred so vast and intense it didn't frighten him, instead it seemed to give him a strength that started to overcome the pain. He seemed to be developing such a profound hatred for people, that the way he was feeling it wouldn't have worried him if he never spoke to another person again. It was almost as if he was a different Bob Davis. As he lay there, staring straight ahead at nothing, Davo didn't fully realise it but there definitely was a different Bob Davis lying on that bed in St Vincent's Hospital.

Later in the afternoon he was still staring motionless at the wall when the charge sister, Sister Coleman, a pleasant dark haired woman in her early thirties, came over and stood at the side of the bed.

‘Mr Davis. I see you're awake,' she smiled. ‘Are you feeling
a little better?' Davo stared at her for a moment then looked away without saying anything. ‘You've got some visitors. Do you feel like seeing anybody?'

Davo looked behind her. In the window of the door leading into the intensive care ward he could see the concerned faces of the team from the butcher shop: Colin was there too. They were trying to smile over at him with Kathy waving but you could see the worry on their faces. Davo looked back at the sister.

‘Tell them to go away,' he said bluntly.

‘You don't wish to see your friends?'

‘You heard. Tell them to piss off.'

Sister Coleman looked at Davo for a moment then walked out to the others waiting expectantly in the hallway.

‘How is he?' asked Len Thompson. ‘Can we see him?'

Sister Coleman shook her head. ‘His headaches are still very bad I'm afraid,' she replied. ‘I don't think it would be advisable at this stage.'

‘Ohh bad luck,' said Len. ‘Still, after the bashing he took what can you expect. When do you think we'll be able to see him?'

‘I'd wait at least another couple of days if I were you. Give him a chance to recuperate a bit. He's been through a lot of trauma.'

‘Yeah fair enough. Thanks sister.'

‘Will you see that he gets these?' Kathy handed Sister Coleman some fruit and magazines. The others handed her various little items also; chocolates, magazines, more fruit.

‘Yes I'll see that he gets them,' said Sister Coleman, gathering the gifts up in her arms.

They all had a last look at Davo, a couple waved, then they filed out: tut-tutting among themselves but relieved that although Davo did look a sorry sight lying there, bruised and bandaged and with tubes and drips sticking out of him everywhere, at least he was alright.

After they left Sister Coleman took Davo's gifts and placed them on the small table in the doctor's room: she'd give them to Davo as soon as they moved him to a public ward. As she was placing them there Dr Carmody walked in after finishing a late lunch in the hospital canteen.

‘How is everything sister? Any problems?'

‘No, everything's fine, doctor. Mr Davis had some visitors but they didn't get to see him. He's awake now.' Sister Coleman paused for a second. ‘He seems a little odd somehow. Sort of . . . withdrawn. Maybe you should go and have a talk to him.'

Dr Carmody draped a stethoscope around his neck and clicked a retractable ballpoint pen a couple of times before placing it in the top pocket of his white coat. ‘I'll go and see him now. Does he know about his friend the hairdresser?'

‘No.'

‘Mmhh.' Dr Carmody hesitated for a moment before leaving the room.

Davo was still staring up at the ceiling when Dr Carmody walked in and unclipped the chart from the end of the bed.

‘I see you're awake,' he said, moving round to the side. ‘How are the headaches now? Is the sedation holding?'

Davo looked at the doctor and nodded his head slightly without saying anything.

‘Good. We'll give you some more before you go to sleep tonight.' Dr Carmody studied Davo's chart for a few seconds. ‘Anyway. We might have some good news for you. We'll probably move you out of here tomorrow and in to a public ward.' Davo remained expressionless as Dr Carmody made a notation on his chart. ‘I suppose I may as well give you a rundown on the extent of your injuries. They're not quite as bad as you think.'

Dr Carmody explained to Davo what was wrong with him, which was pretty much as Davo had surmised. The exceptions were his nose, which was broken but not entirely smashed, the fractured metacarpals in his hands and the pain in his groin.

‘You've taken several kicks in the testicles but once the swelling goes down that should be alright. I don't think there's any nerve damage there but any sexual activities will be curtailed for a while.' He turned to the monitor next to Davo's bed. ‘The scanner shows you have some brain damage, but I think it's only slight. If it was serious you certainly wouldn't be awake now. You're going to have recurring headaches for some time but these will start to lessen in time. Your own doctor will
give you sufficient medication to handle these though. So Mr Davis,' Dr Carmody smiled lightly at Davo, ‘I know it doesn't seem like much of a consolation after what you've been through, but you are going to be alright. Just get plenty of rest over the next month or two. Of course you won't be able to work,' he added. ‘But the Department of Social Security will look after you to a certain extent there.'

The whole time Dr Carmody was speaking Davo stared at the wall not saying a word. Finally, when he did, he still didn't look at the doctor.

‘The guy I was with when this happened. He brought me here didn't he?'

Dr Carmody looked at Davo uncomfortably. ‘Your friend didn't bring you here Mr Davis. You came in an ambulance.' ‘What happened to my friend?'

‘You mean, Wayne. Wayne St Peters?'

‘That's right.'

‘Mr Davis . . . I'm afraid your friend didn't make it.'

‘What do you mean. Didn't make it?'

‘I'm sorry. But your hairdresser friend is dead. He died of a massive brain haemorrhage without regaining consciousness . . . I was hoping you somehow might have known. I'm very sorry.'

The expressionless look on Davo's face still didn't change. No remorse. No anger, tears, nothing. Not even the flicker of an eyelid. But inside the hatred intensified and surged through his body like a pile of hot glowing coals suddenly hit by a lengthy gust of wind.

‘Yeah righto,' he said quietly.

Dr Carmody looked at Davo for a second, slightly puzzled at his reaction. He was about to say something but changed his mind. Instead, he made a futile gesture with his hands and hung Davo's chart back on the end of the bed. ‘If you need a sedative ... just call the nurse.' He took another look at Davo then turned and softly left the room.

They moved Davo out of intensive care and into a public ward on Monday morning. It was a lot brighter and more roomier than the intensive care unit with six patients in there counting himself. They'd managed to find him a bed next to
another window and he also had a small black and white TV. They still had him lightly sedated although by now the pain had ceased to worry him. It was still there of course but, if anything, all it did was remind him of how he got there and fuel the flames of hatred that were burning away inside him. Apart from his brief conversation with Dr Carmody he still hadn't said anything to anyone. In fact, the only words he uttered were instructions to the nurses that if any visitors called he didn't want to see them. No phone calls. No messages. Nothing.

Colin rang up and so did Len Thompson on behalf of all the team at the butcher shop—the charge sister passed the message on, in a slightly more subtle way. She said that although Mr Davis couldn't talk to any visitors at the moment he was quite comfortable and in no danger and to please call back in a day or two.

Compared to how he was when he first came in Davo was comfortable enough alright and he certainly wasn't in any physical danger. The only danger was in Davo's mind from a certain sliver of brain damage the CAT scanner hadn't quite picked up. He could sleep alright—if he wanted to—but most of the time he just lay there brooding, staring silently into space. Even late at night or in the early hours of the morning he would still lie there brooding, staring into the darkness, thinking about what, he wasn't quite sure, but in the back of his mind the other Bob Davis was trying to formulate a plan.

He was still lying there brooding when the day nurse brought Detective Middleton and Detective Blackburn in on Tuesday morning with a portable typewriter to see if they could get a statement.

‘Mr Davis,' she said quietly, as she approached the bed with the two detectives behind her. ‘The police are here to see you. They won't be long.' As she turned and left the two detectives pulled up a couple of chairs and introduced themselves.

‘You feeling a bit better, Bob?' asked Detective Blackburn, as he unpacked the typewriter and balanced it on another chair in front of him. ‘We'll only be a few minutes,' he continued. ‘Just a bit of a brief statement then you can go back to sleep.'