Davo's Little Something (15 page)

‘We called in and saw the fellow that Wayne used to live with—David,' said Detective Middleton. ‘They were both gay.'
He looked at Davo for a moment ‘You're . . . not. Are you?'

Davo closed his eyes for a second as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. He wanted to scream and start abusing the two detectives but something told him to cool it. So he answered their questions in a cold calculating sort of way; as pleasant as could be expected under the circumstances but at the same time wishing they'd both piss off and leave him be.

The two detectives were as discreet and understanding as they could be but they explained to Davo that it was now a homicide and a certain amount of questioning and investigation was involved. And where the average person might think it a bit callous them coming in and questioning Davo so soon to them it was just part of their job: routine investigation. And where the average person might see or be involved in maybe a few assaults in his lifetime the two detectives in their years on the police force had seen hundreds; and would probably see hundreds more.

There wasn't a great deal Davo could tell them. It was dark in the alley and it all happened so quickly. He gave them as good a description of the gang as he could and their number: however, for some reason he didn't mention the leader's red hair or his swastika-daubed boots. Detective Blackburn typed away constantly, stopping now and then to catch his partner's eye or to get Davo to reiterate something. Finally he wound the statement off the typewriter, read it out aloud, then handed it to Davo to sign if he wanted to. Noticing Davo's bandaged hands he told him he could sign it at a later date if he wished. Detective Middleton also mentioned there would be an inquest at the Coroner's Court in about six weeks and that he'd have to be there for that. Davo gave the statement a quick, disinterested read then signed it; anything to get them out of there and leave him on his own.

As he handed the statement back to Detective Blackburn, he paused for a moment and caught his eye. ‘Tell me this,' he said. ‘Just what are your chances of finding whoever killed Wayne—and did this to me?' Before, where Davo's voice had been mumbling a bit and not all that interested, now it was loud, clear and firm. Even the other patients around the room sat up in their beds and took notice.
Detective Middleton spoke. ‘At this stage we don't have a great deal to go on. But it's only early. Give us time.'

‘Yeah, but what are your chances?' asked Davo again, with an almost scornful laugh. It was as much a statement as a question.

‘Like Greg said,' answered Detective Middleton, ‘it's only early, but give us time. They'll make a slip somewhere—they always do. Start bragging about it in a pub. One of them might get pulled in for something else and it'll slip out. We'll get them—eventually.'

Davo looked at the two detectives for a second or two and while something inside him wanted to scream abuse at both of them as though it was their fault, he instead closed his eyes and sank his head back into the pillow.

‘I'd like to get some rest,' he said shortly.

Detective Blackburn placed Davo's statement in a small thin briefcase and packed up the typewriter. Then they both thanked him for his trouble—getting an almost imperceptible nod from Davo in return—and left.

‘Just what are our chances of finding them do you think, Greg?' asked Detective Blackburn, as they rode the rickety old lift down to the ground floor.

Detective Middleton shrugged his shoulders. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, mate. But you can bet your life whoever done it will do it again, maybe we'll pick them up then.' He shrugged his shoulders again. ‘Then all we've got to do is pin this one on them.'

Detective Blackburn nodded his head in agreement. ‘I just feel a bit sorry for that bloke up there. That's all.'

‘Yeah,' replied Detective Middleton, as the doors clumped open. ‘He didn't seem like a bad bloke did he?'

Back in the public ward Davo's blackened eyes were now open as, once again, he lay there staring sullenly into space. One of the other patients—on the pretext of going to the toilet—came over and asked him how he felt. Davo totally ignored him. Instead of feeling better the visit from the police had made him feel worse, and although he appeared calm and sedated on the outside, inside the flames of hatred burning in his body were now a raging inferno.

They buried Wayne on Thursday. There was a brief paragraph
in both the morning papers and Terry Willesee gave the funeral four seconds in a five-minute segment on gay bashings on his show that night. They interviewed three or four consumptivelooking gays walking down Oxford Street, who instead of being concerned seemed to think it was a bit of a giggle them getting their heads on TV. They interviewed about the same number of skinheads who openly admitted they went out ‘poofter bashing'—they were convinced they were the new vigilantes doing the world a favour keeping it safe from AIDS and were keen to get out and bash some more. The hatred inside Davo hit boiling point as soon as he saw the first sourfaced crewcut head on his TV, but to look at him you'd never guess it. The show flashed to a bored boozy looking, short back and sides police inspector, who said the police were doing all they could to stop the current spate of gay assaults and promised arrests and results any time now. He also hoped that this would lead to better relations between the police and members of the gay community. Then it was over to an angry looking spokesman for the Gay Counselling Service who said he was extremely sceptical about this and in the meantime the skinheads had better beware because his members were now taking Tae-Kwon-Do and karate lessons. He sounded about as threatening as an old aunty giving you a recipe for pumpkin scones. The segment finished on a po-faced Terry Willesee giving his thoughts on the matter: who immediately brightened up as he moved on to a story about a Brahman bull in the Northern Territory that could drink a Darwin stubbie in fifteen seconds.

Davo stared sourly at the TV for a few moments before finally reaching over and switching it off. He settled back on the bed and started brooding into space as before, thinking about what the police inspector had said about getting results and the gay spokesman's talk about self-defence lessons. He sniggered contemptuously to himself. What a bloody joke he thought. Neither of them know what they're going to do next. But as he lay there he realised there was a definite link-up between the two statements and the ideas swirling round in his tortured mind. Results. Self-defence. He kept thinking about it: he had plenty of time and nothing much else to do.

*

Apart from being a bit overweight and a little short of a gallop, Davo had been in reasonably good physical condition before the assault. He didn't smoke and he didn't really drink all that much and he always ate well—plenty of meat and vegetables—so it was probably all that protein and natural fibre in his body, covered by a layer of fat, that enabled him to recuperate from his injuries a little quicker than a normal person. Although he didn't train that much, work kept him fairly fit and the few pounds he lost while he was layed up probably did him a bit of good. So, apart from the headaches, soreness in his hands and tenderness around his groin, Davo wasn't feeling all that bad considering. He didn't tell Dr Connely this when he called in to see him just after lunch on Friday.

‘So, how are you feeling now, Bob?' asked Dr Connely, after they'd said their hellos and the nurse had left the ward.

Davo looked up at Dr Connely. For all the hatred in him he still couldn't really dislike Joe. He didn't feel all that much like talking to him but he needed him to help in the plan that was beginning to form in his mind. He took a deep breath and made out it was a bit of an effort to talk.

‘I feel ... a lot better than when I came to last Sunday.' He screwed up his face and ran a bandaged hand across his eyes. ‘It's just . . . these bloody headaches. I've been trying to get up and have a bit of a walk around. But . . . I keep getting dizzy.'

‘Ohh, mate, that's only understandable.' Dr Connely pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘You took a bloody horrible hammering from those bastards. You're going to be crook for a while, mate.'

‘How . . . long do you think?'

‘It could be for a couple of months, maybe more. I've spoken to the doctor looking after you, Dr Carmody, I'll tell you what he said.' Dr Connely moved the chair a little closer to the bed. ‘Your bruising is healing up fine. Your nose is going to be alright. Even those fractures in your hands are only hairline, so they'll be OK in a week or two. In fact they're going to release you either tomorrow or Sunday.'

‘Good. I'd rather be home than in here, Joe.'

‘But, mate, with those headaches. You're going to have to
take it easy for a long time and get plenty of rest.' Joe eased back in the chair and folded his arms. ‘I hate to put it as bluntly as this, Bob, but you're lucky you're alive. You know that.'

When Dr Connely said that the hatred inside Davo sent a surge of adrenalin through him but he controlled it. ‘Yeah—you're right.' Davo paused and thought for a moment. ‘How long before I'll be able to go back to work?' He knew what Dr Connely's answer would be but he wanted to make out he was keen to get back again. This would give him more time: it was all part of his plan.

‘At least three or four months. Mate you're going to need rest.'

‘That long eh?' Beauty thought Davo, but trying to sound disappointed at the same time.

‘It could even be longer. It probably will. But you'll be alright eventually.'

‘Yeah, it's just that apart from these headaches and dizzy spells I don't sort of feel all that bad.'

Dr Connely smiled and patted Davo on the thigh. ‘Mate, you're only restless from lying around—that's all. You just take it easy for a while.'

They talked for about another ten minutes or so but all the while it was like one half of Davo was lying there carrying on the conversation while another half was looking on, evaluating everything then putting it aside to be used at a later date. That other half of Davo knew it could take advantage of Dr Connely's sympathetic nature and use it to its advantage.

Eventually Dr Connely stood up to leave. He told Davo that when they let him out to come around and see him at the first opportunity: if he didn't feel up to it to ring the surgery and he'd call over. With a smile and a light pat on the shoulder Dr Connely told Davo to take it easy once more and said goodbye.

Davo watched him walk away and despite the hatred and brooding still burning inside him allowed the tiniest suggestion of a cynical smile to flicker around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Davo could see himself being sick for quite some time.

*

They released Davo just before lunchtime on Saturday.

Although it was sunny and bright when Davo stepped out of the foyer a biting nor'wester was in the air stirring up dust and whipping the steadily increasing clouds across the city. As he climbed up into the ambulance for the trip home Davo wished he was wearing more than just his hospital gown. Fortunately, the hospital had loaned him a blanket to drape over his shoulders but he could still feel the cold on his legs. He didn't say a word all the way home as he sat there holding his own clothes in a plastic bag on his lap. He just stared morosely out the window at the people in other cars or walking on the footpaths, who would stare back curiously for a few seconds as people often tend to do when they see an ambulance or a police car go past. He grunted a word or two of thanks to the driver who helped him out of the ambulance when they pulled up outside his block of units, but he declined an offer of a hand up the stairs: he grunted a quick goodbye instead. The next thing the key clicked in the door and after nine days in hospital Davo was home.

The climb up the two flights of stairs left him short of breath and a little dizzy; he closed the door with his back and leant against it for support while he got his bearings. Although by no means in the best frame of mind he still couldn't help but feel good to be home. The table-lamp in the loungeroom was still on from the night he'd left and the flat was quite stuffy, he switched the lamp off and went across to open the sliding glass doors that led onto the balcony, throwing his soiled clothes in the laundry next to the bathroom at the same time. There must have been a storm while he was in hospital as some work clothes he'd hung out to dry were wet and scattered across the balcony. He kicked them into a corner and stood there for a few moments watching a game of junior-league being played on Waverley Oval, then went inside and had an extra hot shower.

The combination of it being the first one in over a week plus the privacy of his own bathroom felt fantastic, and he was almost in a good mood when he towelled off and changed into a fleecy lined tracksuit. Just before he put his top on he checked himself in the wardrobe mirror. There was still plenty
of bruising around his ribs and his eyes were still black and bloodshot. His nose had gone down considerably, though he couldn't breathe properly through it. His balls were still quite tender but he could open and close his hands without too much discomfort, so he decided to leave the bandages off them. He'd lost a fair bit of weight but somehow it appeared to be almost for the best. His arms looked a little flabby but there was definitely some muscle definition around his stomach: the first for a long time. All in all he was a bit of a mess but in another way he didn't look all that bad; he could have been a lot worse. But it wasn't good enough to stop him scowling back at the figure in the mirror before he went out to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

While waiting for the electric kettle to boil he absently went to the fridge to get the milk. As soon as he opened the door the smell nearly knocked him across the room. The milk was off and so were half a dozen lamb chops and a pound of mince steak. Gagging and trying his best not to be sick he removed the slimy grey-green bundles, wrapped them in newspaper and dumped them in the kitchen-tidy along with the carton of green milk. A further rummage through the fridge showed a few vegetables weren't looking too healthy either so he dumped them into the bin as well. He made his coffee with powdered milk, and left the fridge door open while he drank it. The phone was on the bar type kitchen table so while he sipped his coffee he decided to make four quick, taciturn calls.