Davo's Little Something (20 page)

After all the running and skipping, walking was a breeze, enjoyable even, even the steep climb up Military Road; and as he strode briskly along it gave him a chance to think about things. Coming back along the beach front at Bondi though he slowed down. Not out of tiredness but he remembered he was supposed to be a cripple and it wouldn't look too convincing for a man close to being in a wheelchair to be seen striding along at a rate of knots. He took his time going up Bondi Road stopping to get a whole Scotch fillet at a butcher shop
near the Post Office and a few other things from a supermarket nearby.

Back home he sat around reading the martial arts books over a mug of coffee for an hour or so. By this time his gym gear was dry enough so he got changed and went back down to the garage; not to do any skipping but to lift a few weights and practise some more punches on the bag. He had the music up full bore while he did his weightlifting but turned it down a bit while he hit the bag so he could concentrate fully on what he was doing. He didn't throw the punches hard but focused his attention more on getting the technique and speed together. By the end of another two-hour session Davo had it together alright and the punches were landing crisp and fast every time. He was holding back considerably but already he could feel the weights had increased the strength in his arms and shoulders and he knew the power was there if he wanted it. After two tapes had run through he finished off with another sixty situps, which hurt like hell the second time, then locked the garage and went upstairs for a shower.

After cooking a piece of the Scotch fillet with some vegetables for tea, he went into the lounge and, instead of switching on the TV, made another sixty-minute tape which he numbered and put in the kitchen ready for tomorrow. By then Davo could hardly keep his eyes open he was that tired but it was a day well-spent and he was more than pleased with himself. He made a small mug of Ovaltine, listened to the news in the kitchen for a few minutes then went to bed. By nine o'clock Davo was dead to the world.

The next morning Davo was up at six and in the garage before seven. After nine hours of solid undisturbed sleep he felt sensational, chafing at the bit and ready to go. There was still a little soreness in his shoulders but nothing to worry about; and the throbbing behind his temples still persisted but although it annoyed him and made him wonder why it still wouldn't go away, even after all that sleep, it was there and that was all there was to it. He dropped the tape he'd made the previous night into the cassette. Cold Chisel's The Rising Sun started up, the skipping rope twirled and away went Davo again, but
with more determination and less mistakes than the previous morning. The same with the weights. He slipped straight in to the routines, sitting there pumping away, sweat dripping off him, pursing his lips as he strained and his muscles gradually started to harden and thicken with bulging veins. The same with the bag work. Every punch was straight from the shoulder and right on target and when he'd let a couple of good ones go the heavy bag would rock violently, almost jolting itself off the meat hooks supporting it. By Wednesday he was starting to throw left hooks and uppercuts and rips to the body. Davo found it a little hard to believe that he could pick something up so quickly but he didn't realise what determination mixed with hatred, bitterness and revenge can do to a man. Even his headaches seemed to be easing slightly.

He spent the whole of that week right up to Sunday doing the same thing. Training in the garage morning and afternoon, long walks at lunch time and plenty of good food and early nights. The weather hadn't been the best so he spent the weekend inside watching the football or old movies on TV. Sometimes he'd throw a video on but mostly he'd muck around with his records making different tapes to train to; the phone rang several times but he didn't bother to answer it. The only variation to this routine was earlier in the week on Thursday when he'd decided he'd better pay Dr Connely a visit and tell him how sick he was.

‘Well how are you feeling Bob?' said the smiling but concerned doctor, as Davo eased himself gingerly into the chair across from the doctor's desk and took his sunglasses off, screwing his face up at the light as if it was almost blinding him. ‘The colour's coming back into your face.' Joe paused for a second and stroked his chin. ‘You look like you've lost a bit more weight.'

Beneath Davo's tracksuit top Joe couldn't quite see where the fat was disappearing and what he thought was slight emaciation was in fact lean hard muscle.

‘I haven't been eating much lately,' replied Davo, with a disconsolate shrug of his shoulders. ‘I just . . . I dunno. I've just lost my appetite lately, that's all.'

Dr Connely shook his head as his smile faded. ‘Mate that's
no good, you've got to eat. If you're going to recuperate from this you're going to have to keep your strength up. If you feel like you can't get a big meal down make yourself plenty of good strong soup, that's as good as anything. I'll give you a prescription for a good vitamin supplement too.'

‘I'm not actually starving myself,' said Davo. ‘I'm just not eating as much as I used to. It's these dizzy spells. They turn me off my food.'

‘Dizzy spells?'

‘Yeah. Sometimes I'll be standing there, the next thing everything starts spinning and I feel like I'm gonna fall over. I get sort of—sick in the stomach too.'

Dr Connely got up from behind his desk looking more concerned than ever. He walked round to Davo and flashed a small, thin torch into his eyes and studied them carefully for a few moments. With a slight grunt of satisfaction he put the torch back in the top pocket of his sports coat then ran his stethoscope across Davo's back and heart, finally taking hold of his wrist while he stood there checking his watch. After a minute or so he let go and sat back down behind his desk shaking his head slightly. ‘Nothing wrong with your heart—it's as steady as a rock. I'd swap with you any day. And I can't see anything wrong with your eyes. If anything they're as clear as a bell.'

Davo looked mournfully across at Dr Connely sitting there studying him with his hands laced across his stomach, and shrugged his shoulders. He wondered how long he could keep up this subterfuge.

Dr Connely rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘I might get that doctor at St Vincent's to send me those X-rays of your head, just in case we missed something. I might even send you in for another CAT scan.'

‘I don't get dizzy all the time,' said Davo, a little quickly. ‘Only now and again. Do you think I might be getting too much rest. I can walk around a bit you know.'

‘I suppose a little exercise wouldn't hurt you that much.' Dr Connely still sounded worried. Davo looked and sounded alright, he just hoped there wasn't something still seriously wrong inside his head. ‘Waverley Oval's just across from your
place, go for a bit of a walk there now and again. But if you start to get dizzy or tired sit down straight away. I want you to take it very easy. But a bit of a walk in the sun won't hurt you.'

‘Alright. I'll give it a go and see what happens.'

‘Just don't overdo it. And keep trying to eat something. Chicken soup's good.' Dr Connely smiled. ‘Sometimes old grandma's cures are as good as the new drugs they bring out. The walking could improve your appetite too.'

They sat there chatting for a few more minutes while Joe made Davo a prescription for some more digesics, a vitamin supplement and an iron tonic. Then he touched a button on his phone, his wife came in and had a few words with Davo and they both saw him to the door.

‘How is he?' asked Gina quietly from behind the front counter and out of earshot of the other patients as they watched Davo through the window, limping off slowly down the street, allegedly to catch a taxi.

Joe shook his head. ‘It's a funny one. He looks and sounds as healthy as an ox, yet he's off his food and getting dizzy spells.'

‘Tch. Isn't that terrible.'

‘Yeah, poor bugger.' Dr Connely looked at Davo's file for a few seconds. ‘I might send him in for another CAT scan.' He made a note of it on the card then put it back and picked up another one from several the receptionist had spread out in a line behind the counter. ‘Mrs Kaplan,' he beamed at a very overweight, very Jewish woman in her sixties sitting there patiently waiting her turn. ‘How's the leg coming along?'

Outside Davo couldn't help but chuckle slyly to himself as he limped off down the street. There was a break in the traffic when he reached the kerb and he had to forcibly restrain himself from bounding across the wide road in about three steps. And walking up Bondi Road he almost broke into a sprint on a couple of occasions he felt so good; he was going to have to watch himself in the future.

About 6.30 the following Monday morning Davo started on the Thai kicks. These looked simple enough in the book, but
he could see there was some sort of a knack to this too. After his usual thirty-minute skip he completed his weightlifting routine and did another thirty minutes of normal boxing on the bag. Then, after a series of stretching exercises, he squared off to the heavy bag for what he nicknamed ‘a bit of Bangkok folk dancing'. He realised it was not going to be much use him trying to aim great sweeping kicks at anyone's head, he'd be too awkward and would only end up going on his arse. If he could just get them around the tops of their legs or ribs that should slow them up then he could finish them off with his fists. He had a final look at the book spread out on the workbench, shaped up and went into action.

The first kick he threw with his right leg was abysmal, it went all over the place and he was lucky he didn't fall straight on his backside; not to mention the sudden, jarring pain along his shin and instep. The kick with his left leg was even worse, if that was possible. He threw a few more, shook his head in disgust and went back for another look at the book. Keep the kicking leg parallel with the floor on delivery: he was kicking up at some sort of an angle. He tried again—thump. This time his instep landed on the bag twice as hard and it didn't go all over the place either. He did another five then five with his left leg; these were a bit sloppier than his right but a considerable improvement on the first pathetic effort. He did about thirty with each leg, rested for a few minutes then started again. After about thirty minutes he was gradually starting to get it all together. It wasn't all that hard really. Just keep the kicking leg parallel with the ground, angle the body slightly, pivot slightly on the ball of the other foot and ‘bang' let it go. What he was doing wasn't all that marvellous but first up it wasn't too bad really. He threw about another thirty kicks with each leg then had a rest; his shin and instep were a bit red and sore but by putting his tracksuit pants back on he'd prevented any grazing or torn skin. He dropped another tape into the ghetto blaster, took a breather while he consulted the book again and decided to try a few elbow shots.

The first one made him howl with pain. Never having done it before he didn't realise how much power he could generate with his elbow and for a second he thought he'd broken his
arm. After a minute or so he had another couple of goes but he'd taken the skin off his elbow and it hurt too much. Then a thought occurred to him. Rubbing his elbow gingerly he walked over to the old metal locker in the corner and opened it. Hanging inside was the top half of an old wetsuit he'd bought ages ago when he at one time entertained the idea of doing a bit of bodysurfing in the winter. He'd ended up using it about once. He took a knife and cut two identical sections out of the sleeves and fitted them over his elbows. Now, let's see how this goes. He threw a flurry of blows according to the book, up, down, sideways and back. Ahh yes, that was much better. The thick, neoprene rubber absorbed the shock perfectly and stopped any further skinning of his elbows; any restriction of movement was hardly noticeable.

He had another rest for a few minutes while he studied the book then got stuck into the bag again in a fairly sustained workout of punches, kicks, elbows and knees; most of the techniques were according to the book, some he made up himself, but they all seemed to work. Davo was starting to feel his confidence soar already; all he had to do now was train and practise, keep training and keep practising. He thumped away at the bag while the music pounded out in the background—Mi-Sex, LRB, Machinations—and before long he was in a lather of sweat and barely able to hold his hands up. He finished off with sixty sit-ups then sat on the bench in the silence staring at the ticking of the old alarm clock while he got his breath back; over two and a half hours had gone by. The shower he had afterwards and the stack of lamb chops and salad for lunch had never felt or tasted so good.

The second week, except for the variation in training, was a repetition of the first—training in the garage twice a day, walks at lunchtime and early nights. The two highlights of the week were another postcard from his parents who were now in Scotland on the second month of their six month world tour. Davo had given them the travelling bug when he shouted them that small trip away to Lindeman Island and his father, being a retired public servant, had a bundle of superannuation so they decided to tour the world before it was too late. He smiled wistfully to himself when he remembered the old man
saying to him just before they left that it was no good leaving all that money to an idiot like him. When it came to a smartarse remark it wasn't hard to see where Davo got his upbringing. Or as his mother used to say when he and the old man would get together and do and say stupid things ‘the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree'. The old girl was always full of those homespun philosophies he mused happily. He hoped they were having a good time in . . . where was it? He had another look at the postcard—Inverness.

The other highlight was his first cheque from the Department of Social Security and an accompanying letter saying they would pay it straight into his bank account if he preferred. One hundred and sixty dollars a fortnight. That's alright. He smiled as he looked at it—for nothing. But then why not, he thought cynically. After all, I am a bloody cripple aren't I? Then another thought occurred to him. With all this newfound determination and training, was he starting to get his sense of humour back? He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.