Davo's Little Something (31 page)

The record shop had been playing some good tracks he hadn't heard before. An inquiry at the counter told him that Australian Crawl and the Machinations had new albums out so he decided to buy them and make another tape. Also, the Divinyls had a new single and some group called the Rockmelons, that both bounced around a bit and sounded like they'd be good to train to: so he bought them too. With the records under his arm, next stop was a sports store opposite his and Colin's old stamping ground—The Grand. He left there about ten minutes later with a new chest expander under his arm along with the records. I'll see how this goes he thought—it should make a bit of a
change from lifting weights. Instead of pumping iron, I'll be stretching springs, he chuckled to himself as he shuffled along in the light drizzle towards home.

While he was taping the records Davo tried out his chest expander. The three coils were just a little too hard first up so he removed one and tried two. That was a lot easier, though he could still feel the strain round his shoulders, especially when he held them down low in front of him according to the chart that came with them. An hour or so later he had his tape done and it was time to go down and train in the garage again.

Shit, this is a good track to skip to thought Davo, as Oz Crawl's Trouble Spot Rock twanged and howled out of the ghetto blaster. If only I could understand one word the bloke's singing it'd be even better. The rope twirled and away went Davo for another two hours of solid training in the cool soft light of the garage. He ended up doing 200 stretches with the chest expander in sets of ten at a time. After the two hundredth his shoulders seemed to be five metres wide and his hands felt like steel talons. This should prove interesting he thought. He had a light tea and was in bed by 10.30 that night. Although he was fit and jumping out of his skin through the day, early nights were now starting to become a habit and he rather enjoyed them. He would only have a late night now on a special occasion. Like going out to kill someone.

Weatherwise, Sunday was pretty much the same as Saturday; it fined up a little in the afternoon with a few stringy rays of sunshine poking through the grey cloud cover but it was still quite cool. Davo had his two customary workouts but every time he was in the flat he found he was unusually fidgety and restless and he couldn't work out why. He put a small pork and veal roast on in the afternoon and after some of that for tea settled back to watch one of the rugby league semifinals on TV. St George vs Manly.

It was a particularly brutal game with elbows, knees and punches going in from the start and the TV cameras carefully freezing all the violence and savagery in slow motion, closeups and living colour. The referee had his work cut out just keeping the game under control without worrying too much about the
rules and ended up giving nine players a stint in the sin-bin. Instead of being repulsed, the sight of all that blood and aggression turned Davo on, especially when the game went into overtime and St George squeaked home by a very bruised and battered two points. As soon as it was over Davo switched it off and made a cup of coffee. While the kettle was boiling Davo found himself pacing around the flat, more nervy and irritable than ever; for the life of him he couldn't work out why he was so agitated.

Sipping his coffee, he picked up the TV guide to see what movies were on that night—it was a pretty ordinary lot. Disgusted, he tossed the TV guide back on the coffee table and resumed pacing around the unit.

Odd thoughts and emotions were swirling round inside his head and he seemed unable to control them. On the one hand he was tired, while on the other he didn't want to go to bed. He was looking forward to an early night yet at the same time he felt like going out. Why? He couldn't understand this feeling of intense agitation inside him while all the time his mind kept flashing back to that game of football. Not much point in going out tonight though. Where would he go anyway? And what would he do? Davo's eyes moved slowly across the loungeroom in the direction of the wardrobe in his bedroom; a familiar gleam began to flicker in his eyes as he stood there scratching his chin thoughtfully. There wouldn't be any skinheads around Taylor Square tonight would there? Sunday night? I doubt it. Davo took another sip of coffee, as his eyes once again moved back in the direction of his bedroom. Then again—you never know, do you?

When Davo pulled up in almost the same parking spot in South Dowling Street at almost the same time as he had on Thursday night, the traffic was nowhere as intense. But there still seemed to be almost the same number of people around. There was a slight chill in the air as he stepped out of his car and he was glad he was wearing the long-sleeved jacket he'd bought on Friday. It was a wise choice. He'd bought it in a surf shop, black cotton with a hood and some brand of wetsuit printed on the back. In the front was one big open pocket to slip your
hands in and the gloves fitted in there almost perfectly. He felt them under his hands and gave them a pat, smiling to himself as a warm feeling of both excitement and security spread through him. What was that he'd said to himself on Saturday? I won't make it too willing. Once or twice a month at the most. Davo laughed to himself. Well it's not my bloody fault. It was that game of football on television. They shouldn't show all that violence on TV. No wonder the kids are as wild as what they are today.

Before long Davo had meandered along Oxford Street, through the myriad sleazoids, dropouts, punks and others swarming along the footpath, as far as Taylor Square. He paused there for a moment then skipped across the busy intersection, pretty smartly this time not wishing to get caught in the middle and gobbed on again. He continued through the crowd as far as Crown Street stopping at the old barrow on the corner for a quick glance to his left in the direction of the lane where he'd killed the two skins on Thursday night. Standing there he couldn't help but smile at the recollection of it, but unlike what they say about the criminal always returning to the scene of the crime, Davo had absolutely no intention of returning to that dark smelly little laneway tonight. He was still chuckling to himself as he sped across Crown Street almost knocking over some vacant looking girl with spiky blonde hair wearing a tartan mini-skirt and torn black stockings, standing on the opposite corner. She muttered something under her breath at his apology and stuck her fingers up at him as he kept walking down Oxford Street.

He stopped outside the Brighton Hotel on the corner of Riley Street to watch a team of rancorous looking punks arguing over either money or something in a brown paper bag. He wondered where all the skinheads were when a glance across Oxford Street suddenly set the hairs on his neck bristling. Hanging around a phone box were what looked like three likely customers. Two were sitting on a white metal railing above a small set of steps waiting for the third who was inside the chipped red phone box using the phone. As he watched the two on the railing, banging the heels of their boots against the metal bars, Davo couldn't help but think all these skinheads
came out of one big mould; they were identical to the ones on Thursday night. Same hair, same boots, the only difference was that these were wearing studded Levi jackets, probably because of the cool night breeze.

Davo leant against the shadows of the hotel wall and watched them intently. Three of them eh. That shouldn't be too much of a problem, just get the first one out of the road and the other two would be easy. The only difficulty was to get them somewhere alone, make sure he killed all three and make sure there were no witnesses. He stood there in the shadows pensively picking at his chin.

Before long the one in the phone booth came out and said something to one of his mates sitting on the railing. The listener was drinking a large bottle of beer wrapped in newspaper which he quickly drained and dropped in the gutter; Davo could distinctly hear the muffled sound of glass breaking as it hit the concrete. He then said something to the others, jumped off the railing and they all ran down a short flight of steps to their right.

Immediately there was a break in the traffic, Davo zoomed across Oxford Street, pausing at the railing to see them disappear down the sloping part of Riley Street where it was closed off to the main road. He went down the steps in two bounds and ran into Riley Street only to find the skinheads had vanished from sight. Puzzled, Davo quickly crossed to the opposite side of the street wondering where they could have gone; he stood there for a few moments peering around the deserted street but couldn't see them anywhere. Shit! he cursed to himself, bitterly disappointed. I've lost them. Just as he was about to turn away, the streetlights reflected on a small stream of water flowing steadily over the footpath from an alley across the street. A sinister excited smile appeared on his face. Quickly and stealthily he moved down a few paces to where, silhouetted in a small lane running off Riley Street, he could see the figures of the three skinheads all nonchalantly pissing up against the wall. Well now isn't that convenient he grinned, slipping his hands into the gloves and tightening the straps as he quietly crossed the street.

In the narrow darkened alley, the skins were oblivious of
Davo walking up behind them as they finished pissing up against the wall—they were enjoying themselves immensely, laughing and letting great streams of urine splash all over the place. Somehow Davo had to lure them further up the lane then block off their escape—he needed an idea and quickly. Then, like a weird bolt out of the blue a preposterous idea suddenly occurred to him.

‘Ooh,' he said, lowering his voice and deliberately effecting an effeminate lisp as he sauntered past the three skins. ‘This looks like a nice little place to do a wee wee. I might just have a tiny pee myself.' He swished up the end of the lane and stood there pretending to fiddle with his fly.

The skinheads couldn't believe their ears or their luck as like one they immediately tuned in to the lisp in Davo's voice. Three of them, alone in a darkened alley with one poofter: no one around and no way out. It was like a gift from the Gods.

‘Did you hear what I just heard?' said the tall skin on the left zipping up his fly.

‘Did I what,' said the one next to him. The third one didn't say anything but just grinned at his two mates sadistically.

‘Come on,' said the first one.

Like three hungry barracudas they fanned out slightly and advanced towards Davo still standing in the shadows with his hands on his fly.

‘So you want to have a little pee do you?' sneered the tallest skinhead as they got closer.

‘That's right,' replied Davo innocently.

‘Well we don't want fuckin' poofters around here.'

‘Really,' replied Davo as a huge surge of adrenalin pumped into his stomach and burst through his bloodstream like a grenade exploding. ‘Well isn't that just a big fat fuckin' shame.'

Davo bent slightly at the knees, pivoted at the waist and like a cobra striking drove an awesome short right straight into the first skinhead's face. The skin tried to scream as he threw his hands over his face but all that came from his mangled lips and shattered jaw was a grunt of pain as the force of Davo's punch flung him backwards against the wall. Almost in the same movement Davo spun around and smashed an unbelievable left hook into the second one's temple which
slammed his brains violently from one side of his skull to the other and cannoned him into the opposite wall where he flopped down on his backside, head slumped forward almost dead, a huge open gash running from his ear to his eye. The third one stood there slack-jawed, almost paralysed with shock and fear; this wasn't in the script at all. They were supposed to get the gay in the black cotton top, beat him then give him an unmerciful kicking with their boots. Instead, before they'd even managed to get a punch in, he'd turned on them like some hammer-fisted Frankenstein monster. He scarcely had time to blink before Davo drove the ball of his foot straight up into his solar plexus like a ramrod. He gave a gasp of gargled agony and slumped forward straight into one of Davo's right uppercuts that split his chin open like a carrot and broke his neck. He crashed sideways down onto the dirty asphalt: he was dead.

Still all keyed up, Davo stood there, fists out in front of him, hardly believing his eyes. The battle had been won almost in an instant. In about five seconds the three skinheads were on the ground and out, one was already dead—and no one had seen a thing. But now it was time to finish the job and make sure he left no witnesses.

He gripped the first skinhead by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his jeans, hauled him to waist level and ran him across the narrow alley ramming his forehead into the wall. It burst open with a sickening crunch leaving a grisly red patch across the stained dirty brickwork. Davo could tell by the force that vibrated up his arms that it had all broken open but he smashed it into the wall twice more to be certain then flung the body to the ground. The second one was still slumped against the wall with his head forward, Davo just bent over slightly and slashed the side of his right hand into his throat. The metal reinforced glove completely crushed both the skin's Adam's apple and larynx; his unconscious body gave a couple of rasping gurgles as he sat there and slowly choked to death. By the way the remaining skin was lying where he fell, his head twisted round behind him at a sickeningly awkward angle, eyes half open and not seeing anything, Davo was sure he was dead but he had to make certain. He picked him up by the front
of his T-shirt and noticed it had Iron Maiden written across the front. Davo paused for a second and smiled.

‘So you like a bit of heavy metal do you matey,' he sneered cruelly. ‘Well try a bit of this.'

He drew back his right fist and slammed the steel glove into the skin's temple, once, twice, paused and then gave him another one. The flesh ruptured, blood seeped into the skin's ears and gushed out of his nose but his half open eyes didn't even blink.