Davo's Little Something (46 page)

‘Listen, what are you on about, pal?' he said quickly. ‘Do you want something? If you don't, well fuck off.'

He shifted his gaze away to Davo's right to see if his two cohorts were around. They weren't so he quickly shifted his gaze back to Davo. By now though the weird smile on Davo's face and the veiled menace in his voice began to ring a few warning bells.

‘Listen you prick,' he snarled. ‘I don't know who you are or what you want but I've got a couple of mates just round the corner and if you don't piss off, I'll get them up here and we'll kick you from one end of this lane to the other. So why don't you fuck off while you're still in one piece.'

Davo's smile turned into a grin then an ominous chuckle. ‘I just saw your two mates, Frank. And I wouldn't count on them if I were you.'

The defiant look on Frank's face faded as quickly as Davo's chuckle.

‘Frank,' continued Davo, his voice now starting to drip with hatred. ‘You remember a Santana concert down at the Entertainment Centre some time ago. It was a Thursday night. You and some of your hero mates gave two blokes a kicking. You thought they were poofters.'

Frank tightened his grip on the Phillips head screwdriver. He kept staring at Davo but his eyes were darting from side to side as he tried to remember what Davo was talking about.

‘Yeah, you remember now, Frank. It was in the papers. You
killed one of them, a little hairdresser named St Peters. And you put the other one in hospital.' Davo was starting to gulp in air now and his voice was beginning to crack slightly as all the emotions of the past months began to surface. ‘Well, I'm the one you put in hospital. The butcher from Bondi.' Frank ran his tongue over his lips as once more his eyes darted down towards the end of the lane. ‘And you know who I am now, Frank? You greasy gutless little piece of shit. Yeah, you read the papers don't you, Frank. Well I'm the cunt that goes around killing everybody. The one they call the Midnight Rambler. That's right, Frank. You've just met him. Face to face. And there's no one else around.'

At that Frank screamed out at the top of his voice. ‘Ray! Donnie! Up here, quick!' But as he called out his voice was almost silenced completely by another deafening crescendo from the band still rehearsing above them.

‘It's too late for your mates, Frank. I just broke both their necks. They're both dead.'

The look of fear intensified on Frank's face then just as quickly it changed to anger and hatred: like a rat when it's been cornered. ‘Well I don't give a fuck who you are, you cunt. But you ain't gonna kill me.'

The redhaired skinhead bounced off the car he'd been breaking into and made a savage lunge at Davo's stomach with the sharp-pointed screwdriver. Easily, almost too easily, Davo stepped to one side and punched the weapon out of his hand sending it spinning off into the darkness. In almost the same quick movement he gave Frank a short sharp but not very hard backhand that spun him back against the car, then stood in front of him with his hands down by his sides. Frank threw a desperate left and right that caught Davo flush on the face. But he might as well have been punching granite; Davo didn't even blink. Frank threw another right and was about to kick Davo in the balls with his heavy boots but Davo stepped inside and sank a short right up into Frank's solar plexus that made him gasp and slump up against the door of the Cortina clutching at his stomach. In an instant, Davo had his hand around Frank's throat and had his head held up level with the roof of the car.

‘No, Frank,' he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘I'm not going to kill you.' Davo's wild-eyed face was barely an inch away from Frank's, whose tongue was lolling out over his lips as he tried to force some air back into his lungs. ‘No, I've got something better lined up for you than that.' He gave Frank's throat an extra squeeze making him gag. ‘You're gonna love it.'

Davo punched him in the stomach again then spun him around and forced his face up against the window of the car with his left hand. With the same wild eyed look on his face he ran his hand up Frank's spine till he found what he was looking for. The bony lump at the base of the neck just above the shoulders: the C7. Still jamming Frank's face firmly against the window Davo drew back his right fist then smashed it straight into the skinhead's clavicular region, snapping his spine below the neck. Frank gave a gasp of shock and pain and slumped to the roadway at Davo's feet, a quadriplegic.

Davo stood over him for a moment then seized him roughly under the armpits and sat him back against the car. The skinhead's face was a mask of agony, horror and disbelief at the nightmare that was happening to him; and the terror of being conscious and knowing he was absolutely helpless now to defend himself.

‘Yeah, Frank,' said Davo, crouching down in front of him. ‘Now you're a cripple. You're going to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair.' Davo was smiling and his voice was almost friendly the way he spoke. ‘But, Frank,' Davo's voice trailed off into menace once more. ‘Like they say on the TV—And that's not all.'

Davo opened and closed his hands a few times in front of Frank's trembling face then jammed his thumbs into his eyes gouging the eyeballs out of the sockets. Frank howled like some poor stricken animal but the howl was lost in the sound of the band still rehearsing above them. Davo ripped the strands of membrane away and flung Frank's eyes down the street. He looked at the sickening gore-smeared mess of what was left of Frank's face but still Davo's hate-maddened mind showed no mercy. If anything it got worse.

He reached into the front pocket of his jacket and got out
his set of car keys with a small pocket knife attached. It was a bit of a trick getting the blade open with the gloves on but he managed it. Frank was sobbing pitifully as Davo forced his mouth open, plunged his fingers inside and pulled his tongue out. It too was a bit tricky to get hold of being wet and covered in blood but Davo's madness made sure he managed this as well. When he got it out as far as he could he started hacking into it with the pen-knife. Frank sobbed and tried to scream but all that came out were indescribable horrible blubbering sounds as he gagged and coughed blood all over Davo. Finally Davo had it off. He looked at the grisly object in his gloved hand for a moment then flung it down the street where it landed in a stormwater drain.

Still crouched in front of him Davo folded the knife and put it back in his pocket. Frank's head was slumped forward and blood was bubbling out of his mouth all over his oncewhite Joy Division T-shirt. The helpless skinhead's face was now only a hideous mattery blood-spattered mask just visible in the surrounding shadows and half light of the street lamp. But still Davo refused to show any mercy. All he could see in his crazed mind was Wayne getting kicked to death and those same boots just next to him crashing into his face.

‘Well, Frank,' he said, with an eerie gentleness after the terrible thing he'd just done to him. ‘Now you're blind, dumb and a cripple. But there's still one thing left.'

Frank looked dead but he was still breathing alright. He gave a cough and a torrent of blood sprayed down the front of his already saturated T-shirt and across his jeans.

‘Frank. You can hear me can't you?' Davo gave Frank a slap across the chin. ‘Yeah you can hear me alright. Well, Frank, these are the last words you're ever going to hear. When you're in your wheelchair or in hospital, think of Wayne St Peters and Bob Davis. Think of us. And think of any Helen Keller jokes you might have heard over the years. See you later, Frank.'

With that, Davo's final hellish act was to thump his open hands over Frank's ears bursting both eardrums. Then he stood up, took one last look at the pitiful figure at his feet and walked away wiping his face with a handkerchief. Above him the band
was still rehearsing with a drum solo seeming to blend in perfectly with the rattle of a passing train.

Davo was a seething cauldron of emotions as he left the scene of his latest, and undoubtedly most ghastly crime. He'd had his revenge in full. More than in full. The retribution he'd extracted from Frank was almost too obscene to contemplate. But instead of feeling some kind of revelation, with the crippling of Frank and the deaths of two members of the gang and the knowledge that the whole vile episode was finally over, he didn't seem to feel all that different. A definite burden had been lifted from his shoulders and he'd got his satisfaction—but was it all over? Would he be able to stop now? He didn't know for sure. Deep in thought he walked swiftly up Elizabeth Street and it wasn't long before he was sitting behind the wheel of his car staring at himself in the rear-vision mirror.

The sadistic almost inhuman face staring back at him seemed like that of a complete stranger. Was that the same person who less than a year ago was working happily in a butcher shop in Bondi Junction and who had hardly ever had an argument let alone a fight in his life? At one time even the thought of what he'd just done to that skinhead would have been enough to make him throw up. Now he not only accepted it: he relished it. Even laughed about it. He started the engine and found he was laughing at himself in the mirror. Cackling hysterically. He held his hands out in front of him and noticed he still hadn't taken the gloves off. He turned his hands over and could still see Frank's tongue and eyes sitting there. This made him laugh even louder. I don't imagine there'll be much chance of Frank going out and giving anyone a kicking for a while. What about when the cops try and get a statement out of him. I wonder what Blackburn and Middleton will use. Mental telepathy? Morse code? Davo roared with laughter. Maybe they'll beam Mr Spock down and get him to use the Vulcan mind probe. He made a mental note to ring the police and tell them where to find Frank before he died from loss of blood. Still roaring with laughter he drove off, taking a left into Pitt as planned.

He stopped at a phone box in Surry Hills and made the call, saying he was just a citizen walking past and he'd seen
the bodies. They looked like victims of the Midnight Rambler. Also they should get an ambulance there in a hurry as one of them was still alive. No. He didn't wish to leave his name and address. Davo was laughing like a drain when he got back in the car. He could just see the looks on the faces of the squads of detectives when they swarmed round there thinking they were finally going to get a positive identification of the elusive Midnight Rambler. And there was Frank. It would have to go down as the best prank ever pulled in Australian crime history.

He cut up Albion Street, turned right into South Dowling, then left at the Captain Cook Hotel and up Moore Park Road past the showground. He was still laughing to himself, wondering vaguely what the future had in store for him when the headlights picked up two figures on his left walking towards the Olympic Hotel. A skinhead in boots and braces and his punk moll of a girlfriend with her torn clothes and spiked hair. The skinhead seemed to look at his car as he approached making the evil in Davo's mind whirl into gear again. Hello he thought. Two little scumbags wandering around looking for a bit of trouble. Should I or shouldn't I?

Davo slowed the car down as he went past them. This would be a good time to test himself. Kill these two and see if it did anything for him. If it didn't he's over it. If it did? Well too bad. It'll just have to be business as usual.

The callous, indifferent way Davo regarded taking two people's lives was an indication of how far his mind had now gone. Kill two young people and see how it felt. Regarding murdering someone as no more than trying out a bottle of wine or listening to a couple of new records. Sample them and if you don't like them discard them when you're finished. There's always plenty more where they came from.

He slowed down about 500 metres in front of the two punks, backed into a parking spot and got out of the car. There were no people and hardly any cars around. He found a dark secluded spot not far from his car, in front of a small block of flats behind some trees, and stood there waiting for his victims. He didn't have to worry about changing into his gloves; they were still on his hands and still damp with Frank's blood.

Sandra Lessing was fairly drunk but Jimmy was roaring. The empty bottle of Bacardi left at the party along with the empty wine cask was proof of that. The party itself had been a ripper. Good music, good food and good people. Unfortunately though, when the party finished they couldn't get a lift back towards Bronte as most of the other people there had decided to get drunk and leave their cars at home too; and those left at the end all lived in the opposite direction. Someone had buggered up the phone and they couldn't ring for a cab so Jimmy and his sister decided to walk until they found one. This was easier said than done because for some unknown reason there seemed to be hardly any cabs around. But it was a lovely mild night so they thought they'd keep walking up past the showground and clear their heads a bit. By the time they made it to the Olympic Hotel Sandra's head was clear but her feet were killing her.

‘Oh these bloody stupid boots,' she complained, as they plodded along. ‘Why did I ever buy the silly bloody things. Why didn't I go to the party as a red Indian. I'd be wearing moccasins.' ‘I've got a pair of boots on and you don't see me complaining,' slurred Jimmy with a lopsided grin.

‘Oh you're that drunk you dill, you wouldn't know if you had shoes on or not.'

Jimmy blew his sister a raspberry and they continued on in silence.

Davo waited silently in the shadows, his muscles twitching, hardly breathing as he squeezed his hands open and closed inside the deadly gloves; his two victims still trudging slowly towards him, barely thirty metres away. Shit, this is going to be an easy one he thought. One guy and one chick: and not a bloody soul around. A malevolent grin began to spread across his face. Will I just take them out with a couple of punches and throat chops or will I pulverise them? He thought on it for a moment as they approached him. No, I'll pulverise them. Make it harder for the cops to identify the bodies. Besides. It'll make a nice contrast with those other two because I only broke their necks. The next thing they were in front of him.