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 withdrawn.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 s
tatement.
‘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.’
‘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 hel
p 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.’
Davo's Little Something Page 11