The pub door squeaked open. I turned to see a brick wall of a man wearing a suit. He said his name was Hamish. As we sat at one of the tables, I felt suddenly aware of the stale beer smell emanating from the old carpet.
‘Now let me cut to the chase,’ said Hamish.
I stared up at him. Sitting as tall as I could, my eye level lined up with his chest.
‘I’d like your pub to take part in my giveaway. I’ll give you a box of beanies, and anytime someone orders a pint of Carlton Dry and says the codeword, you give them a beanie. There’s kickbacks for you of course, $500 to start with, and once this box is finished we’ll talk again.’
My mouth salivated at the mention of cash. Sure, 500 bucks wasn’t going to solve all my problems, but it would go a way towards taking the pressure off. Since I’d bought the pub and moved out here I seemed to always be bleeding money. But I didn’t want to give up yet. Maybe I’d be able to make it work. Maybe I’d start to turn a profit with this place. Maybe.
‘Sounds good mate, I’m in,’ I said. I reached out and shook Hamish’s hand. It felt like a muscular baseball glove, and I tried not to wince as he squeezed.
That evening, after the groups of families had finished dinner and gone home, the pub filled with its usual Friday night swill of patrons. My mate Danno sat at the bar.
‘Did I see The Hammer drop in this arvo?’ he said.
‘You spying on me? It was a guy called Hamish.’
Danno laughed. ‘No one’s called him that since primary school.’
A guy in high vis raised a finger at me from across the bar. I shot over to serve him. As I was pouring his beer, he leaned in and whispered the codeword.
‘Oh right, beanie, here you go mate.’
I handed him the beanie in plastic wrap. He stashed it inside the front of his jacket while checking over his shoulder.
After herding the last drunks out the door, I felt coolness filling the room where bodies had been. I remembered the beanies and grabbed one to keep myself warm. As I opened the plastic an acrid, chemical smell crept up my nose. At first I thought the beanie was stuffed with packaging, but when I held the packet in my hand I realised what was going on. A shiver ran through my body as I looked at the box, still mostly full of beanies. I didn’t know what to do, so I phoned Danno.
‘Hey mate.’ He sounded drunk, but luckily still awake.
‘I’m in some serious shit.’
‘Lemme guess, The Hammer?’ he said, sounding suddenly sober.
I gulped. ‘So I either tell the cops now and get killed by bikies, or keep my mouth shut and deal meth from the pub?’ I said, my heart pounding and hands sweating.
‘Sounds about right.’
‘Fucking hell.’
I ended the call and ran some calculations in my mind. I counted up my friends here (one, Danno), approximated my debts (sizeable), and thought about the potential insurance payout (substantial). It was then that I made the decision to leave. I took a deep breath and reached for the lighter.
Within minutes the whole building was ablaze. I was standing in the street wearing my new beanie, shivering, and wondering whether Melbourne would welcome me back. The flames danced.
Caitlin Mahony is an emerging writer living in Bacchus Marsh, Victoria, Australia. She has had success in several short story competitions, including winning the Port Stephens Literature Award 2023, being highly commended in the Peter Cowan Short Story Competition 2023, and appearing in the AWC Furious Fiction Showcase for October 2023. Her fiction work has appeared in Confidence 2 and The Suburban Review Hills Hoist Volume 3. Caitlin’s work draws inspiration from nature, humanity, and the realities of living with chronic illness.