Story by Big M.

It was mid-afternoon as Merv sat in his old rocking chair in the midst of the cellar. Merv had that sense of weariness that goes with being a man satisfied with his lot in life. He often slipped down to the cellar to ‘catch up on some paperwork’, which, invariable, resulted in him being woken by his own snoring. The cellar was a comforting place, redolent with scent of roasting barley, from Granny’s oast, as well as that rich, beery smell, that only a publican can love.

It had been quite a productive day, Merv reflected. An early morning boxing session saw Foodge give Wes a clip around the ear, for the first time, plus Merv felt like he was back to his young body building days as he’d dead-lifted close to half a metric ton. Mid-morning he’d driven Janet and the twins to the station to catch the train to her hometown of Lithgow to visit her parents. Hopefully not for too long, as a stay in Lithgow placed one at great risk for exogenous depression.

There’d been a roaring trade at lunchtime. Algernon had brought his mycologist mates from the uni for a beer tasting, which was only terminated by Merv and Wes carrying them out to the Vice-Chancellor’s car, to be driven to the university for some ‘special’ tests.

Merv put his head back, and was just listening to his own regular breathing when he heard a voice from above. “Get outta here you drug pushin’ bastards!” Merv leapt to his feet and bound up the steps three at a time. He rounded the corner to the Gentlemen’s bar to be greeted by the sight of Wes pushing two fat, tattooed, baldy headed bikers through the front door, whilst Hedgie, former NSW Aikido champion, had a third bikie in a painful wrist lock, constantly yelling. “Bloody steroid pushin’ bloody bastards.”

Merv pushed in hard behind Wes to help eject the pair of miscreants, then quickly locked the door before turning to Hedgie. “Mate, you better let go before you end up on assault charges.”

“Assault charges!! Fecking assault charges! I’ll give this baldy headed grub some assault charges.” Hedgie almost effortlessly leaned further into the wristlock, which had the appropriate effect. The bikie screamed, then started whimpering, and then bent at the knees to take the pressure off his wrist. Wes unbolted the door as Hedgie tossed the hapless fellow through the opening whilst taking a loud slap at the bald head.

The three men were trying to take stock of the situation when Merv heard a mechanical ‘click’ from somewhere upstairs. It took him some seconds to register the sound, and then turned, yelling. “No, Granny!!” He lunged up the stairs behind the Gentlemen’s Bar, dashed passed the Nathan Rees Memorial Ballroom, rounded the corner at the Kristina Keneally Memorial Powder room, then out onto the shaky balcony above the Ladies’ Bar.

“Noooo!”

“Bam!”

“Bam!” Granny expertly cracked open the breech of the weapon, ejecting the cartridges onto the floor, and reloading, all the while keeping her eyes on the retreating bikies.

Merv pulled the Purdy from Granny’s gnarled fingers, and unloaded the weapon before stowing it under the ancient park bench that had sat on the balcony for ever (actually, it was only since 1957 when the Angles got onto some ‘special stuff’ purchased from a bloke in a dunny at a pub, all hallucinated, moved a builders scaffold to the front of the Pig’s and placed the park bench in it’s current location). Granny slumped onto the bench, shoulders hunched, bony elbows balanced on knobbly knees, her drawn, wrinkled brown face covered by those long, gnarled fingers.  Merv flopped down next to her.  “Granny, it’s just passed three, there’ll be kiddies comin’ outta school!”

Granny’s bony shoulders started heaving up and down a long time before the sobs came. Then there were tears. Merv was bewildered, as he’d never seen Granny cry, even after a thump to the nose during some over enthusiastic sparing, which left her beak blue, and then green. He put his arm around her. “What’s wrong, love?”

Granny just shook her head like a petulant child, pausing to wipe her eyes on the back of her forearm.

Merv was stumped now, I mean, crying sheilas and all that. The bright sunny balcony suddenly darkened, as if in the umbra of some strange moon. Merv looked up to find Young Wes standing over him, who motioned for Merv to step away. Merv wanted to shake his head and stay, but everything inside him wanted him to get away from crying Granny, or, more to the point, for her to stop crying. Merv nodded weakly. “I’ll…err…go an check the Gentlemen’s Bar.” He quickly extricated himself from the park bench, stooping to pick up the shotty.

Merv had sowed the gun in a locked cupboard upstairs, then went to the bar, pouring himself a double ‘Southern Seas Cognac’ (an oxymoron, surely) and downing it in one gulp, the acrid fluid burning his palate and oesophagus, then giving his stomach an accurate impression of an ulcer. He looked around at the Bowling Ladies, all of them looking a little pale. “Sorry ladies, a sherry or brandy, just to bring some colour back to the gills?”

“Don’t worry about our gills, thanks Merv!” Retorted Beryl. “What about Granny, we can hear the sobs from the Ladies’ Lounge, and you’re down here drinking?”

“Err…ah…um.” Merv rubbed his huge paw over his bristly scalp. “Wes is up there, you know, he’s the one who’s usta workin’ with sheilas.”

Beryl was about to launch into a tirade about Merv’s responsibilities, and what a bastard he was, and leaving a young lad like that to do a grown man’s work, when Granny and Wes appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a box of cartridges in Wes’ hand.  All of the Bowling Ladies rushed to her like a flock of seagulls to a discarded chip (and, yes, like seagulls, some of them only have one leg!). They gathered around her, and then magically whisked her into the Lounge, with Beryl at the rear, still glaring at Merv.  The tension was broken by the arrival of both Detective Inspector O’Hoo, and his partner in crime, I mean, detection, Foodge.  Both men were visibly thinner, tanned and more sprightly. “‘Allo Gents, pints all round?” Stammered Merv nervously. “Business or social call, Detective Inspector?”

“O’Hoo tilted his trilby back, rubbing his face with a handkerchief. “ A mixture of both, really, there’s rumours round the station of shots fired in the main drag. My response was that no one would be silly enough to own a firearm, much less discharge one, round these parts, so I thought I’d come ‘n’ ‘ave a gander.” O’Hoo took a long pull from his glass.

“Foodge nodded sagely.” There were some big Charlies in the street, I reckon a couple backfired. Bad fuel, you know?” To no one in particular.

The Bowling Ladies had gone quiet. Beryl piped up. Granny, can you just write in the minutes that the meeting ended…” She paused to look at her watch. “Three twenty seven?” Granny nodded as she scribbled on a sheaf of papers.

O’Hoo looked around. “I reckon you’re right, Foodge, backfirin’ motorbikes.” He was disturbed by the sound of The Muppet’s theme tune. He fished a swish looking mobile out of his pocket. “O’Hoo…yes…yes…bikies…yes…no…OK…thanks.”  Then hung up. “Five blokes on big Charlies were arrested by uniformed pleece, for speeding. Their bikes were searched and all were carrying illegal hannabolic steroids, speed, coke and great wads of cash. They were blabbing on about being beaten up and shot at, silly buggers!” He looked at the bottom of the empty glass. “Anymore beer in that tap?