Last Day in the Dynamite Factory by Annah Faulkner

appropriate for this job.
    â€˜Maybe I’ve already slipped up,’ says Hamish, ‘and you’ve missed it.’
    Judge looks affronted. ‘Are you saying I’m stupid, or blind?’
    â€˜Oh, I know you’re not blind.’ Hamish ducks back to his office before Judge can summon a response.
    â€˜Not like some,’ says Chris. ‘How blind am
I
?’
    â€˜Dunno, Wren. Take off your glasses and we’ll see how many things you fall over.’
    â€˜I mean about Ben.’
    â€˜Oh,
him
.’ Judge snorts in disgust. ‘You’re not blind – he pulled the wool over your eyes – down to your ankles. Oh, speaking of wool, there’s a defunct wool store at Teneriffe that needs your attention. A big one.’
    â€˜Let me guess. A developer wants apartments.’
    â€˜As many as he can squeeze in.’
    Chris gazes at the plans for the bowls club; the lines and shading that will become timber and glass, the pencilled squares that will be sinks and bars and bathrooms and a dining room. Imagination taking form.
    Judge elbows him. ‘Gone to sleep standing up?’
    â€˜No.’
    Chris goes in search of Tabi. She’s squinting at the computer screen, a large bubble of green gum, as round as Fletcher, teetering on her lips.
    â€˜Tabitha.’
    She tries to gobble the muck back into her mouth but it explodes over her face and she scrapes her chin hastily with a long nail. ‘I don’t have any other bad habits, but,’ she says, offering him a wad of photos and a brief for the wool store.
    â€˜Make an appointment for me to get a haircut, would you?’ Chris says, then shakes his head. He’d meant to ask her to make an appointment with the new client.
    Tabi stares at him. ‘It’s not my job to do that. Anyway, you’ve just had a haircut; you’ll go bald. Leave it alone. It’s good hair, Mr B, for an old bloke. Thick.’
    He gazes meaningfully at a smear of green gum stuck to the brief. ‘I meant the Teneriffe developer.’
    She sighs and drops the gum into the bin.
    At the door of his office, Chris pauses and looks back. Tabi is peering at the monitor and unwrapping another stick of gum.

    It has the consistency of cling wrap and tastes like lime cordial and turps. It occupies his entire skull and the skill required to organise it into bubbles gives him new respect for Tabi’s oral proficiency. Its appeal, however, escapes him. As he drives home he wonders if she will notice her last piece of gum is missing.
    Diane is on the phone when he gets in and he tries to sneak past her but she puts out her hand. ‘It’s Ben,’ she whispers. ‘Speak to him, for heaven’s sake. It’s been a week.’
    Ben has phoned several times but Chris has not returned his calls. It’s not malice that stops him, but an inability to absorb any additional information until he’s made sense of what he’s already been told.
    Diane thrusts the phone at him and turns to rescue a saucepan from the stove.
    â€˜Chris?’ That voice; so familiar, so treacherous. ‘My son, I am
so
sorry.’
    Chris is stumped for words. He opens his mouth but the only thing that comes out is gum, which drops onto the floor. He picks it up and glances about for somewhere to put it, hesitates, then while Diane’s back is turned, sticks it to the underside of the kitchen bench.
    â€˜Please, Chris, talk to me.’
    The words, the voice – it’s too much. He puts the phone back in its cradle.
    Diane spins around. ‘Did you just … hang up?’
    The phone rings again. Chris picks it up and sets it back on the cradle.
    Diane’s voice, when she finds it, is feathery with disbelief. ‘You hung up on your
father
? How could you?’
    â€˜Hh-how … can
you
,’ he splutters, ‘not get … fail so … spec-
tac
ularly to understand? I’m trying to … to make