Gravity by Scot Gardner

you,’ she said with each can.
    â€˜No worries.’
    The male assistant returned with a squeaky trolley carrying three bags of sand. ‘Now what?’
    I stepped through the lake of paint again and lifted a bag onto my hip. I flipped my pocketknife out of its sheath and opened the blade with my teeth. I stabbed into the bottom of the bag and opened a hole that let the sand flow. I paced the edge of the liquid mess and let the sand fall. Soon the puddle was shored up and the bag was empty. I gutted another bag and spread the contents around the middle.
    â€˜We’ll need a shovel. A big, square-mouthed shovel,’ I said to the bloke.
    â€˜Right,’ he said, and jogged off.
    The woman had retreated to the edge and had her knuckles resting on her hips. She shook her head.
    Pansy boy returned with the perfect shovel. It had a D handle and a mouth on it like a backhoe bucket. It still had the price tag on it. I flipped it in my fingers then made it second-hand on the painted sand. The scraping on the concrete echoed around the store as I mixed the sand and piled it.
    â€˜Grab one of those fifty-litre planter pots, Harry,’ the woman said.
    Harry – the pansy – ducked down another aisle and produced a black plastic pot. He stuffed one of the empty bags in the bottom to cover the holes and I shovelled it fullof white sand. I helped Harry lift the filled pot onto the trolley.
    The woman had a smile on her face. She was in her twenties at a guess, with flawless honey skin and dark hazel eyes. She had a smear of paint on her cheek.
    â€˜Don’t suppose you’re looking for a job,’ she said.
    â€˜Well, actually . . .’
    â€˜Don’t move,’ she said, and took a mobile phone from her belt. She dialled and her voice came over the PA.
    â€˜Tony, can you come to paint, please? Tony to paint.’
    I grabbed a rag and wiped at the lip of a can. When it was clean, I wiped the sand and most of the paint off my boots.
    â€˜God, your boots are stuffed,’ the woman said. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
    â€˜Adam Prince.’
    I put out my hand and realised it had a paint spot on it. I rubbed at the spot with the rag and succeeded in spreading it across my palm.
    â€˜Doesn’t matter,’ the woman said, and stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Debbie Wilde.’
    We shook, laughed and looked at our hands.
    â€˜I guess we’re blood now,’ Debbie said. ‘Or paint, as the case may be.’
    An Italian bloke in a suit arrived. ‘What the bloody hell happened here?’ he said. He’d said it quietly so that only Debbie and I could hear. He’d said it quietly but the rage in him was palpable.
    â€˜Tony, this is Adam,’ Debbie said.
    Tony bucked his head in a defiant sort of greeting. ‘Are you responsible for this?’ he asked me.
    â€˜Don’t be a dick,’ Debbie said. ‘It was an accident. Adam helped clean it up.’
    â€˜Oh, right. What did you want?’
    â€˜Adam’s looking for a job.’
    Tony scoffed. ‘Good luck, Adam.’
    Debbie sighed. ‘I don’t think you understand, Tony. Adam wants a job and you’re going to give him one.’
    Tony put a fist on his hip and stroked an invisible beard with his other hand.
    Subtle, I thought. Don’t mess with Debbie, I thought. Tony may have been the boss, but Debbie had the power. There was something more than the average employee– employer relationship between them.
    â€˜Oh, right,’ Tony said. ‘And who am I going to sack so that Mr Adam can have his job?’
    â€˜Nobody,’ Debbie said. ‘I’ve saved you the trouble. I sacked Karen. It was one of her little tantrums that ended up all over the floor here.’
    â€˜You can’t do that, Debbie,’ Tony hissed. He waved his arms wildly. ‘You can’t just sack someone.’
    Debbie shrugged. ‘It’s done. She’d