I bequeath of thee punk.

The sun glistened off the black tarmac and heat visibly rose from the one hundred degree heat. Bill stepped out of his vehicle and adjusted his Aviator sunglasses to exclude the strong midday Miami sun.

Tiny little geckos along the sidewalk avoided his stride, as he neared the door of the convenience store.
Bill wiped his sweaty brow as the whoosh of frigid cold air greeted his entrance. The electronic bell above the automatic door rang.

Pausing to adapting to different lighting, he glanced around checking for the soft drink fridges. Situated at the back of the store, Bill walked purposefully toward them, eager for something cold and refreshing.

He was so concerned about quenching his thirst that he did not see or spot the unusual circumstances surrounding him. Glazed expressions and confused stares wondered if he had a death wish.

Even the gunman seemed perplexed at Bill's audacity.

Everyone stood motionless, wondering what might happen next.

The cashier behind the long wooden counter shook, with a mixture of fear and anger. Three customers - two women and one very overweight man - who had stood in line to be served, now nervously waited for what came next.

The man held a six pack of beer. They all stood with wobbly dispositions - half clutching items they wished to purchase and with their arms halfway in the air.

The gunman waved his gun to and fro reasserting his command of the situation. Everyone shivered at his sudden anxiety, fearing his next jerky movement might be their last moment in this life.

They all weren't sure what Bill was doing. What was taking him so long?

Sixty seconds passed. Bill didn't reappear.

The young stringy gunman got more nervous, wondering where Bill had wandered off to.

Sweat began to trickle down the back of the cashier - even though she was directly beneath the duct of the air conditioner.  The chubby man couldn't keep control of the items he held in his arms - glistening beads of water from the beer made one of the bottles slip to the floor and smash open.

The gunman raced toward him and stuck his Glock under the ample chins of the poor man. He whispered to him not to drop anything further or he would shoot him up through his brain.

Panicking, the gunman ordered the cashier to continue emptying the till. He couldn't wait for the weird guy at the fridges to reappear. Where was he anyway?

The bustle of the broken bottle gave Bill enough time and distraction that hid his advance.

Bill was undercover at the moment. He had also a particular penchant for English literature. That's where he was going right before he walked into the store. To his second appreciation class of John Milton, the poet.

Moving deftly along the aisles he skipped toward the shaky drug riddled weaving gunman. The beer skittering to the floor gave him time to creep right behind him as he rose his own gun.

"I bequeath of you punk - resign your firearm to the floor before I send your soul toward hell and the fiery depths."

I give myself to you.

Months of planning and waiting have come to an end.
Tomorrow I marry my best friend.
Nerves jangle the night before.
I wonder what's going on in my loved ones' mind.
Are we as anxious as each other?

A few drinks with friends distract me for a while.
The alcohol only furthers my discomfort and twirling tummy.
A second and third check of what happens at an early hour tomorrow.
Has everything been collected? Are the flowers ready?
Does everyone know what they should be doing?

I wake to a morning with a bright sun, calming me.
Stomach lined with an Irish fry washed down with Mammy's milky tea.
A glass of champagne, strawberry bobbing up and down, juicy and content.
Hair and nails get some tender loving care before the make-up is applied.
Finally the dress - A smile, a twirl and a tear.

Exasperated gasps greet me at the top of the stairs.
Carefully, I step down in shoes not quite broken in.
My father whispers a gentle word of encouragement.
Mother clasps a tissue to wipe away a happy tear.
Bouquet in hand, a car horn beeps in the drive.

The enormity of the event is hitting me and I breathe sharply in the car.
My father senses my disquiet and squeezes my hand.
"You need a drink love - but not a word to your mother," he says with a wink.
A quick nip of brandy in an empty pub.  
I clench his rough hand tightly as we exit Maguire's.

The sun continues to stream down on my arrival.
The gods are with us today as leaves flutter above in a gentle breeze.
The doors are open, awaiting my arrival.
The music starts to begin - and I catch a glimpse of my partner.
I can sense the nerves, twitching unnaturally, facing forward.

Smiles turn in my direction as camera bulbs flash.
One final deep breath and I set off down the narrow aisle.
I relax and let my father take the lead.
In twenty short steps I reach the top.
A relieved smile greets me with bright, happy eyes.

Bad Booze Nostalgia.

The taste was terrible. His tongue stuck to the roof of the mouth. His right arm was trapped under his torso. The room was actually spinning as he opened his eyes.

Paddy woke not wanting to move his head. he knew it was coming. He sat up. He was still fully clothed, but his blue jeans were open. The button unfastened and the zip fully down. Lipstick was on his boxers. He had fallen asleep on top of the duvet.

Once upright, he ran his bony fingers through his thick black hair. As he did so, he found a lady's pink clip in his hair. He held it between his fingers, not recognising it.

The heating was on in the room and his arm felt tingly. One of his socks lay on the floor near the door to the box room at the top of the stairs. The door was ajar, opening out onto the wide landing.

He saw his army jacket on the floor near the bathroom and a pair of lady's pink frilly knickers beside it.
Then saw a matching bra at the entrance to Alan's room. A partially deflated red balloon was attached to the bannister with string.

Paddy wandered into the bathroom to splash water on his face. He heard snoring from inside the bathroom. Jonjo was fast asleep in the bath clutching a rubber duck, with two empty cans of beer either side of him. A large bath towel covered some of him.

As Paddy turned on the tap, he saw his car keys in the sink. He had left his car at home and got a taxi back to Alan's house here.

Shaking his head and putting the keys into his pocket, he noticed his distinctive lime green toothbrush - how was that here? As he looked up at himself in the mirror, he saw a large cut on the corner of his right eyebrow and blood splatters on his t-shirt. Flexing his knuckles, he saw they were bruised too.

He tried remembering what had happened, but came up empty. Searching his pockets for clues, he found one unused condom and three small yellow tablets. They weren't his - Paddy never took drugs.

His wedding band was missing.

Scratching his head, he returned to the bed he had slept in. As he passed Alan's bedroom, he looked in. A slim naked brunette lay beside him. And she wasn't his wife.

Another brunette with familiar looking lipstick, lay fully clothed on the mat at the foot of the bed. The blue mat had two yellow pills near her hand.

Descending the stairs, beer bottles and cans littered the floor and units.

The kitchen was empty, but a complete and utter mess. It looked like a room after a row rather than a party. One chair was smashed and green glass was broken to smithereens near the sliding doors. Two knives sat on the chopping board with traces of blood on the blades.

Paddy noticed white powder on the counter top.

Opening the double doors into the living room, he saw one man he didn't recognise. He looked like he was asleep on the white leather couch. He was dressed in a shell tracksuit and trainers.

Then Paddy suddenly saw the stark contrast of red on white.

What confused him more was what he saw out the front window. 

Why was his car impaled in the fence? And who was at the wheel dressed like the man beside him?

You can't beat me.

A quick check on the time. Twenty five minutes before I walk out. Another check on the gear. Everything is there - that must be the fourth time I've reached back into the bag to make sure. I'm doubting myself. That is not good. I pace the rectangular locker room. I am alone here apart from my thoughts.

The room is pine wood throughout. Very stately. A touch stuffy for my taste. Brass adorns every locker and handle. Shining brightly. The smell of polish and sweat.

Nerves are natural I know - I wouldn't feel the same if I didn't feel them. I force myself to stop and sit, clasping my cold hands together. I rub them furiously against each other. Sitting with my back to a closed locker, I get distracted for a moment and stare off for about ten seconds. It relaxes me for a short time, but the opening of an outside door brings me back to the present.

Tim, the masseuse arrives and asks if everything is okay. I ask him to rub the backs of my legs to keep them loose. I had felt a twinge two days ago on my left calf - there must be nothing left to chance.
I have prepared well, re-establishing my own faith in myself. While Tim rubs, I stick my ipod in my ears. My own words play back to me.

"You have done everything to prepare. You are ready. You are loose. This is your day."

The recording pauses for a second - something I did by pure accident - this makes me believe even more that today is my day. I taped this last night on my coach's advice.

"Everyone will finish second to you today. You are the boss of your own destiny. Everyone will play second fiddle to you."

Tim finishes up and I thank him for his invaluable help. I get up and go through my secondary stretching routine. I have already stretched earlier, but this is my process. Having stretched, I put my white tracksuit on. It has green and orange trimming. I zip the top up to the nape of my neck.

This is the last day of the championship.

I can hear the anticipation and excitement of the crowd. I can hear the stewards and busy bodies milling around in the hall. Old men blazers huddle together in the hall.

I spot some former champions and they nod 'good luck' in my direction. No doubt they have done the same to my competitor. Hedging their bets in both directions.

My ipod continues to play in my ears. I stretch my neck by rolling it clockwise. Young men in green t-shirts and shorts carry our bags into the arena. A man in black and white leads the way through the halls. I spot my competitor but not knowingly, ignore him. I am focused on the job at hand. I stare off into the distance.

"You will win today. You are the best. You will want it more. You will perform."

And then as if I recorded it to time my entrance into the arena, came the words I wanted my competitor to hear most.

"You can't beat me. You won't beat me."

I turn to face him for the first time. He extends his right hand in a sporting gesture before we enter the maelstrom of noise in the arena. He is donned completely in a white tracksuit with a red tubed trim.

"Good luck today," he says in his Hispanic accent.

"The same to you," I say politely in return.

I hold his stare for a split second too long. I'm getting into his head before we step into the glare of the crowd and hordes of media.

Camera lights flash in their thousands as we step out into the fifteen-thousand seater stadium.

He can't beat me.

This is the final of the Subbuteo World Cup - I will win today.

Distraction on the Team Bus.

Two middle aged men greeted each other like old friends with a hug and a warm handshake. They stood outside a six-year old white 52 seater bus. The bus had a blue stripe down the middle saying O'Brien's Coaches.

"How long has it been Jim?"

"Sure it must be near ten years! How are you keeping?"

"Sure grand. How's the clan?"

"Not a bother! And yours?"

"Not bad, all things considered. The reason we moved down the country was because eh, we were looking after the mother-in-law."

"And how is she?"

"Eh, she passed nearly a month ago."

"Ah shite - I'm so sorry Tony."

"Ah sure she lived a great life Jim - eighty nine at the end. We had to sell up and would you believe both of us kinda missed the old area."

"So you're back for good?"

"Aye. Back in the old homestead."

"And are you working for O'Brien's?"

"Nope."

"Oh?"

"I bought him out. Proceeds from the will. Might as well do something with the money. You're still involved here then?"

"Probably until the day I croak it Tony. Same shite politics though."

"So what the feck is going on here today then? This is a new one to me Jim - this would never have happened in our day!'

"I know Tony! But I'm just the kit-man! I don't have a feckin' say!"

"This is well odd."

"You're not alone there thinking that Tony."

"Why warm up at some other pitch? What's he thinking, like? Why leave it so late to get there?"

"Listen - I don't know either. I think it's some sort of mind games to be honest."

"I hope they're not going to be running up and down the aisle of me new bus in the time it takes to get there!"

"No they won't! Don't be silly for fecks' sake!"

"I'm just saying! Them bloody studs better not leave big holes in me carpet!"

"The ground is hard out Tony - they'll be wearing moulds. They're like runners with good grips - no actual studs."

"Oh right - good. 'Cos I was told it was only replaced last year."

"They'll probably just be doing some light stretching and motivational speaking en route."

"Grand so. But Jimmy - it leaves us feck all time - like no wiggle room at all! What happens if we get
stuck in a bit of traffic or, or something else?"

"He's not thinking that way. But in all fairness to him Tony - there should be feck all traffic between here and the pitch. Sure it's only about two odd miles."

"I know that! But you never know like! Will they be long?"

"Shouldn't be. Anything new in that newspaper you were reading?"

"Not much to be honest. Some poor fecker of a child stuck a pencil in her head by accident - how some one does that I'll never know!"

"Well they do say that children should never run with sharp objects!"

"True for you Jim."

"Anything else?"

"Ah jaysus, there's another article about how men get easily distracted driving in this weather."

"Whatcha mean like?"

"Well 'cos it's warm, women wear less clothes and our attention isn't exactly on the eh.."

"Road!"

"Yeah. That shit doesn't affect me anymore Jim - I'm long past me sell by date. Sure Moira barely even looks my way anymore unless she's looking for me to get the coal in from the bunker."

"Sure my Anne is the same! Only calls me by my proper name when (a) I'm in trouble or (b) she's looking for something!"

"We're forty years hung next year. Next February."

"Are you jaysus? Feck Tony, I'd never have thought that! Me and Anne are thirty three - a fair bit behind ye two."

"Sure ye two are only childer!"

"Here they come Jim - start the bus. This fecker will want everyone loaded up in less than sixty seconds. I've to tick them off on this bit of paper as soon as they board."

"What's that for? Surely you could just count the feckers as they get on?"

"It's not my call Jim. Ah feck this pen isn't working! Have you a spare?"

"Eh, I've a pencil here on the dash - will that do?"

"It will surely."

Jim ticked them all off, one by one. All 26 players and management accounted for.
The new manager spoke whole-heartedly as Tony drove along the main road. They all sat quietly listening intently. Jim sat directly behind Tony.

A young girl cycled by in the opposite direction.
Her light skirt fluttered in the summer evening breeze.
Her red beret and pale yellow cardigan glowed.
Her nubile bare legs shone like torches in the darkness.

Twenty seven sets of male eyes followed the cyclist.

Tony braked late.

He turned the wheel right as he craned his neck.

The bus stopped two feet short of a telegraph pole on the far side of the road.

Jim's pencil went flying too. Missing Tony's head by inches.

Galway Torture.

The music lilted out of the pubs onto Eyre Square. The weather was warm and balmy and people of all nationalities hustled throughout the city. It was Saturday evening at half past nine. Summer holidays were here and people were, for a change, enjoying the spell of good weather.

It seemed like the Saturday evenings of the Celtic Tiger days were back. People were spending money and talking about how much their house had appreciated in the past twelve months.

Andrew wished for times past. Of times that were so different. He dragged his feet wearing his over-sized shoes, clutching his jacket in his left hand. It was too warm to be wearing the overcoat. He removed his black tie.

A young couple wearing Mardi Gras beads stopped to shake his hand, clearly having a good night. Andrew told them to "fuck off" in no uncertain terms. Happy conscience-free people really annoyed him. Especially when they were a bit tipsy. He wasn't in the mood to share their festivities.

This was Galway in July 2019. Kids wore silly looking clothes and men and women were hard to tell apart. They were all idiots, following the state's advice about lifestyle choices and what to call their children. Drones, every single one of them. Only people of his age had the where-with-all to think for themselves. Thomas thought and spoke for himself, that's for sure.

Cash was no longer a commodity that people valued. Cards and electronic gadgets were all the rage. He never really saw the need for any of those fidgety things, and never wanted to learn how to use them. In truth, the technology had passed him by.

Staring up at what used to be the old AIB building on the square, he shook his head at what it had now become. Some sort of fancy glass building housing high-end electronic goods. He had worked there almost twenty years ago, when banks were king. Not so much anymore.

Scratching around in his pockets, Andrew found fourteen credits in coins. That was enough for a pint on the way home. It would be a fitting ending for the evening. A toast to his friend Thomas in his former favourite drinking hole - the Dew Drop Inn.

Wandering in and out of the crowds filtering into the square, he walked with a heavy gait towards the pub. His night of Galway torture was complete.

He hadn't visited the city in ten years. The pub was gone. It was now an apartment block of a monstrous nature. He doubted himself for a second, and checked back. No - his instinct was correct.

The Dew Drop Inn was gone for good - where was he going to toast his buried friend now?

Primrose Bin Bags.

The card wouldn't scan. Amy swiped it a second time holding her breath. The door unlocked with the panel flashing green. She exhaled audibly. Exiting the main lab she stepped into the long narrow grey corridor. She clutched the small folded paper tightly in her right palm. This piece of paper could be worth millions.

She walked quickly without attracting attention. Her long coat made her anonymous in a sea of white linen coats on the fourth floor. Her long blonde hair made her stand out though. That was why she wore the short black bob-length wig. She had to get out. It was time. Time to make a break. Time to change her life for the better.

Amy had just been passed over for promotion. For the third time in eighteen months. The company was fast becoming a 'boys club' and she was now definitely in the minority. The new CEO was a sexist, ignorant pig. He hired fellow alumni graduates and sons of his golfing and country club buddies. The company was flying high after it's recent launch on the stock market. Amy had a solid clutch of shares but their value would pale in insignificance to what she now held.

She reached the bank of silver plated elevators and swiped her card. She pressed the down button and then alarms sounded everywhere. Lockdown.

It was time for Plan B. She sent a simple text message stating the word B.

The new CEO had introduced two years ago extreme levels of security and paranoia. People were being watched even when they weren't aware of it.

But Amy knew where the motion sensors and cameras were in their lab and on her floor. She knew where the blind-spots were too. She knew that various of computer spyware were installed on every laptop and personal computer. She didn't panic once the sirens started buzzing loudly. Security guards began appearing out of nowhere as if activated for the first time from some underground hole.

Amy calmly walked toward the ladies bathroom, avoiding everyone's gaze. She kept close to the wall and kept her head down. She draped her spare keycard in tinfoil and dropped it into a janitor's wheelie bin and moved on. Knowing the security personnel would track the chip on everyone's keycard was key to making this work. People were now milling about and getting stopped in the hallway by burly black suited ex-army types.

She made it to the bathroom undetected. Slipping off her coat, wig and dropping them to the floor, she quickly splashed two hand cupfuls of cold water on her face. The loose water fell to the floor. She used her shoes to spread the water around. Wiping away the residue on her face, she took one glance at herself in the mirror.

"You can do this!"

Having jarred open the window a smidge one hour earlier, she had enough space. Folding the slip of white paper over on itself twice, she crossed her fingers and forced it out. It flew out landing approximately twenty feet from the front door on the south side - into a batch of primroses. How appropriate, she thought.

The entire formula was based on the synthetic version of primroses. Amy had, over the last three days, copied it down piece by piece and written it in old-style pen ink. The smelly bin bag industry wars would go into overdrive with the news. People would now kill for this information.

Now came the hard physical part.

She inhaled deeply and braced herself.

Amy ran headfirst into the waist high ceramic sinks.

Falling backward with the force of impact, she hit the tiles hard. Still barely conscious, she heard the door burst open a few seconds later.

"Ma'am - are you okay?"

"I'm not sure - some bitch just thumped me. She was looking for some formula. I hit my head there off the sink as I fell. She took off that wig and coat before she left. Bitch took my badge too."

"Don't worry Ma'am. We'll get you some medical attention. That's bleeding, but you look okay. Control - this is Johnson here in the ladies bathroom on the north corner of level four - we have an escaped assailant who may be our perp. She was seen entering the bathroom wearing a black wig and white coat yet exited wearing - eh Ma'am? What was she wearing?"

"I saw orange trainers. She was quite tall too - about six feet, maybe 150 pounds. Brunette."

"Did you hear that Control - perp assaulted Head Lab Tech Amy Masters. We need an ambulance ASAP for Ms. Masters. The formula is not here - repeat not here!"

"Roger that Johnson - bring Ms. Masters to the south lobby. An ambulance has been called for her. Escort her down - she will be the only one out during Lockdown at this point."

Security guard Johnson helped Amy down to the lobby, holding her up at one point. Amy feigned injury well enough to fool him. Once outside in the ambulance, Amy was only feet away from her prize.

Close enough to smell the primroses.

"You want me to get that?" asked the smiling paramedic.

"Yes honey - go get our fortune."

Seat belt.

It happened so quickly. Less than it takes to intake a single breath. Never mind the exhale. One second Nora was unscrewing the bottle cap of her water bottle. Then her life changed.

The flight started and continued safely for four hours. A pocket of turbulence here and there but nothing serious. Announcements were made to warn them all of the potential. Wear your seat belt and all that.

The woman sitting in between them was none the wiser. She slept for most of the journey.

Nora had just started her own company and was en route to Chicago to sell her franchise. She was about to make millions. In the time it takes to switch a light on or off, her world changed.

She didn’t realise that the next time she would open her eyes was from a hospital bed after seven hours of surgery. Life saving surgery.

She had consumed one little quart bottle of white wine with her rubber chicken dinner.

She watched a bad French movie of love and intrigue that did nothing but continue her abhorrence of subtitled films. It did pass the time though.

They shared little glances. She listened to Irish music for twenty minutes that sent her to sleep for about forty. Waking up, she glanced at her seat side companion.

She noticed him getting on board. His quiet demeanour.

Almost too quiet.

He was dressed smartly, wearing a thin pin-striped black suit. The stubble was about two days old, and it suited him. He had short stubby fingers, but his wedding finger had an empty tan line at the base.

Taking off her headphones that were still tuned to the Irish lilt, she got up to use the bathroom. It was located only a few rows away from her seat. She had to wait in line for around a minute.

Before she retook her seat, she stood in the aisle sipping her water bottle. She stretched her torso and was sure he spotted her bare midriff. 

She pulled her itinerary out of her handbag and read her onward connection from O’Hare.

And then she met her seat side colleague.

With her head.

Hitting his.

Crack.

The plane dropped one thousand feet in one and a half seconds.

An intimate exchange that changed Nora’s life.

Vile.

Barry didn't know what to do. His heart told him one thing, but his mind told him another. He had two little voices speaking to him.

Two years ago was far too soon into the recession. The business never had a chance. Now he had an opportunity to restart his life. Repeat failure scared him even more.

They had promised each other. Forever until the end of time. But forever had just started two days ago. His mother didn't want it to go ahead, but he persisted, going with what was right and proper. But now wrong was planting a seed. A chance to start afresh.

He could provide them all with a decent start in their new life. But then he could also achieve his dream. Or would it cause more problems than solutions?

His father was less vocal. He never had much of a say in his life. But whenever he spoke to his son, Barry listened. He was a smart and shrewd man. He watched while others spoke - more than they needed to.

His brother blamed him for the collapse. He had the 'brains', and so laid all culpability at Barry's door. The fact he drank himself silly most nights was overlooked.

Holding the ticket between his grubby, stubby fingers, Barry made his decision. Picking the brown muck from underneath his fingernails, he stood up.

His solicitor asked what he wanted to do. His entire family of new additions and blood relatives were now screaming at each other in the hall. He stood alone in the wood paneled office, listening to their intense bickering.

Opening the modern glass door, he stood in front of them holding the ticket aloft.

"Who wants it?"

Summer Solstice.

Sanna was dreading the date. The red circled day approached. The mere thought of reliving it. The physical pain and the emotional torment. The turmoil that followed and the media circus that encapsulated her life for eight months. She was still being talked about.

Interest in her case had legal implications for courts around the world. She would no doubt get follow-up interview requests. Her life might never be the same - as one year previously.

How she longed to be anonymous once again.

Her birthday had occurred the day before Midsummers’ Eve celebrations. She also had endured six months of training for her new job. She now deserved to party. She was eager to enjoy also her own 22nd birthday and the festival with friends. It had been arranged well in advance and everyone had anticipated celebrating the long weekend.

Sanna met her friend Meena early on the outskirts of the city. They drove east to the region of Kamenlaakso to celebrate the Finnish holiday of Juhannus. The holiday was ranked only second to Christmas in terms of importance to the Finnish people. Everybody always made sure that they had their time off work booked. It was a time to relax and enjoy the break.

Meena was always prepared. Her fastidiousness to detail impressed Sanna at every turn. Especially during the trial, she was there for her. She passed notes to her every day reminding her to stay positive and believe in justice.

Meena had a plush four bed roomed cabin booked outside the town of Kotka for almost a year. She even had grocery deliveries made to the cabin in preparation for their arrival. But being true to form, she still had the car full of supplies. Sanna laughed heartily at her friends’ capacity to be overstocked. They chatted non-stop for the two hour drive as the countryside went by in a blur.

The winter and spring had been harsh. The ground, although free of snow and ice, was yielding. Meena had checked the weather for their three day sojourn and reported to Sanna that it was to be positively balmy in comparison to the previous few months. The humidity was already starting to build.

En route to the cabin, Meena told Sanna of whom they were sharing the cabin with. Two of her female work colleagues had already left that morning and were setting up the sauna. One of the other rooms was being occupied by a two former college friends of her sister. Meena knew them but hadn’t spoken to them since her sister’s graduation.

The other room was booked by one unknown man.

Meena had received an email informing her because she hadn’t packed the cabin, the space had to be filled. Meena asked for background on him, but none came back. Meena persisted, ringing the rental company.

The only information they could pass on was the surname attached to the booking – Korhonen. The most common name in Finland. It did not sit well with her.

They reached the cabin commune shortly after lunchtime. The air was fresh and clear. The sun was high in the sky and little pockets of white fluffy clouds lingered over the western hills. Their cottage was one of three along the edge of  the lake. Spruce trees already adorned the entrance to the cottage commune, welcoming them in.

The smell of the waterside pine needles wafted through Sanna’s nostrils. She gulped in two deep breaths and commented how much cleaner it was than the city. Meena agreed and they set about unpacking the car. Meeting her two workmates inside the cabin, hugs and air kisses were exchanged. Sanna had only heard of Elsa and Justiina, but now met them in the flesh for the first time. She knew that any friends of Meena were good enough to be trusted implicitly.

Justiina was Swedish and kindly insisted that they adorn the maypole. They all agreed that it sounded like a good idea. As they dressed it in bright colours, the two other girls arrived. Ida and Noora had introduced themselves via email over the past couple of weeks and more hugs and kisses were swapped around the tall structure.

More cars and vans arrived into the commune, unloading supplies and mainly beer. Six half drunk college boys wolf whistled at the sextet of pretty ladies. The theory of the most fertile time of the year might be tested later.

Retiring to their cabin, Ida suggested the idea of testing the sauna out. Elsa had set it up when they arrived and it was now ready. The sauna was large and filled with light brown native Finnish pine. A short pier led from the front door of the sauna direct to the lake.

Sanna grabbed a six pack of Olvi beer and met the other five girls in the sauna. Picking up the knife beside the stove, she sliced through the plastic around the tins and passed them around. They could hear the college boys noisily hoisting the Finnish flag out front, as 6pm neared. That would be in place until nine the following night, as per tradition.

One of them knocked on the door asking to come in, but Meena said no way. They would tease them until later.

No one noticed the six year old silver Volkswagen arrive.

As the beer and conversation flowed, the humid evening began to draw in. The sun was setting over the edge of the lake. Sanna made another beer run back into the cabin.

She noticed the spare room door closed. She inched forward on her toes and listened quietly outside the door. She heard movement and a sniffle.

Then a cough. A guttural sound. From the depths of the stomach.

The door flew open catching Sanna by surprise. She was pulled from her stance and flung onto the bed.

The room was entirely dark.

Landing on her face, she struggled for air. She was disorientated and tasted blood oozing from her mouth. She heard the door slam behind her.

She felt him tugging at her blue bikini bottoms. Then heard his zip unzipping.

Nestled in the front pocket of her bottoms was the stove knife.

Turning over, she drove it home.

Her police training bore fruit.