Leah Giarratano - Vodka Doesnt Freeze

JILL LOVED THIS BIT. Her legs burned as she drove them mercilessly on the pedals, halfway up the hill of Arden Street, Coogee. She liked this part best because she knew how much Scotty hated it. If she could get enough of a lead on this hill, she could beat him this time.

She could only hear her own regular gasps now she was pulling away from Scotty, and the thought of him cursing behind her drove her harder. Her blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail beneath her bike helmet and the heat of the Sydney morning burned the back of her neck. The humidity was almost complete; it felt nearly as though she was swimming. As her body undulated with the movement of the bike, the scales-of-justice tattoo on her deltoid slipped in and out of her T-shirt, which was slicked with sweat to her flat stomach.

Each breath tasted like metal now as Jill pulled air through her raw lungs. Her thighs were screaming. And then, when the pain got too bad, she stopped feeling it, just as she always had.

Thoughts about work replaced the street scene. Despite their cutthroat competitiveness when were they working out together, on the job Jill knew Scott Hutchinson had her back. She couldn't have wished for a better partner, especially at a time when half the unit wanted her out. It was like being back in high school, for God's sake: if you weren't part of the in-crowd you were nothing. And Jill was definitely not in. Being single, attractive and not-interested-thanks didn't automatically count her out, but it didn't help.

But it was Jill's last case that had simultaneously seen her promoted to sergeant and dumped to schoolyard-reject in the popularity stakes. Her bust of an amphetamine ring in Wollongong had sent five bikies to gaol, one of whom was the brother of a cop in her unit Eddie Calabrese. He was supposed to have been all over the drug trade in the area, and had never forgiven her. When she sent his brother to gaol, Calabrese looked like a fool, and worse: suddenly he was all wrong in the eyes of the powers that be. Nicknamed Elvis, because he thought he was king, he'd sent word everywhere that Jill was a man-hating bull-dyke who couldn't be trusted.

When she flew into Maroubra Road, Jill became aware of a breeze on her neck, cooler each time she glided into the deep shadows cast by the unit blocks that lined the street. The light changes became hypnotic, shadows and brightness, the rhythmic pumping of the pedals and her heart all she could hear. Suddenly Jill was back in the basement. She smelled her flesh burning as the big one pressed the cigarette into her nipple; saw her twelve-year-old self open-mouthed and screaming.

Jill's foot slipped off the pedal. She almost veered into an alarmed postie and caught her balance just in time to see Scotty's bulk, hunched over his handlebars, streaking past her right shoulder.

'Oh shit,' she breathed, pushing her foot back through the pedal. She saw Scotty's familiar smirk over his shoulder as he accelerated ahead, and she realised she was safe and alive in the present.

It was David Carter's favourite spot: warm, safe and up high, out of harm's way. He unrolled his colourful beach towel and unpacked his backpack, placed his lunch, hand moisturiser and can of Coke on the rock to his right, and put his new digital camera in his lap. He liked the computerised whirring sound the camera made as he scrolled through the images he'd already taken. He always left his favourites on the camera after he'd downloaded all the pictures to his laptop.

He settled down expectantly, hoping that Red Girl and Stumpy would be here today. He was a little early, as usual, but he liked the wait.

Cross-legged and comfortable on his towel, he peered through the overhanging branches of the shrub that partially surrounded him; he noted that there were only two older teenage girls swimming laps of the 50-metre pool. No-one at the wading pool yet. He opened his fly and used the waiting time to caress himself as he studied the pictures. It was going to be a hot one today; there'd be plenty of kids.

He wondered about the meeting The Owner had called tonight. Usually they met just once a month for the game, swapping photos, police statements, movies; hell, sometimes someone even brought a kid to trade for an hour or so. Calling a meeting mid-month had never happened as far as he could remember. He felt a lick of anxiety: what if someone knew about the meetings? What if his wife found out? He knew she already suspected, but not even she would put up with hard evidence of his favourite games.