The man drew up outside the shadowy house. He cut the engine. The vehicle glided silently behind the studio which stood apart from the house. He pulled on the hand brake, clutching the Molotov cocktail bomb in his left hand. The summer night was dark. He could hear the trill of cicadas but he ignored them. Silently he made his way to the studio window. The girl had her back to him.

His stomach was churning with hate as he lit the rag stuck in the glass bottle, filled with petrol, and pushed the window wider. Then he hurled the bomb with all his might at the shorts the girl was wearing. There was screaming as the flames took hold and running footsteps as the father appeared behind his daughter.

The man didn’t wait to see more. He raced back to his car and scrambled into the driver’s seat, started the engine, switched the headlights on, and put the gears into reverse.

Before he steered the car backwards he saw someone lit up by his departing beams.

Someone he didn’t want to see.