1. Every single one of the Golden Girls
2. The singer of the theme tune to The Golden Girls
3. The sadistic motherfucker who wrote The Golden Girls
4. Guy Majors
5. Tenoch

The temperature in Rocas Calientes rarely dropped – it was sweltering all day and stifling all night. The sun went down but the heat lingered, close and uncomfortable like a scratchy blanket. Coupled with my copious mosquito bites, it made for regular bouts of irritability.

But hey, what’s new?

Anyway, I got used to it all. To Mexico. I knew my place – digging the hole. I knew my master – Tenoch. By and large, he left me to my own devices but he was always there somewhere and that made me feel sort of safe. It took me a full week to finish the hole and push each of the men down inside it. And having shovelled the earth on top of them, I stood back in the fading sunlight on the Saturday afternoon, leaning on my shovel, a week to the day that I had broken ground. My spine was like jelly, my arm muscles on fire and I stank like a walking armpit. But I had finished it. I had done it, all by myself.

Tenoch had given me his little DAB radio which I had placed on the side of the pit to listen to while digging and the song playing was oddly catchy – some jam I’d never heard of called ‘Ophelia’. I danced up and down the plough lines, stamping out a rhythm, windmilling my arms and laughing manically into the warm air until it echoed between the surrounding hills. It was the first time in a long time I’d actually enjoyed my own company.

And when I walked back up to the pool terrace, I dived in the pool, fully-clothed, soothing my itching, aching, dirty body from head to toe, coming out the other end like a whole new girl. Nearly.

As I slapped into the kitchen, Tenoch was browning the meat for our evening tacos in a skillet. The theme song of The Golden Girls trilled in from the sitting room. He didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at my soaking wet state.

‘You did a good job.’

I could barely hear him over the sizzling skillet. ‘Huh?’

‘The field. It looks good.’

‘Oh. Right. Thanks.’

‘There are girl clothes in the cabinet in Marisol’s room. Next to the one with my wife’s dresses in. Take a few for yourself.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Do you want another little job?’

My heart sank. ‘How many more stiffs have you got around the place?’

‘No more,’ he laughed, juicing a lime. ‘I see you dancing in the field. It makes you happy to be outside, doesn’t it? Keeps you out of trouble.’

‘I guess.’

‘That why they call you the Sweetpea Killer? Because you like flowers?’