Gábor nodded, but Feri stepped closer, tightening his grip on the knife, ready to strike. Gábor knew they would never make it to the pub, that these were his last heartbeats. Soon there would be a breath that would be his last before this whole big stupid system, this body, would become pointless, just a piece of abandoned rubbish by the side of the road. Gábor’s voice became awkwardly high-pitched, girly, the kind he would feel ashamed of when he thought about it later. But there was no later.

‘But why? I didn’t do anything,’ he whined as Feri came even closer. Gábor knew that it was futile to start running now. His legs were already shaking, his stomach was cramping, he was gasping for air.

‘Relax, I’ll do you fast, all right? It won’t hurt if you don’t resist.’

Gábor retreated towards the side of the road, expecting to trip over a pothole at any moment. He thought of running into the darkness, across the ditch, just as Máté what’s-his-name must have tried a little earlier. Then Gábor stopped. He took a deep breath and assessed the situation again.

What’s happening here, he thought, is after all only a quicker version of what he had planned anyway. Drinking would take years to kill him, maybe even decades. It hit him, and almost made him laugh, that he would save a lot of money for his mother too.

He looked into Feri’s eyes, and the killer smirked. Gábor determined that he wouldn’t close his eyes. As long as his eyes could see, he would see with them. The two of them were so caught up in this game, the killer and his victim, that neither saw the car approaching with its lights off. A black Audi that would normally never stop at a place like this unless it had broken down, if that sort of car ever actually broke down. At the sound of the car hitting Feri, Gábor gave a startled jump. Feri spun on his axis, the knife flew out of his hand and embedded itself in the ground. Feri hit the asphalt. The Audi braked with a long screech. The passenger door popped open, and a bald man got out wearing a long, soft woolen jacket. He wore thick horn-rimmed glasses and was clearly drunk. He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with a Zippo lighter. He leaned into the cabin, took out a knitted cap, and put it on his head. On the pavement Feri wasn’t moving. The bald man looked at Gábor, then leaned back into the cabin.

‘He’s still here, don’t you want to speak with him?’

‘What’s with the other one?’ came from the inside. ‘The guy we fucked up with the car.’

‘He’s just lying there.’

‘Dead?’