He awoke to find himself shivering on the cold concrete, a hundred meters from the Outskirts Pub. There was a pool of vomit by his face. His nose was filled with the smell of smoke in autumn. He tried to get to his feet, but he felt dizzy. He couldn’t think straight, his thoughts scattered before they could take shape and make sense. Finally he rose up and staggered towards the pub, leaning against its wall, then walking on like this, finding stability in the solid matter of the pub. He wanted to enter, for warmth if nothing else. It was too early for it to be open.

From the door his own picture stared at him from a photocopied flyer. ‘LOST! We are looking for Gábor Szeiber, who left for the Outskirts Pub on the night of November 3rd.’

This was followed by a description and his mother’s phone number. Gábor patted his pockets, searching for his phone. His fingers touched the neck of a wine bottle. He pulled it out; a symbol was painted on the side of the bottle. Gábor’s stomach started to cramp at the sight; it was like looking in the mirror. He remembered a gray-haired man taking a sip from this bottle, but he couldn’t recollect the entire scene. Maybe it would come to him later, he thought.

He shook his head and set off towards home with unsure steps, hugging himself to keep warm. In the mailbox he found a free newspaper. Judging by the date, nearly two weeks had passed since the night he went out to get a drink, and Gábor didn’t want to even start thinking about the implications of this. One thing was for sure: he could kiss his job goodbye.

He saw the yellow gate. For the first time in years he yearned for that dreadful house because it meant sleep and dreaming, possibly forever. He went through the rusty gate, but the door to the house was locked. He found he had lost his keys. He banged on the door. Nobody was home.

He sat down on the doorstep, covering his face with his hand. He was too tired to think. The gate screeched again. Gábor knew it wasn’t his mother; he knew the sound of her steps.

‘I didn’t think you’d have the balls to come back.’ Gábor looked up. It was Feri; not his friend, but the killer. One of his arms was in a cast. The other one held a knife. ‘You shouldn’t have come back. I thought you were smart and disappeared.’

Gábor couldn’t speak, he was too hungover for that. He got to his feet with great difficulty.

‘I saw you on the street, by the pub,’ Feri went on. ‘You look like shit. Been out on a binge?’

Gábor nodded and wanted to say something, but Feri approached him in two steps and stabbed him in the stomach.

‘I’m sorry, mate, it’s got to be done. Always got to be done,’ he whispered.