Outrage

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He dressed himself in black jeans, a white shirt and a comfortable jacket, put on a pair of smart shoes he had had for three years, and considered the venues in the city centre that one of the women had mentioned.

He mixed himself two stiff drinks, which he drank as he watched TV and waited until it was time to go into town. He didn’t want to set off too early — someone might notice him hanging around in a half-empty bar and he wanted to avoid that. The most important thing was to melt into the crowd, to go unnoticed, to be like everyone else. He mustn’t be memorable in any way, must not stand out. In the unlikely event that anyone asked him about his movements that evening, he would say he had been at home all night, watching TV. If everything went according to plan, no one, anywhere, would remember his presence.

When the time was right he drained his glass and left. He was slightly tipsy. He walked from his home near the city centre through the autumn darkness towards the bar. The town was already buzzing with weekend revellers. Queues were forming at the most popular venues, bouncers were flexing their muscles and people were wheedling for admission. Music could be heard in the street, and food smells from restaurants mingled with the alcoholic fumes seeping from the bars. Some people were drunker than others. He despised them.

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