An orgy of violence at the summer fête

After three days tête-à-tête (and sometimes tête-à-pied) I walked into town alone to get some air and see what the town was like and the people in it. In one direction, above the hills, the sky was black. Above the town, however, the sun was shining fiercely through a gap in the clouds. Approaching the outskirts, I heard African drumming and a man yelling with demented good humour into a microphone. A single strand of bunting strung between the lamp posts told that the town was celebrating its summer fête.

The first person I encountered was a man of about 30. He was walking towards me carrying a plastic litre bottle of cider horizontally. He was gently agitating the liquid inside and seemed to be talking to it affectionately. As he came near I saw that he’d been beaten up. His nose, eye, forehead, lip and chin were disfigured by bloody lumps and contusions.