The bulkier of the two policemen set his feet, gripped the drunk firmly round the waist, gave a grunt and heaved. As the body turned we realised that the man's face had frozen to the concrete slab .... There was a pulpy, sucking sound and then the drunk lay back against the shelter, unconscious and mercifully oblivious to his injury .... I stepped away from the bloody mess on the pavement as quickly as possible. I could only manage half a dozen steps before my stomach protested. I clung to a lamp post, and threw up my meagre supper across the roadway .... I noticed a second militiaman. A few feet away from me he too was bent over the gutter, trying not to splash his boots. He shook his head, mopped his brow and straightened slowly to look at me. His voice still thick with vomit, he said slowly:
'So ... you eat in the milicja canteen too.'