The clarity was still with me. His concern was genuine, though to reach it I had to examine every fleck in his eyes, every shade in the wrinkles round them. I had not thought of him as old, and perhaps it was weariness that channelled the lines from mouth to chin. His lips were dry, chapped, as though he’d been out in a chill wind. His ears were red, I saw. Colours were particularly bright. His tie was a piercing green. Somewhere in the background Clayton was saying, over and over: ‘I don’t know what happened...what happened...’ ‘I’m all right,’ I said to Porter’s face, but no flicker of expression eased his anxiety, so perhaps it had not been aloud. ‘I’m all right.’ This was a great effort, and I felt my lips moving. Then Porter sighed, and he stood back. ‘You gave me a right turn. What was it?’ How could I explain that for a moment my mind had flown away? Clayton was offering me a glass of water and I took it, to put off the explanations, the rim chattering against my teeth.
