I tried to put up my hands and contain it or let it out: but my hands would not move. Somewhere in the background there was another pulsing noise, its beat desynchronised with the beating in my head. To move my head caused me agony as if jagged lightning struck through it, so for some time I stayed quite still. I must have a monstrous hangover. But then, assembling my mind piece by piece I put together its last experience—the evening at Kevin Leeson’s, the return to my cottage, the blow. How long all this took, I do not know. But at last I got my eyes open and with difficulty focused them on the nearest object. It was leather. I was slumped on the back seat of a car, which presently proved to be my own car. A wave of nausea engulfed me, and I wanted to vomit. This made me aware that my mouth was stopped—by some kind of gag. I recollected cases of people suffocating in their own vomit, and kept still again, trying to control my heaving stomach. After a while it was better. My eyes began exploring again, out to the steering wheel, the instrument board, the windscreen, and then beyond it.
