‘How?’
‘Only people who live in towns are fresh-air fiends. Country people like a nice fug as a change from unlimited out-of-doors.’
‘I’ll put it up, if you like,’ he said, although his mouth was stiff with effort as he said the words.
‘No, of course not,’ she said, and began to talk about a car they had ordered.
So the old battle started. The old arguments, the old tricks, the old cajoling. The pointing out of the open windows, the reminding himself that it was only a car and could be stopped at any moment, the willing himself to consider a subject far removed from the present, the self-persuading that he was lucky to be alive at all. But the tide of his panic rose with a slow abominable menace. A black evil tide, scummy and revolting. Now it was round his chest, pressing and holding, so that he could hardly breathe. Now it was up to his throat, feeling round his windpipe, clutching his neck in a pincer embrace. In a moment it would be over his mouth.
‘Lalla, stop!’
‘Stop the car?’ she asked, surprised.
‘Yes.’
She brought the car to a standstill, and he got out on trembling legs and hung over the dry-stone dyke sucking in great mouthfuls of the clean air.
‘Are you feeling ill, Alan?’ she asked anxiously.