We're upstairs on a bus hurtling through the countryside. Branches crash against the windows. Where are we heading?, W. wonders. Why did I want to get on this bus, which is the opposite of the bus which takes us from Cawsands to Plymouth? Whereas that bus mounts the hills and lets us see the glistening sea, this one plunges us into a tree-filled dusk, in which nothing is visible at all. Whereas that bus gives us great vistas and a feeling of space and freedom, this one robs of us of anything but our own reflections against the darkness, and the feeling of utter catastrophe.
How much further can we sink? Much further. We're in free-fall now, and all there is is falling. Free-fall, on the bus to hell, against whose windows the branches crash.
