Squashed Possums by Jonathan Tindale
Author:Jonathan Tindale
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: travel, new zealand, caravan, beaten track
Publisher: Jonathan Tindale
Saturday 7 June
A loud squeal of burnt tires erupted from out of nowhere, and an oncoming car careered towards us. He’d taken the bend ahead too fast and lost control, his rear tyres spun out, leaving a trail of black skid marks burnt down the road. Wow, that was lucky, I thought. It looked, for a moment, as if the out of control driver was just going to miss us. The relief was soon punctured by a CRUNCH as the oncoming car punched us clean off the road. The other car spun 360 degrees before coming to a stop.
“Everyone ok?” I asked. I was travelling with friends who were visiting from London. David, Andrea and I were a little shaken but there didn’t seem to be any broken limbs or pools of blood. I opened the passenger side door and went to check on the other driver. “You alright there, mate?” I said to a man in his early forties with close cropped hair. He jumped from his car, walked around the pieces of scattered wreckage, and swaggered up to me, a little too close for comfort. I could smell his breath and it wasn’t pretty.
“What the hell d’ye think you were doing on my side of the road?” he ranted furiously, looking agitated, shifting from one foot to the other. I was taken aback. “What do you mean?” I asked. “You just lost control of your car, came around that bend too fast and smashed us off the road. Look, you can see the tyre marks.” I pointed at the road. “Your car is on our side of the road...”
“Don’t you blaady tell me it was my fault,” he retaliated. “You’re just a blaady liar. That was the worst driving I’ve ever seen!” I tried to calm him down. He was drunk or worse, which was useful if the police ever arrived, but he was also very aggressive and more than slightly unhinged. I tried to placate him, just in case he kept a sharpened hatchet in the boot of his car. Meanwhile, Andrea, who’d been driving, had realised that he was trying to blame her for the accident. She gave him a stinging rebuke, and I thought for one awful moment he would smack her one. I interrupted the shouting match, suggesting we swapped insurance details.
He paced about his car, his behaviour increasingly erratic and nervous. “Name’s Liam Dearsley,” he answered, as he pulled tufts of grass out of the ground, using them to wipe the dented remains of his front bumper. It was a start. “So what’s your telephone number?” I asked. “Erm, its 4789 mumble mumble,” his voice trailing off. “Sorry I didn’t quite get that... Could you repeat it please?” Again, he said “4978 mumble mumble”. This was hopeless. “Sorry, I’m still not quite getting it. Say it again?”
Meanwhile, Andrea had walked to a nearby garage for assistance. We were fortunate there was help to hand because apart from the garage, we hadn’t seen any sign of life for many miles.
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