Swerve by Jessica Harrison

Staff pick - Adults category

You hit the dog going 80k’s an hour.

It was a hunched, long-legged thing, far too big to be a possum, and so you didn’t even consider swerving. You were driving back from your parents’ house in Waipu. They’d retired recently and given in to the urge to live in the salty air and insular laze of a small beach town. “I won’t stay,” you’d said, as they insisted the sofa bed was free, “I’ll just have the one wine then drive home tonight.” You’d felt that one wine in your eyeballs as you strained to see through the darkness, picking out the horrendously tight and winding curves of the unlit Dome Valley Road. The ‘Take a Break’ sign had seemed irrelevant as you’d cruised over the top of the Brynderwyns at sunset, light the colour of fresh lager pouring over the hills. But you’d thought about the sofa bed as you eased around a hairpin in pitch black with nothing but your high beams and The Coast for company.

The dog appeared on the apex of the turn as you rounded, cutting a wedge out of the yellow beams of your headlights.

There wasn’t even time to hit the brakes, and Dad said never to swerve for animals. Anyway, even if you had wanted to swerve, there was a steep, forested drop off down on your right, and sheer, mossy rock wall on your left, so really you couldn’t have swerved even if you’d wanted to, right? The only option left was just to go through.

But now you are standing outside of your car, looking down at a dead girl. She is bathed in the glow of your rear lights, illuminated in rhythm by the ticking of your hazards. She is ruined. And very dead.

Her rib cage is caved in, shards of ribs protruding an ivory city skyline from her chest. Part of her pelvis cuts through the skin of her hip, a porcelain rounded shark fin. Her hands are bloody, her fingers are mangled and raw and some of the nails are missing. Ankles aren’t supposed to bend like that.

Something (your bumper) has peeled apart the skin on her face, exposing jaw. You marvel at just how many teeth the human mouth can fit inside it. Though, your count may be off because the impact has split some of her pearly whites into halves and quarters. There are shards on the road, sparkling in the wreckage of her face. You note that you will need to collect all the pieces, you’ve seen CSI and Criminal Minds, they can do crazy things with teeth.

Fuck. You have to move her. She is a body, a whole-ass, real-ass dead person that you have killed and God, you do not want to go to jail. It was an accident, she’d understand, right? Why the hell was she on the road? The fuck was she thinking?

You don’t realise how badly damaged her shoulder is until you try pull her over the gravel and the limb comes off in your hands, ball joint and all. You vomit.

By the time you flop her over the edge of the cliff, you are sweating, covered in blood and taste nothing but bile. She disappears, crashing through the brush, a rolling tangle of broken limbs down into the untouched Dome Forest. You throw the arm down after her.

You stand in the shower for an hour when you get home, until the water runs clear. James comes over. You had forgotten your plans for dinner and a movie. He wraps you in a hug that should be soothing, and he smells like laundry powder and faintly of sweat, but you are trying to remember what colour the girl’s eyes were. He kisses you gently, soft and warm and asks you how the drive was, and you stammer and stutter and force out an excuse to go to bed early. He looks at you, concern in his eyes and as you head up the stairs to bed, you know he’s thinking he might have done something wrong.

But you are thinking about blood. Blood in copious quantities. Blood in copious quantities on a winding road to Northland. Litres and litres of it, spread out in a film on the tarmac. Someone will see the blood, and they will tell the police and they will look at the cameras at the Northern Gateway tunnel and they will see the Corolla with the caved in front and the bloody treads and they will know you are a murderer.

You lie there awake until James climbs carefully into bed. You wait until his breathing steadies, then you ease out from under the covers.

The road is even quieter now. You hit the open road in no time, cruising above the speed limit and wondering if getting blood out of bitumen is the same as for sheets.

You thought it would be tricky to find the exact spot, but you’re pulled like a magnet, an internal gut tugging compass to the familiar bend. Gravel skrrcchs under the tyres as you skid to a stop on the shoulder, throwing open the door before you even get your seatbelt off. There is no blood. There should be blood, so much blood here. Your headlights show nothing but road. You’re febrile as your knees hit the ground, scrabbling at the tar-seal like a rabid animal. Frantic, panting, sobbing. You scrape your fingers raw on the sandpaper of the road, there has to be a tooth, a patch of skin, anything to prove this wasn’t a twisted brain trick, you’re taking your meds now, that’s not supposed to happen anymore. All you can hear is blood rushing in your ears. You’re scratching at the rock, crazed and desperate. A fingernail tears out at the root. The road is vibrating.

There is a flash of bright yellow light. There is no time to scream.

The car hits you going 80k’s an hour.