One of Us Is Dead

52 Saturday 8 October 2022

‘You’re scaring me, Dermot,’ Tracey said.

He was steering with his right hand. His left hand was on her knee. ‘It’s OK, babe, I’m always careful.’ He winked at her.

‘Slow down, please slow down. Please, Dermot, can we go just a little slower?’ She sat, held tight by the arms of the racing seat, in the sumptuous velour of the interior, looking on high alert at the lights of the dials on the dashboard. The headlights lit up the trees ahead.

He wasn’t going any slower.

Then she screamed.

Dermot saw it too. ‘Shit!’ he shouted, stamping on the brakes as hard as he could.

The car juddered, slewing right then left then right, then left again. Somehow holding a more or less straight line.

And came to a halt.

Inches away.

Tracey stared in shock at the two yellow eyes. They were staring back. In equal shock. The creature frozen in terror. Standing in the middle of the lane.

‘Dumb fucking animal!’ Dermot Bryson had both hands back on the wheel. He gave a full blast of the Enzo’s massively loud airhorns. ‘Get out of the road!’ he yelled.

Either the horns or his voice did the trick. The deer got out of the road and into the forest.

He floored the accelerator, rapidly changing the gears up as the car launched itself at the dark horizon, and the speedometer swung back around, passing 70mph. Then his hand went wandering again, settling back on Tracey’s knee.

He squeezed it, then put both his hands back on the rectangular leather-covered wheel. The curve was coming up fast. If he gave a slight dab on the brakes to pull the nose down, then kept a balanced throttle — something he’d learned from his coach, John Powis — he could take the curve without reducing speed.

He gently applied the brakes, then put only the lightest pressure on the accelerator, hurtling into the curve at 75mph on the clock, confident there would be nothing coming in the other direction.

‘SHIT!’ he screamed.

At the oncoming headlights.

Tracey screamed too. In utter terror.

Headlights that were racing towards them. Straight at them.

He swerved hard left with no time to brake.

Tracey screamed again.

The headlights were still coming at him.

He tried to swerve right but the car wasn’t responding to the steering wheel, which was suddenly jerking wildly in his hands.

The lights were dazzling him. Blinding him.

‘Oh God, oh God!’ He felt the tyres scrubbing sideways as the car, still travelling at the speed of a missile, started to swap ends. He turned the wheel the opposite way but too late. Momentum had taken over.

He was no longer the driver but a passenger. Just like Tracey.

Then he saw the tall, dark silhouette hurtling towards them.

Or were they hurtling towards it?