Killer on the Road

Travelling back from England yesterday, I was heading South from Namur on the Autoroute De Soleil, towards Luxembourg. The road was busy with Dutch, German and Belgian people carriers, each an identikit of the other; mummy & daddy in the front seats, 2-3 offspring in the back rows, watching DVDs, reading or playing with their PSPs. The back of the car was stacked with the same things; fishing rods, shrimping nets, plastic buckets and spades, and summer clothes, the sort worn only when on holiday and away from ones immediate peers. Their collective thoughts must have been focused away from the shimmering heat of the metalled motorway, and on the coming evening, when they would wearily and dustily be pulling into the parking space at their rented accommodation in the South of France, Spain, or perhaps even Tuscany, the sprogs straight to bed, the grownups sitting out on the terrace enjoying thier first glass of chilled vin blanc, vino bianco or vinho verde.

But the seemingly inevitabillity of this happy and likely closing scene of the day was not to be for the Dutch family in the silver Renault that had overtaken me 2 minutes back. Mother at the wheel, father in the passenger seat, 2 children in the back seat, watching I know no what. Suddenly, a forest of red brake lights showed ahead, and I dragged my mind back from the road, and PG Wodehouse's Carry on Jeeves, switched off autopilot and jammed on the brakes. A plume of brown hazy smoke spiralled up very near from where I had come to rest, say about 30 yards away. There were only 3-4 cars between me and whatever lay ahead. I opened the door, stepped out and immediately saw the Renault, side on, and on its back, the roof crushed down. An articulated lorry 20 yards away with damage to one of its rear lights told some of the story. Quickly back to the car I snatched up the fire extinguisher and ran to the smashed vehicle. The smoke had abated, and in the darkness of the interior on my side was Mrs Holidaymaker, still held in her seat and upside down by her belt, her head jammed hard, disturbingly and un-naturally backwards in the interior gloom and out of my sight. She had a small amount of blood on her front and there were 2-3 people already debating how to get her out. 4th person on the phone. I did not check her for vital signs. I instead shouted that she should not be touched by anyone under any circumstances, remembering spinal injuries and their associated dangers, and then bent down to look in the crushed and confined space in the back seats, not wanting to see what I had to establish. But it was empty. Thank Christ. I stood up, and to my relief saw for the first time the two children sat on the verge, people in attendance, and both in deep shock, heads down. I quickly went round to the other side, where the news deteriorated rapidly. Mr Holidaymaker was there, his feet perhaps 6 inches from the door, his body away from the car. He was face down, and someone had pulled a thrown-from-the-car travel rug halfway up his back. His head was exposed, slightly turned from the hot tarmac, but his face was buried in a thick dark pool of what looked like deep crimson oil. Two men were already alongside him, and as I bent to check him one pulled the blanket up over his head. I therefore did not check him for vital signs. I stood up slowly and looked around at the mess. DVDs everywhere, Mrs Holidaymaker's summer perfume bottle, smashed glass, burst crisp packets, 2 fishing nets, a small folding chair, a purse, a roadmap, a couple of empty cans of Fanta, some bread rolls, pack of biscuits. Could have been any holiday car. Could have been mine. I bent to work, and started clearing the fast lane of the highway, making a small pile of possessions next to the wreck.

Realising my own inadequacy in such a situation, and coldly calculating that when the ambulance, helicopters and police pitched up, the road would be immediately closed and we would have 3-4 hours in the hot sun, I made a snap decision. Returning quickly to my van, I started the engine, and moved slowly past the tragedy, picking my way round the glass and detritus, accelerated up to speed, set the cruise control, direction due South and fast away from the horrific scene. For the next 9 hours back to Tuscany, clear Sunday motorways, I played the jumbled consequences of the scene in my head. The awaiting hosts at their apartment, the phone call, the ambulance arriving, the body bag, the life insurance, the devastation of a family unit, the children's shock and confusion and anger at fate, the job advert at Mr Holidaymaker's place of work, the return home, the funeral in the next 2-3 days, the grief, and the new beginning from Mrs. Holidaymaker when she could eventually think of such a thing.

I wondered what they would do back in Holland for the next 2 weeks, in lieu of sitting in the Mediterranean sun, eating fritto misto, and drinking prosecco? I cannot answer that, only they can, but I can say this. For the rest of the (safe) drive to Tuscany, much of the time I spent musing on my actions or lack of them. Should I have checked her airway to ensure she could breathe? Should I have double checked the man for signs of life? How could I have relied on and trusted someone else to check for signs of life? Should I have felt for the opening in his body and held my hand over it until help arrived? For I know one thing: the aforementioned actions are what I would have wanted and expected if it were me hanging upside down, or lying bloodied and still in the road, watched by the uncomprehending terrified eyes of my children. For dear daddy was there, in their direct line of sight, and 10 yards from them.

Whilst not thinking these thoughts, I thought of this song:

Riders on the storm

Riders on the storm

Into this house were born

Into this world were thrown

Like a dog without a bone

An actor out on loan

Riders on the storm

Theres a killer on the road

His brain is squirmin like a toad

Take a long holiday

Let your children play

If ya give this man a ride

Sweet memory will die

Killer on the road, yeah

Girl ya gotta love your man

Girl ya gotta love your man

Take him by the hand

Make him understand

The world on you depends

Our life will never end

Gotta love your man, yeah

I have re-learned one thing - the importance of seatbelts. Your wife was wearing one. You were probably not. I can guess that much from looking at the passenger seat.

Godbloodydammit I hope that the man with the last rites blanket-over-head was mistaken and you are, as I write, sitting up in a hospital ward in Belgium, with your loved ones around you.

If you are, it is no thanks to me.