The car pirouettes in mid-air, appearing as if from nowhere, as if transported via some futuristic technology, teleporting into view above the opposite carriage way, twirling in the air like a wind blown leaf. It spins back to the asphalt and lands catlike on its wheels, stretching across both lanes of the opposite dual carriageway, its bodywork sagging and crumpled, wheels sunk into their arches like tortoise heads.
The bonnet is accordioned, disclosing the point of impact, the point at which the car must have collided with the crash barrier? The verge? Another car? We pass at 70 or 80 miles an hour, the crash barrier between us and the car planted diagonally across two lanes of approaching traffic. Inside, a man, eyes wide, hair frenzied on his head, stares at something in the back seat.
As quick as that – no – quicker, we pass the scene and go on our way. A lorry behind us flashes a warning at the traffic approaching in the opposite lanes. A few miles down the road we pull off to the services and sip strong, sweet coffee and don’t talk. When we get back in the car to make our way further up the motorway, we try not to think about the car fighting gravity with momentum, revolving in the air almost peacefully. We try not to think about hitting the ground.