ROADKILL

TOBY LITT

It was not a deer, of that much I was certain. Maybe a very muscular stag. Yes, that’s it, I remember thinking, as I drove on, just an unusually big stag.

And part of me – the old, cowardly part – still wishes I had left it there, both the thought and whatever prompted it, and continued on to Norwich, and not got involved.

But although it being a stag would explain its tawny colour and breadth, shoulder to shoulder, it would not explain the strange rippling musculature of its back. Even at 77mph, I had noted this curious feature, although perhaps the thing’s ribs and spine had been shattered by the impact. With its last strength, it had crawled ten metres more, then slumped down into a ditch near the treeline. Maybe it had been lying there alongside the northbound lanes of the A11 just south of the Elveden War Memorial, for a few days, and had begun to decompose and lose its proper shape.

This all happened in mid-August, so fairly early on in the whole mess – or perhaps very late on, if you want to look at it another way. The temperature that month was regularly reaching eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Anything fleshy would start to rot the moment it was dead, and shattered ribs might explain the regular paired bumps down the dorsal region.

In the end, it wasn’t so much curiosity about the animal itself as a wish to test both my eyesight and my conceit that made me double back at the next roundabout. Had I really seen that much detail in the two seconds the thing had been in view? I doubted it, and doubted myself, and because of this I wanted a definitive answer.

It’s possible, also, that I am deceiving myself in giving this account. I will admit to a feeling of shock the first moment I caught sight of the carcase. That shouldn’t be here, I thought. Whatever it is, it’s in the wrong place – the wrong version of reality.

The drive on and back took exactly six minutes, so it was close to noon when I pulled onto the hard shoulder. I was hungry, so ate an apple from my briefcase before I got out. It was a russet, I remember. A very normal snack for me to eat just moments before my life ceased to be normal.

I left the hazard lights flashing but locked the doors. Then I waited for a gap in the traffic. If you know that stretch, it’s a long, straight dual carriageway. Cars go much faster than 77mph.

I had only been attempting to cross for a few seconds when a black Range Rover slowed down and stopped on the other side. Later I realised that Carolyn couldn’t have seen the thing and decided to pull over. Her car had been decelerating and indicating for some time before it reached its stopping point.

“Hey,” I wanted to shout. “That’s mine.” But she was out the driver’s-side door and then hidden from view only a few moments later. The Range Rover was between me and whatever was going on with her and the dead animal. She had either ignored or hadn’t heard me.

The A11 was busy. I took a slight risk crossing the second pair of lanes and got honked at by a Humvee and a Tesla. I think I saw a V-sign, too – very old-fashioned but very Norwich.

By the time I had rounded the Range Rover and into view of the dark-haired woman, she was standing back from the huge animal – which definitely wasn’t a stag – and taking photographs on her phone.

“Look what it is,” she said, with an accent I later found out was Russian. “It’s a sabre-toothed tiger.”

“No, no,” I said, as I approached, but then I came round to where she was and saw the teeth.

“Can you please take one of me with it?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said.

She gave me her phone and crouched down near the giant head, between the long forelegs with their astonishing claws.

Even though I could smell it, I was afraid the beast wasn’t dead – that it would suddenly stir. I wanted to make sure I was protecting her from it.

“Take many,” she said.

On the screen, Carolyn looked younger than she was, which was thirty-six. I realised she’d put a filter on. As I tapped and retapped the white circle, I saw her expression change – no, that’s not it: I saw her change her expression. To begin with she was smiling, almost laughing, but in each image she became sadder and sadder, until finally she started to weep.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She looked up, brown eyes glistening. “Did you get me?” she asked.

I handed her the phone. She went through the twenty or so photos twice.

“Just a couple more,” she said.

We resumed our poses, with her continuing from where she left off – broken with grief for t