May 16, 2025
More in The Personal Space of U668857 The Ballykelly Road
We were all gob and smart-arsed wit that night on the Ballykelly road - full of banter and “craic” - our boozy nucleus energised the car's interior.
Some dance-hall miles-back, where no-one “pulled”, was shrugged-off - a last laugh in wind shivering shirts, then car-doors slamming out the dark.
It was a black road in full-beam: cat's eyes, and road-kill; the lit passing of hedgerow and cow parsley peripheral to our snug revelry.
Their mad over-take was glancing - a sudden flood in the rear-view mirror then a veering arc of passing headlamps out-running our swearing afterburn.
What I recall is the whirligig of red brake-lights, cart-wheeling in darkness - a rotary of red dots circling the lane's unseen axis;
then you all shock and sudden business in the back, shouting "get out" during our cautious slowing approach - and a snap of black air outside;
a blurred sense of the hard road, and the hard luck of any night under the cold stars' erratic scatter; but you tuned into this high-wire act -
knife-edged, quickened in head-light, all concern, commanding presence, advising, assessing, updating newly hailed arrivals at the scene.
I knew one, though all at odds with recognition in this dicey blackness. She joined our supportive gestures, kneeling over the nearest spilled body
splayed supine, cut-faced grimacing intermittent moans - we voiced our group futility; gave assurances "help was on its way".
I recall an incongruous Lancashire accent mouthing half-conscious confusion - some off-duty soldier on a tour of duty lying face-up on the BallyKelly road -
his and our discontinued night snap-shut to a cold close - and later random gusts somewhere in the dark buffeting our departure in blind billows.
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