Before he could react, the bend was upon him, the wheels were shuddering across the uneven ground, and the windscreen was filled with bushland and the thick white trunk of a fast-approaching gum tree.

Chapter 28

Chapter 28

THIS WAS NOT the first occasion time had stood still for Detective Sergeant George Manolis. Death had already come for him in the line of duty. He’d been shot at twice, had a druggie lunge at his jugular vein with a butcher’s knife, and narrowly missed colliding with a crowded inner-city bus during a peak-hour pursuit. To Manolis, these were occupational hazards, and inseparable from the idea of a long and decorated police career. Compared to death’s previous incarnations, the dead and twisted trunk of a stoic old gum seemed like an anticlimax.

Incredibly, driver training at the academy had prepared him for this very situation. The gears could be used to slow down, or the handbrake, or guardrails by the roadside, even steering gently from side to side. A more impressive manoeuvre was to drive into the back of another car. On a country road, running through a series of wire farm fences would also provide ample resistance to reduce a car’s speed. And finally, simply turning off the engine and letting the car come to a natural halt. Of course, all these solutions anticipated a certain amount of time for a driver’s brain to choose the right course of action. In the case where a car had run off the road and was hurtling towards the unflinching trunk of a tree, the instruction manual was useless.

The dry dirt and long grass through which the car ploughed did little to shave any speed off the dial. The earth was still dropping away, practically launching the car towards a headfirst collision with the sturdy gum. The car’s safety features were minimal, if not non-existent. No modern airbags or crumple zones. This was no car – this was a coffin on wheels.

Manolis’s survival instinct took over. He clenched the steering wheel with white knuckles, trying to regain control. He went to curse but there was barely enough air to speak. With the trunk drawing closer, larger, he sucked in a final breath. His chest burned and his throat tightened like a garrotte.

He braced for impact.

Harnessing what little strength remained in his forearms, he gave the steering wheel one last desperate heave.

The crash was swift, sharp and surprisingly ineffectual. The right side mirror was ripped from its bracket and sent flying through the air like a cannon shot. The gum tore past, dry branches scraping the car body, bark peeling like old wallpaper. The margin was so close that Manolis felt the shockwave ripple his hair. His windpipe relaxed; he grunted and swallowed, sending his Adam’s apple lurching down his throat. The car remained out of control, still careering down the grassy slope.