'Dead Red Tire Tread' by Richard Oxenham
Posted by sregan | Filed under prose
He wonders if it's retrievable.
The tire tread imprints its flattened ribcage and its intestines are trailing from its anus. Its eyes are hard-boiled eggs; pupils bruised yokes beneath the surface. Its tongue hangs from its jaw, shrivelled and dry, and its matted fur is crimson beneath the indigo of the underpass lights.
The traffic is unabated and he knows that an unobservant driver will soon crush its skull. He looks up the road to the crest of the hill for a sizeable gap. There is an interval after a rusting juggernaut, which pulls a ton cargo of timber. The thick logs have swelled beneath the banks of rain and frayed cords, and its grill resembles bared teeth, packed with mercury fillings. They grimace at him, promising to ruin his prize.
He climbs over the safety railing dividing the walkway from the road and quickly draws a crumpled green bin-liner from his corduroy pocket, opening it out against the funnelling wind.
The juggernaut enters the underpass. Water cascades from the rattling undercarriage and sprays from the deformed wheel arches.
He is unseen from within the shadows of the tunnel scaffolds. He reaches down and grips the fox by the tail, peeling it from the tarmac and lifting it towards the flapping bin-liner. The fibrous innards brush his forearm, cold against his skin. Its stomach shifts like a pendulum and it reminds him of a hot-water-bottle. He delicately places the carcass inside the bin-liner. It isn't heavy, but any part of its jagged anatomy can penetrate the plastic.
The juggernaut closes in, suffocating the road. Grating gear changes awaken echoes and rats from damp crevices.
He lifts the wrapped cadaver in his arms. He can feel the sharp contours of its recently exposed ribcage and his fingers close around stiffened limbs. He can't associate the rigid remains with the animal it was; it has become something else.
The juggernaut sounds its horn, an unearthly bellow, rooting him to the spot. The headlights envelop him; he is a burning silhouette.
He is suddenly aware of the lifelessness he holds and it provokes him to run to the railing. The monstrous vehicle tears past, plastering his back in rainwater and log splinters as he drops to the walkway. He lies still, feeling his clammy shirt grow cold against his spine. The fox's maw protrudes from a split in the bin-liner and it gapes as if it wants to say something.
He stands and turns to watch the juggernaut exit the underpass. The tight formation of logs reminds him of the Gatling gun on his father's Chinook helicopter. He wonders when Argentina will surrender, when they will let his father come home.
He lifts the bin-liner and tucks the snout back in. He follows the walkway till he reaches a steep embankment. The rain is fine but fast, gathered and carried in chaotic directions by the wind. The depressed route he took to reach the underpass has now formed a stream, which eddies around his Wellingtons. He shivers and slings the bin-liner over his shoulder, pushing up the embankment, gripping the underpass wall with his free hand.
He reaches the summit and takes a moment to gather his breath and massage his sore hand. The city spreads across the valley, littered with amber streetlights. Buildings are obscured by swollen rainclouds, which spit tattooed lightning along the horizon.
His home isn't the same without his father. It is an empty place, kept by an empty woman. There is no sound of laughter, just the radio, just the Falklands.
He wonders if it's retrievable.
- Richard Oxenham
