Everything changed without warning. A cold night, coming home across the hills. Dogs in the back. Bright stars. A familiar turn at the letterbox. The driveway, getting steeper. He touched the brakes to steady the big 4WD. They were spongy, and didn't respond.

His brain didn't process what was happening fast enough. Escape options vanished. The car accelerated. He crunched down a gear. They barely slowed.

He dragged on the hand brake, pushed the foot brake to the floor. Nothing.

'What's happening?' she asked, panic rising.

'No brakes!'

So much for last words.

Going at that speed, it was hard to run into something deliberately. The other car? The house? There was no other way but down. Too late to jump out.

He knew there was half a tank of petrol on board, plus a full tank of LPG. He'd heard all the stories. And what if they hit the house batteries?

The heavy car was a missile now, careering down the hill, faster by the second. He narrowly swerved around everything, until they were flying beyond the sealed driveway. It became even steeper, falling away into darkness. Weeds whipped the car from all sides. The world began to tip.

Forward momentum was slowed by thick lantana. It grabbed the big car like a net, and stopped the 4WD going that way, just short of a ravine that would have stopped it too fast. Now the big car was starting to roll sideways, down the hill. With each crashing bump, glass shattered and metal groaned. Once, twice, three times, then too many spins to count. The seat belts held.

It was a long way down to the creek, but the car didn't get that far. Before the cliff, weeds saved them again.

This time it was the rubbery privet. Trees and branches grabbed and held the 4WD like hands, until the car came to a rest in their embrace. The engine died.

Dead silence. The roof had been pulverised, but held its shape enough to save their necks. The windscreen was gone. Then he realised pieces of it were embedded in his head.

She was silent, then moaning. Something was broken inside. Her shoulder had been smashed against the side of the car on the way down, but she wasn't bleeding. She winced when he touched her.

'Where are the dogs?'

He looked in the back. No mangled corpses – there was no sign of them. Windows all gone. No sound above them on the hill. Surely they were crushed and thrown out on the way down.

'I don't know. I'll get help!'

Still in her seat belt, she nodded, face pale in the moonlight.

His door was crushed, but he managed to squeeze out of the broken window, cutting his hands. He saw the miracle of the privet, holding the wrecked car from below. She couldn't get out of the car. It would be up to him.

Like a plane crash, the contents of the car were scattered up the hill, where the 4WD had ripped a deep scar through the weeds. No dogs. Clambering higher, he found his phone among the broken glass and junk. It was still working.

He rang triple 0, trying to keep his voice calm. The operator said help was on the way.

''They're coming!' he said. 'Are you okay?'

A faint voice from below.

With difficulty he kept climbing higher, until he reached the edge of the driveway. The wrecked car looked a long way down in the moonlight. All he could hear was his own breathing.

Picking pieces of glass out of his head, he made his way over to the dark house.

Outside the front door, sitting and waiting patiently, were the three dogs, completely unscathed. They saw him and wagged their tails, as if they'd been expecting him.

He cried with relief, and held them close. 'They're okay! The dogs are okay!'

Across the valley, a neighbour had seen the corkscrewing headlights as the 4WD fell, and arrived on the scene before the police. Then there was an ambulance, the SES, a generator and jaws of life to free his partner from the wreckage. The police wouldn't let him go back down the hill.

The first ambulance took away one of the SES guys, who had an asthma attack from all the excitement, so another was sent.

The neighbour wanted to know how the dogs all survived without a scratch. No one could explain.

***

I wrote this (mostly) true story in November 2023. Photograph by David Lowe.

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