We present the stories from the RTÉ Short Story Competition shortlist 2023 – read On Craigavon Bridge by Peter McCauley below.
About the story: "It was born out of my desire to set stories on the streets of my native Derry," Peter says, "stories that would celebrate the extraordinary in the ordinary, the universal in the local, and showcase my city as a unique, distinctive and compelling backdrop to the stories we tell ourselves and each other about what it means to be human."
'We've gone and lost the dog. That’s what we’ll be telling her. We’ve gone and lost the dog. All you had to do was grab hold of it. Now it’s gone. Her face’ll be a sight when we tell her that we’ve gone and lost the dog.’
It was nearly midnight. A Tuesday in April. We walked along Foyle Road. Fierce cold. Biting wind coming off the Foyle. The dog’s empty leash dangling at my side.
‘You’d one job to do. One!’
The dog track had closed hours ago. We’d lost again. It had been a bad run of losses. Last race of the evening. Last race of the season. There was a hint of thunder in the air, but no actual thunder.
‘You only had to grab hold of the thing! That’s all you had to do.’
There was no holding her, I said. Something must’ve spooked her, I said. He wiped his forehead. His face was red. Spittle sparkled in the night air as he spoke. He wasn’t used to walking. She bolted out through the gate like a bullet, I said.
‘She’d have bolted nowhere if you’d been holding on to her! You should have had her by the collar like I told you to. Here. Up this way’.
He led the way up a sloping street that cut off the main Foyle Road at an angle. It was dark and only partially yellowed by crooked street lamps. He was pushing wheelie bins about the place in case the dog might be crouching behind one. He’ll have the whole street woken up the way he’s going, I thought; I thought it but I didn’t say it. Then he stopped sharp, hardly breathing, frozen.
‘Did you hear whimpering? She’s been whimpering of late. Did you hear whimpering?’
No, I didn’t hear any whimpering. It was about quarter past twelve. We turned up a side lane which took us into someone’s back garden and we skulked across the black grass, ducking the washing line as we passed it. There was a dark green hedge at the far end with some sort of a small shadowy gap at the bottom. He stopped to consider it.
‘That’d be about her size too.’
He dropped to his knees and crawled along the grass towards that gap in the hedge, then he pulled and pushed and heaved himself through. Dad! I whispered. Dad. What are you at? He was not getting through. He kept pushing, forcing himself, tearing at the hedge, threatening at every turn to uproot it.
‘Go on. Push me. Then crawl through yourself!’
We re-joined the Foyle Road about half an hour later. My father was covered in muck. His trousers and jacket were caked down the front in it. It smeared like a joke across his fallen face. He did not see the funny side. He had tried to force his way through the hedge but was then forced to drag himself back out again, and as he had become partially stuck he’d had to churn his way through the dirt to free himself. I had not tried to crawl through the hedge. It was now about quarter to one in the morning. He was panting and wiping dirt from his face. The more he wiped it the more it needed to be wiped, and no amount of wiping made the least bit of difference.
We’ll head back now Dad, I suggested.
‘We’re going nowhere until we find the dog. We’ll stay out here all night if we have to!’
His voice seemed to break open now every time he spoke. You could hear the words rattle in his throat. It was an awful sound.
A lad was passing on the other side of the street, swaying to and fro, stopping when he could to check himself. He was coming from somewhere but didn’t look like he was really going anywhere. My father noticed him.
‘Keep an eye on him. Looks like he might want trouble. Get the dog leash handy. If he comes at us lash out with it.’
I watched the lad. He tottered sparingly like a new-born giraffe, unsure of what his legs were supposed to do, wrestling with gravity. He shuffled and buckled like a sinking ship, distressing the pavement, before sitting down awkwardly on the edge of it. He took something from his pocket and looked at it mournfully. I couldn’t see what it was. I thought he was going to be sick. He wasn’t. He just sat there staring at the thing. Then he slipped it back in his pocket and sunk his head in his hands. We walked on.
We walked on along Foyle Road past rows of little houses, dark at this hour, past the grey ornate block of apartments that used to be a factory. Lights on in windows high up. Other people’s lives. Taxis continued to pass by and there was a siren in the distance. Everything is happening right now in other places, I thought. I’ve no idea why I thought that. Would she have come this far, Dad? She’d have headed for home surely, I said. He said nothing. We’ll split up then, I suggested. We’d cover more ground. I’ll go back towards the stadium, you head on towards the bridge.
‘Split up!? Are you joking? Was that a joke? We’ll split up, will we? Then I’ll lose you too. What’ll I be telling her then, eh? That I lost her dog and her son on the same night? Is that what I should tell her? You’d see her face then alright.’
Silence. We walked on.
He was now walking slightly ahead of me, and his pace had increased. He was muttering to himself, though I couldn’t make out what exactly. It was some sort of intense internal conversation in which he made all the arguments. He looked exhausted. The dog meant everything to him. He shook his head. Had he lost his way? The Craigavon Bridge was a short distance ahead. We’ll head back at the bridge then? I said hopefully. He didn’t answer.
We stopped and sat down on the low stone wall that ran along the footpath. The occasional car passed, mostly taxis. I checked the time on my phone. He put his head in his hands. I put my hands in my pockets. His hands trembled as they tried to support his head, his heavy head. I’d seen him like this before and it always felt like the end of the world. I’m sorry Dad, I said. I didn’t know what else to say. It didn’t do any good anyway. He stood up suddenly and seemed embarrassed at the sorrow in his own voice.
‘Streaky! Streaky!’ he cried out, voice pouring all over the footpath and out onto the street. ‘Streaky! STREAKY!’ Did he think that the dog would answer him? Did he think she would cry out his name in the night too? Is that what he thought a lost dog would do? We’ll head back Dad, I said. We’ll report her missing. As I spoke the words, he stood up and walked away towards the bridge.
The lower deck of the bridge. The distant hum of the city.
‘Give me that!’
He pulled the empty dog leash from my hands and held it close to his chest as night pulled the darkness of the river into the sky above us, around us. He leaned heavily on the railings. He stared down into the dark water. A car passed. Some lads shouted something indecipherable. The dog had been a project that he and his own father had worked on for years of Saturday afternoons. I had some narrow recollection of that. The dog was their pride and joy.
‘Dad!’
He said the word, not me. He whispered it, almost caressed it, spoke it inwardly. An odd sound from an old man. I felt a sadness, looking at him – his filthy race-day shoes, beaten trousers and jacket; no rosettes adorned it this year. I moved towards him. Should I reach out and touch him? I’m sorry Dad. It’s all my fault. I should have held her, I said. He didn’t respond. I know what she means to you, I said. He didn’t respond. I’m sorry about it, that’s all, I said. Just then, he pulled back and adjusted his head. He squinted his eyes. He leaned forward on the railings.
‘What’s that down there?’
He pointed down towards the black mudbank of the river. I followed where he was pointing. I squinted. Nothing. What are you seeing? I asked.
‘Sure look down. Follow where I’m pointing…Do you see it?’
I looked. I squinted. Nothing. The tide was out, and the mucky charred moonscape of the river bank was a mess of black shadows, shapeless shapes and scraggy forms. What he could see that excited him so was beyond me.
‘Take a good look there…Do you see it?’
I looked again. He was becoming more and more animated now. I strained my eyes through the night to try to discern something. Bricks, a large pipe of some sort, an ancient shopping trolley.
‘That’s our dog! That’s Streaky! She’s down there. Do you see her?’
Even with the most exuberant and exotic take on invented reality, I couldn’t possibly, in any way, shape or form, claim to be able to see our dog, or anything that even remotely resembled our dog, or indeed anything that even remotely resembled any sort of animal of any kind. Our dog!? I replied; it was the only thing I could think to say.
‘You better believe it! That’s Streaky down there. She’s stuck in them mudflats too.’
I had a terrible presentiment of what was about to follow.
‘I’ve got to get down there. That’s what I’ve got to do. I’ve got to get down there’.
Dad, there’s no dog down there. That’s not Streaky, I said.
‘It is too our Streaky…and she’s struggling. Tide's low yet so we’ve a chance.’
He was peering over the side of the bridge as if trying to assess the distance down, and he was limbering up like a ballet dancer preparing for the final act.
You’re not going down there. You’re chancing your luck on those mudflats at this time of night, I said. He wasn’t listening. He had taken off his belt and was now lashing it on to the end of the dog’s leash.
‘Give us your belt.’
You’re not going down there, I said. He snapped his fingers at my belt. I undid it, pulled it out and handed it to him. He tied it on to the end of his own, then he fixed the other end to the bridge railings and pulled it to assess its strength. He seemed satisfied. Dad! You can’t go down there. Them mudflats are dangerous. People can sink into them.
‘Hold the end in case it gives.’
He said this as he clambered awkwardly on top of the railings, grasping the belt line and pulling on it as he heaved his weight down over the side. He clung to the railings and seemed to dangle there, neither up nor down, just dangling, pulling, wheezing, gasping, struggling.
I knew there was no dog down there and, more importantly, he knew there was no dog down there, but it didn’t matter; he needed this. He needed to rescue something.
About the author: A Derry native, Peter McCauley graduated from the Open University in 2018 with a first-class honours degree in English Language and Literature. Passionate about developing a creative writing career, he has had some poetry published and is working on three children's books. His ambition is to set a series of stories, both for page and stage, in his native city.
On Craigavon Bridge was read on air by David Pearse at 11.20pm on Tuesday 24 October, as part of Late Date on RTÉ Radio 1.
The series continues at the same time each night from Monday 16th to Thursday 26th October (except Saturday 21st).
Read more stories from the shortlist on rte.ie/culture, hear updates on Arena on RTÉ Radio 1, and tune in to Arena's RTÉ Short Story Competition special which will go out live on RTÉ Radio 1 at 7pm on Friday 27 October 2023 from Pavilion Theatre, Dún Laoghaire, Co. Dublin, with all 10 shortlisted writers in attendance.
Judges Claire Kilroy, Ferdia MacAnna and Kathleen MacMahon will discuss the art of the short story and the stories from this year's shortlist with host Seán Rocks, there'll be live music and performances from leading actors, and we'll find out who's won the top prizes.
Why not join us in person? Audience tickets are now on sale at the Pavilion Theatre
And for more about the RTÉ Short Story Competition in honour of Francis MacManus, go here
