RTÉ Short Story Competition: Dead Bait by Mattie Brennan

About Dead Bait, Mattie says: "The idea for this story came to me when I saw three men fishing at Doolin pier a few years ago at about 2am. I'd just finished working a shift nearby in McDermott’s bar, and I’d pulled up in my van to sleep there for the night. As I watched the lads cast, I thought to myself that there’s surely a story here somewhere..."

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The pier is quiet. It's pushing on 2am, and there’s still no sign of Aaron and Mick. I leave my fishing rod aside, take a naggin of Jameson out of the inside pocket of my thickest jacket. There’s a shake in my hand. It takes a while to unscrew the cap. I take sips at first, then drink a large mouthful, let it scorch my gullet. I put the cap back on and tuck the naggin inside my jacket again. I cup my hands in front of my mouth, breathe slowly into them. I look up at the sky, the stars that are scattered around like glitter, then at the ocean. The moon throws a line of sparkling light on the calm water, like a frost-covered road.

Looking out beyond the small island now, I think I can see the boat, a bobbing shadow moving over the skin of the water. It’s five minutes away. Twenty if they’re being careful, cut the engine and quietly row the last bit in. I reach down for my rod, lob another cast. Reeling in the line, I expect nothing. It’s only habit that makes me bring my rod along. I’d feel strange coming to this pier without it. Nothing snags. These days fish are scarce. The run of the mackerel is just over, and there were barely any of them this year. Mullet might as well be extinct. Even the pollack are hard caught. It’s all the big men, away out on the ocean in their commercial trawlers, so far out you’d never see them, and they hoovering up fish like grains of dirt, leaving nothing at all for the small man. My father was able to eke out a living from his boat, my grandfather before him, but not me.

I can hear the dim sputters of an engine, then it stops altogether. They’re rowing in tonight. I wonder what has them like this – cautious, paranoid. Or it could be they’re high as kites and need to release some adrenaline. Instinctively, my knee clenches up. These young bucks turn nasty when they’re on the bag. Not that I haven’t done my fair share of bad deeds down the years – I’ll hardly be in line for a canonisation after I die. But these fellas are a different breed. I often think of my two sons over in England, men now too, and of how they might’ve turned out. I hope their mother raised them to be nothing like Aaron and Mick.

Their silhouettes become clearer in the half-light. I hear the splash of the oars as they slice through the water. I take the naggin from my pocket again, have a quick dart.

Their voices I’ll always be afraid of. They sound as if their mouths are full of gravel, and even when they make a joke it sounds like a threat.

When they’re almost at the pier wall, Aaron says, What about you? Any luck with the fishies th’night?

Not one bite, I say.

Thon’ fella couldn’t catch a cold, says Mick.

I indulge them with a laugh.

Mick tosses me a rope. The rough bristles scratch my palms as I pull it through my hands and knot it around a mooring bollard. Aaron groans as he stoops down to lift a bale. He gives it to Mick, who reaches up and passes it on to me. I’ll put them all in a pile, load them into the van after they leave. I don’t know where they’ll go after this. Maybe another drop-off further down the coast, to some other crumbling pier where some other fool is waiting for them. At least the tide is high tonight, and I don’t have to put any strain on my knee going up and down the stone steps.

As Aaron lifts another bundle, the tattoo on his forearm catches the light of the moon. The green and orange on the windswept tricolour look faded, as if it is three shades of grey. I glance at his face. He has a boxer’s nose, there since I’ve known him, but he has a new scar that’s left a nick in his left eyebrow. God help whoever gave it to him.

The whole operation lasts only twenty minutes. I came to this pier with nothing and now I’m sitting on a fortune with a similar value to a small nation’s GDP. I untie the rope, toss it back to Mick.

Here, Aaron says. No games th’night, okay? Straight into our boy again.

I will, I say.

What possessed you that time?

I got spooked, I say. I thought I saw a Garda car. I took a load of backroads and got lost.

Who gets lost in their own county? he says.

Wild, says Mick, who’s lighting a cigarette.

Well, ever since you went rogue our boy doesn’t trust you, says Aaron. See if you leave him waiting th’night, it’ll not be just your knee we’ll do in.

He’s an impatient man, says Mick.

I’ll go straight there, I say.

Aye, you will, says Aaron. Go the main roads. If you get done, you get done. Our boys on the inside will look after you. Won’t they, Mick?

Aye, says Mick, who takes a long pull of his cigarette. He breathes out a wisp of smoke then tosses his half-smoked fag into the water. Aaron is about to start up the engine when I suddenly say, Look, Aaron, I think I might get out after this one.

What’s that? he says.

The agreement was a few runs, I say, and I’ve done more than a few now.

Mick shakes his head and grins. I can feel the pulse in my ears. Throbbing.

Aaron mimics Mick’s smile now, nods at me in disbelief. With his thumb, he opens the pocket of his jeans wide and says, You live in here now, auld boy. Only we’ll tell you when you’re done.

Aaron, I say.

Here, says Mick. Just shut your mouth and do the run.

Aye, says Aaron. We’ll give you a call soon. Now shoo.

Mick starts up the engine and they manoeuvre the boat away into the darkness. I load up the van with the drugs, my fishing rod, my box of tackle and bait.

The road from the pier is steep, narrow and winding. The engine gives loud grumbles as I shift up the gears. At a crossroads, I turn left, where in a few kilometres I’ll meet the main road to the city. It’s that time of night when the radio plays repeats of shows from earlier in the day. I switch it off, preferring the silence. I think I can smell the drugs, but I don’t even know what’s back there. I’ll only find out if I’m caught and the guards rip open the plastic in front of me.

I see a gleam of light up ahead, near the turn for the main road. My stomach lurches till I realise it isn’t neon blue. It’s a vertical stream of pale light, as if someone is shining a powerful torch up to the sky. I slow down, hunch forward and squint. As I near it, I can make out the shape of a small yellow car. A Fiesta. But it’s all wrong, is on its side, a mess in the ditch. One headlight is shining upwards, the other is smashed in. I lower the window. There’s no sound from its engine. I’m at crawling pace now, inching past the wreckage, when I hear a faint cry. Unconsciously, I brake hard, shift into neutral and pull up the handbrake. A hoarse, frail voice is calling out. Help.

I get out of the van and go over to the car. I’ve to climb onto a grassy bank and lean on the passenger door to look in. An old woman is below. I use the torch on my phone, shine it towards her. She’s trying to undo her seatbelt, could’ve been for ages, but it’s no use, she doesn’t have the strength. She looks a lot older than me, must be mid-seventies. She breathes weakly, taking short intakes of air, letting out slow, pained exhalations. There’s a nasty gash on her forehead. Small shards of glass in her hair look like glistening dandruff. She stares up at me.

Help, she says.

I put my phone back into my pocket. I lean in further, and my feet are off the ground now. Shimmying on my stomach along the cold metal door, I tell her to hang on, I have her. I’m at the limit of my reach when my hand makes it to her seatbelt. On my first try it doesn’t unlock, but then I press it harder and it comes unstuck. She falls into the smashed window beside her, lets out a howl of pain.

Sorry, I say. But you’re nearly there.

With the toes of my shoes I catch a lip of metal on the underside of the car, and it gives me the purchase to lower down.

Grab a hold, I say.

She clasps my right hand with her two hands, and a rotten chill runs along my spine. She’s freezing, surely close to hypothermia.

Up you get, I say, and I start pulling her upwards. She’s as light as a bird. I push off the car with my left hand and nearly have her all the way up when she lets out a cry so primal that it nearly cuts through me.

Easy now, I say, lowering her a little. I look down at her legs. It takes all my power to not get sick. Her right foot is lolling sideways and is at an impossible angle. Her ankle must be broken, dislocated.

What’s your name? I say.

For a while she tries to talk but can only take fitful breaths.

Mary, she whispers, finally.

Right, Mary, I say, don’t worry, you’re doing mighty. Hang on one minute and I’ll be with you again.

Before she can reply, I slide down off the car and make sure to land on my good leg. I run to the van, ignoring the pain in my knee, and grab an old blanket. I ring the ambulance off a private number, give them the location and details of the crash and hang up before they can ask me anything. I go back to the car, climb up and let the blanket fall down.

Put that around yourself, Mary, I say. There’s an ambulance on the way. I’m awful sorry, but I’ve to go.

She looks at me with manic eyes. She must know it’ll take at least an hour for the paramedics to reach this place. For a few seconds, I’m glad she seems to have lost the power of speech, but as I’m clambering down from the car again she says, I’ll die if you go.

I pretend I haven’t heard her and leave. I drive on for five kilometres, ten, trying not to think of anything, until somewhere in my mind I hear the faint laughter of my sons. And I see them, five and seven years old once more, playing on the reef, racing away from the waves as I’m fishing nearby. For a moment I think about driving on, all the way towards the ferry to sail over to England to find them. My knee starts going wild with pain. My breath is loud, unbalanced. I start wiping away tears but it’s like trying to hold the sea back with a spoon.

And when I reach the first roundabout I hear myself say, Fuck it. I take the last exit, go back on myself. I stop crying as a glorious and useless relief runs through me. I drive on faster, well over the speed limit. I only hope Mary is still alive when I make it back. And I hope, too, that when my own end comes, they make it quick.

Mattie Brennan is a graduate of the MA in Creative Writing at the University of Limerick. His fiction has featured in The Stinging Fly, Southword and has been shortlisted for several awards, including the Cúirt New Writing Prize and the Seán O'Faoláin International Short Story Competition. Originally from County Sligo, he now lives in County Clare.