Sangre De Toro (Old Draft - Now Published!)

Chapter 42 - Descent into Hell

And there, he could perform his masterpiece.

The Taurine Club had organised top secret corridas there before, with tickets selling for thousands on Telegram and the dark web. Despite his distaste for these illegal ticket-buyers, there for the violence rather than artistic passes, excellent capework and skilled swordsmanship, Pepelito's last dance demanded an audience. The entire mundillo wanted that bull dead – now.

Henry was taking a huge risk.

But what did Papa Hemingway once say? Ah yes. 'The corrida is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death.'

Henry turned his attention back to the screen, wishing he could hear sound. Rita was saying something to the bulls. He knew it was about him.

'Good evening, sir, would you like any snacks or drinks?' a flight attendant asked.

'Get me some Cava, would you. And after that, let the pilot know there's been a change of plan, we're landing at the Armitage Hotel, near Burton on the Water,' Henry said without looking. The young man did not respond. Henry had forgotten to turn the camera feed he was watching off. The flight attendant stared at the screen, his eyes wide with absolute terror. Turning pale, he abandoned his drinks trolley.

After turning the camera feed off in case another nosy little scrote came by with a trolley, Henry got up and followed the young man as he half walked, half ran through the aisle, past the other passengers. Those club members who turned around merely gawked at the scene as if they were sat in the stands, watching their - and his - favourite spectacle. The others sat in their seats, working on their laptops or looking at their phones.

'He's the k-' the flight attendant started to yell, but Henry grabbed him and clamped a hand over his mouth. If this pleb was expecting help, he wouldn't get any from those on board, Henry thought, pushing him away from the aisle, through the door of one of the toilets.

He needed this.

He'd waited long enough.

Henry stood behind the steward and pulled out a knife, pressing it against the man's throat as the anticipation built inside him. Rita's gun was in his suitcase, so he'd use this tried and tested British method. No tedious, bureaucratic security procedures on a private jet purchased with his own money, thank you very much. He whispered in the man's ear. 'Do you want to say what you were going to say again?'

The man shook his head, trembling with fright. 'No. Please. I'll tell the pilot.'

'Don't be silly,' Henry said, drawing the blade across the flight attendant's neck. The blessed release flooded through him as the man took his last breath, as it only did when he took a life.

Henry shut the door, pushing the man's feet into the cramped space, then locking it with an app on his phone. Then he calmly walked back to his seat and waited for someone who would actually do their job.

****

'Hey, Chicero,' Rita said, looking at the grey bull through the bars. He was a bit bigger than Pepelito; his rough fur was slightly curly on his back. He was still so timid and frightened, but somewhat calmer, standing beside Pepelito on the adjacent section of the compartment. The rope round Chicero's horns was tight and clearly hurting him. If only she could cut it off as she had done with Pepelito. Seeing their mutual care and affection made her smile.