Henry reclined in his leather seat, a glass of port in his hand, watching the screen embedded in the seat in front of him, on which was a live feed only he had permission to access. He wasn't remotely surprised Rita had broken from her restraints.
He'd expected that.
The club's private jet was mostly empty. On it, along with some of Castella's assistants and the young, fresh faced and almost entirely British hired cabin crew, were the handful of trusted souls who hadn't been arrested, gone home early, flaked out, or fled. Where was George, anyway? He'd told Henry he'd be late, then never arrived. Probably got lost wandering past a school.
What fine entertainment this live feed was. The marvels of technology! From Henry's vantage point in the corner of the ceiling, he watched, both amused and sickened as Chicero stood shaking.
The bull hailed from one of the oldest, most prestigious encastes, yet lacked the bravery and nobility worthy of the lineage. Before their final glorious drama played out on the sands, these beasts lived like kings. Henry expected better than this undignified comportment.
What other animal got to do that? Better than being a battery chicken!
A member of the cabin crew walked past and Henry quickly turned the screen off, checked WhatsApp on Rita's phone, and then his own. The Spanish police had read his messages, and he smiled, enjoying this hitherto undiscovered thrill. But he'd been unceremoniously kicked from many Tory group chats, though several had renamed themselves and quietly added him back.
The comments in the WhatsApp groups he could still access incensed him. 'This Henry Dixon saga keeps getting worse. Serious damage control needed I think. I'm getting so many letters from angry constituents asking me if I knew he was a serial killer.'
'Yeah, it's pretty much nailed on I've lost my seat with the latest polls.' Two MPs reacted to this with crying emojis.
Someone posted a Mirror article saying, 'KILLER TORY LATEST: Missing journo found ALIVE in demented Dixon's house of horrors - along with heads of stolen cats, horses and dogs.'
The first text underneath read, 'Jesus. We are fucked.'
So they'd found his cellar.
Everything he'd done, all the hard work he'd put into it, gone in an instant. The police would be poring over his exhibits with their grubby hands. Considering the thousands, if not millions of pounds spent on the project, the hours whiled away, gave him a lump in his throat.
For the first time in his life, Henry felt like one of the homeless people who blighted his view of London, the ones he stepped over on the way to the Houses of Parliament, who were always being kicked out of the doorways of the sumptuous hotels where the aficionados had their lunches and dinners. Just where was he supposed to go?
This didn't happen to people like him.
He'd been added to a secret Telegram chat, called 'Henry Dixon is innocent' run by a group of Tory MPs. While he detested the idea of his achievements going unrecognised, he would have to take the help. A smile came over his face as he scrolled through his messages.
The panic was over.
In that Telegram group, already ready with an offer of help, was the proprietor of his favourite five-star Cotswolds hotel, Sir Jolyon Richmond. There, he could figure out his next step – and the location was wonderful for deer stalking and pheasant shooting.
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.
Maybe these emotional, curious, sensitive creatures could one day forget what humans had done to them.
And then she saw the door.
It was camouflaged, sealed shut and marked 'Only for emergency use.' Chicero had already bashed at it. As he had failed, she was unlikely to break it through force alone. Beside it was a keypad. The bottom rung of the metal barrier was high enough for someone to fit under. Chicero was unpredictable, maybe aggressive.
But she had to take the risk.
'Help him see I won't hurt him. Can you do that, dulcito,' she said, as Pepelito licked her arm. Chicero lay staring at her, so Rita edged away as far as she could before attempting to get under the bars, not making eye contact. Her heart pounded. While never seriously injured, he'd known nothing but cruelty from humans.
That made him dangerous.
'Help me out. I'll be back,' she said to Pepelito, sliding her legs slowly under the bars, as painstakingly as she could with the wet floor and trousers. As Chicero's huge wet nose sniffed her ankle, she froze.
'I promise I'll never hurt you,' she whispered, and pressed herself against the ground and held her breath, hoping he wouldn't step on her. Eventually he turned around. She continued trying to wriggle under the bars, taking care not to startle him. She was too old for this shit, once you got past 40 the backaches just got worse. Once underneath, Rita lay there, watching the bull until she was sure getting up was safe. Then, she got to her feet and tiptoed towards the door, creeping as close to the compartment wall as she could.
Chicero got up and turned around as Rita pressed the emergency exit button. It emitted one loud beep, but absolutely nothing happened. He growled, his posture threatening, pacing towards her as Pepelito watched from behind the metal bars, and she tried not to make any sudden movements.
'I'm not like them. I won't hurt you,' she kept repeating. Chicero watched her warily, taking another step towards her. With one eye on the bull, she took the broken cable tie and slid it down the door. There was no handle. It didn't move. The blue LED display on the keypad said she had 3 attempts and needed an 8-digit number.
'What? You've gotta be fucking joking.'
Chicero scraped the ground with his hooves and bellowed. He took several steps backwards, his tail twitching. Rita's heart pounded in her chest, trying to say something. She couldn't. She had to get out. Now. Her wet clothes made it so cold. Chicero stamped threateningly on the ground with his head down, then bounded towards her, his horn slamming into the side of the container inches from her face. He walked back, but neither of them had anywhere to go.
There was a metal bar on the ground. Maybe she could open the door with that. At least deter him -
She dove towards it as Chicero prepared to charge again, slamming to the ground and snatching it up, yelling out in pain as she fell with her weight on her knees. As she pulled herself to her feet, the pole slipped from her hands and struck Chicero's foot. Before she realised what happened he was cowering in terror, taking several steps back from her, shaking his tail and crying.
'Oh no. Oh, I'm sorry.'
Instantly her fear evaporated, replaced with a horrible sense of guilt. Hurting the bull was the last thing she'd wanted; she'd just wanted him to stay away from her. As she watched, he turned around to Pepelito for reassurance. Pepelito gave her a miserable, reproachful look and she felt even worse.
'I'm so sorry, pobrecito, I never meant to hurt you,' she whispered, feeling herself well up. She rammed the door with the bar and kicked the door hard. It just would not open. She put the pole by the door and looked back at Chicero, whose aggression had receded and was gazing at her miserably, like when she'd first seen him in that horrible pen. She took the long rope tying him to the wall in her hands and cut into it with the tie, wishing she could remove it altogether. The rope couldn't stop him goring her anyway.
'Founded 1959', the logo of the Taurine Club declared, stamped on the wall under that stuffed bull's head. Didn't the website say it was founded on the 5th of July 1959, during the Pamplona bull-run? Rita tried the date. It did nothing. Maybe it was Juan Belmonte's birthday – when was that? Maybe Manolete's – or that of some other famous matador, like Castella?
Sometimes, matadors got gored. Nowhere near enough in Rita's opinion. Aficionados viewed their dramatic deaths like martyrdom in a holy war. Some animal rights activists also marked these gruesome occasions in their mental calendars. Perhaps Alfonso could name a date. He'd definitely know someone who could. Instinctively she reached for her phone. Its absence provoked more nausea. She imagined the killer looking at her pictures, reading her texts, searching through her contacts. It made her feel violated.
He'd have her police phone too.
And her gun.
As she stood facing the keypad, feeling dizzy, sick and faint, Chicero snorted from behind her. Rita's legs shook as the large bull approached her.
'How am I supposed to guess, eh, torito,' she gulped. As she spoke, the angle of the ground shifted beneath her feet as the plane began its descent.
'What the...' Chicero's feet skidded on the mat; he grunted, staring into the empty trough. When was the last time the bulls drank? It was freezing in this part of the plane, but today had been hot. Had she dreamt giving Chicero a bottle of water?
A short distance from the door, Rita noticed a label stuck on the wall with a barcode and an 8-digit number. Maybe it was that? Not a date at all. Keeping an eye firmly on Chicero, Rita entered the code, but again nothing happened. The plane lost more height and she felt herself well up again as she peered to see if the bull was limping.
She had one more attempt left, and decided to try a different tack - Henry's birthday. She'd seen it on Wikipedia. Biting her lip, she entered the date she recalled carefully – 17th September 1978 – as Chicero edged forward, sniffing the air around her. His horn grazed her back and his throat rumbled. Come on, she thought. Please.
The code was incorrect.