CW: Attempted (don't worry) sexual assault scene
'...everything is wonderful, yes. Just wonderful,' Henry simpered to the hotel owner and his son. Their shoes clunked on a metal platform. The group stood metres, possibly centimetres away from Rita; the first time she'd heard Henry's voice since he kidnapped her. Her cell was the length and width of a bull slightly bigger than Pepelito. The ceiling was too high for her to reach, even when she jumped. The tiny holes at the top let in no light.
Rita had tried to follow Pepelito after the plane doors banged shut, when he'd run into the darkness; fright and shock had caused her to drop the pole. Unable to see where she was going, she had stumbled down the lightless corridors after the bulls and blundered through a labyrinth of narrow passages. Several doors had slammed behind her; she'd taken a wrong turn into the tiny compartment. She'd screamed at first, banged on the door to be let out, before the thought of Henry getting himself off to her screams repulsed her so much she'd stopped.
Nobody seemed to have heard anyway.
'It's my great pleasure, Henry. As long-standing, wholehearted supporters of yours, we will most certainly assist you in whatever you require. Won't we, Edwin?'
'I do have a slight quibble about the sand, given my bulls are from authentic Spanish encastes, and their gait will be of some import,' Henry said. Rita punched her mouth with her fist to stop herself laughing. This sadistic serial killer, who presumably planned to kill her, was complaining about sand?
'The sand?' the hotel owner said.
'Yes, Jolyon. Why have you filled the arena with builder's sand from an industrial estate, rather than authentic Spanish albero? Will it not be rather dense? I'm risking my life with two raging bulls.' Henry's voice was ice cold. Rita could not believe what she was hearing.
They have all lost it, she thought. Not just him.
'As am I, Henry. One of mine is even authentically Spanish. It is my 25th birthday, after all. I see no problem with the sand, it's from a British source, better than some EU import. Carlos Lopez, who will face Bulls 2 and 4, has informed me he prefers it to the traditional variety,' Jolyon's son Edwin said in a haughty, aggrieved tone.
Rita held her breath incredulously.
Bulls 2 and 4?
'I see,' Henry said with a slight sneer. Rita wanted to laugh at his folly and scream in horror. Like Castella, he'd put himself above the law – where he probably still remained – with wealth, power and connections.
'I am sure it shall be suitably different. Perhaps, when taurine activities are once again legal in our land, this uniquely British sand will be part of our own tradition.' Henry's voice was mocking and sardonic.
'Rest assured, Henry, there is nothing to worry about, old sport,' Jolyon said. Maybe he didn't know she was there? If Henry pissed these people off enough, would they grass him up themselves?
'I'm sure not. Forgive me.'
They were obviously part of some illegal British bullfighting network, so they'd probably keep their mouths shut, but Henry's case was all over the news. Maybe one would be tempted to claim the reward; these men treated each other as terribly as they did the poor animals. And planes were noisy. Someone would have heard it landing.
Surely?
Rita tensed up. From the way their steps vibrated, she knew they were directly above her. Early that morning – she assumed it was morning – she'd heard a bull whimpering in distress as a group of men laughed, a terrible sound made worse by the silence of the place. Please, don't let that be Pepelito, she'd thought. She had tried to force her fingers under the door, but she'd only scraped her hands underneath the metal and cut her finger.
'So the opening bull, and your first, to confirm, Henry, is the grey Saltillo. Chicero. Is that correct?' Jolyon said.
'Yes, although he seems very cowardly. Quite a lack of nobility there. How much of a show I can wrangle out of him remains to be seen. One can try to be optimistic.' Feeling ill, Rita pictured Chicero shaking with fear after she dropped the pole on his foot, clearly expecting worse to come.
'Very cowardly. You should see what a fuss he made when we fixed his horns. Pathetic,' Edwin scoffed. Rita's heart went out to the animal as she felt along the walls, searching in vain for a way out in the dark. These men despised the bull's vulnerability. If they got what they wanted, Chicero would die never knowing humans could be kind.
She missed both of them.
'And, of course, Henry, you'll take number 6. Something of a special occasion for our mundillo, is it not?' Jolyon, Edwin and Henry all laughed, their voices full of excited bloodlust. It was obvious which bull they meant.
The one who got away.
'Number 6, yes. Pepelito. The very last bull of the evening.' Henry sounded delighted.
'Shall we make a move? Let's get them out of the pen and into the torils.' Panic filled Rita at Jolyon's words. Were they going to drive a bull into her cell? Any bull entering the tiny space could kill or injure her, let alone one driven crazy with pain and fear.
'Yes. I'm sure you won't mind, Jolyon, but I've taken the liberty to store my traje de luces and espada in one of them, in preparation for the final bull of the evening. They belonged to Juan Belmonte, so they're exceptionally valuable, and as we can all appreciate, tickets sold on the dark web attract some disreputable characters.' Henry used a completely incorrect pronunciation for the Spanish words for matador's costume and sword. Rita stifled a laugh, in spite of her terror.
She held her breath. They didn't know. Killing her in front of an audience corrida style could be too much, even for people willing to host Henry. They'd be in enough trouble once the police discovered they were harbouring him. Illegally murdered animals were OK, but a dead cop – maybe too much jail time for them to risk.
'You do realise there are only six torils, right?' Edwin said.
'Of course I realise, I've been to enough corridas,' Henry said irritably. 'I don't wish to attract the attention of your housekeeping staff, masters of discretion as I'm sure they are. I'm a wanted man. And in any case, I'm sure the police would have something to say regarding this breach of the Cruelty to Animals Act.'
'You'll have to move them, so we can fit another bull in.' What?
'I realise. Myself and Rupert will do that,' Henry snapped.
'Very well. I do understand how particular many of the greatest toreros are about their suits. Though what a pity you do not trust us, I must say.' Sick with fear, Rita thought she heard Edwin mutter something under his breath as two – or was it three? pairs of footsteps retreated across the floor.
Probably wishful thinking.
How was Pepelito holding up? He'd been so calm on the plane. After a few minutes, she heard a miserable sounding cry and a man shouting. Her heart broke for the poor creatures. Being unable to see made it worse, as her imagination filled in the gaps. Whatever they did to the animals, they could do to her.
*
'Hello, Rita.' Henry's sudden voice made her jump and her stomach twist with nausea.
'Fuck you, Henry,' she said quietly, determined not to show fear. He laughed, sliding back the lid. She winced, blinded by the unexpected light above her. She couldn't see his face; just his shiny loafers as he stared down at her.
'Since you like bulls so much, I thought I'd let you share this experience. But don't worry, I'll bring you out in time for you to see Pepelito running across the sand, tossing his great crown for his final moment of glory.' Rita stared up. He was breathing heavily. The thought of her watching the bull die was clearly getting him off.
'That 'moment of glory' won't happen. You're insane. He'll gore you!' Spitting out the words, she made herself believe it.
'He's manso. Have you seen him? He won't gore me. What wishful thinking. Relying on a cowardly bull to save you.'
'Manso?' Rita sneered.
'Such an aficionado, throwing around these words. I guess you know how many years my brother-in-law had to train to become a matador. The training isn't easy. It's not some course you do on holiday with your friends.' She mocked him, remembering an email from Heather that morning about the Taurine Club and their Mexican adventures. Praising Castella truly stuck in her throat, but she had to speak Henry's language.
Betraying no fear, she continued, 'This isn't some underweight 3-year-old novillo. He's a full-sized bull who's already survived a corrida. He's tame with me, so you think it'll be easy, I get it. But that's me. You have no idea what you're doing.'
Henry was silent.
'He knows his enemy. He gored one of Castella's assistants. Almost killed him.' Rita kept her voice calm. Unnerve him enough, and maybe Chicero would have a chance if the cops hadn't shown up by evening.
'I'll be in good company, then! Juan Belmonte was gored 50 times in one season!' Henry spluttered at last. Rita's lip curled as she stared dumbfounded, unable to hold back the giggles.
'50 times? Are you sure?'
'Shut up, you bitch, don't fucking laugh at me. Will you just fucking shut up! Shut up! Shut up!' Henry snarled, stamping his foot. He thrusted the metal pole for spearing on the divisas at Rita, scratching her in the face with its sharp steel point, then her arm, breaking the skin so it bled. He poked her hard in the stomach, again and again. The pain registered; a small spot of blood showed through her top. She tried to grab the end. He was too fast –
'Pardon? Fine, yes, I'll fetch Lord Owenstoft and we'll move the damn thing just before it starts.' He withdrew his arm, flustered, tossing the pole away from him.
'You really want to kill him? Good luck with that,' Rita said under her breath. Henry slammed the lid down and she was enveloped in darkness again.
In his fury, he didn't shut it properly.
*
After Henry left, Rita had tried to reach the hatch, taken off her clothes and stood on the pile to gain height. It hadn't worked. Freezing from the air conditioning, she'd dressed herself again in the dark, but the wet, dirty clothes made her shiver and she was feeling the lack of food.
Now, she covered her ears against the sounds of doors slamming, men shouting and bulls grunting and bellowing as they were driven into the cells. How had they got hold of another four? Sitting in the darkness, Rita felt as alone and frightened as the bulls did. Was anyone coming? Did anyone know where she was? Had her colleagues abandoned her?
Footsteps lightly trod on the metal platform above and Rita held her breath; a shadow blocked out what little light came from the slightly open hatch.
'Costume my foot. So the allegations are true. Stupid fool didn't close it properly.' Edwin looked inside and glowered, propping open the hatch and lowering his legs into the hole.
'You better get me out,' Rita spat, hating him, as he swung down into the cell, pulling the hatch shut after him. All the light disappeared.
'No such luck, Señora,' he laughed, breathing hard. 'After everything Father and I have done for the ungrateful blighter, why should Henry get all the pleasure? Probably my last opportunity, after all.'
Rita sprang up. She couldn't see him in the dark. He pinned her against the wall and pressed a sharp object to her throat. She pushed him away and tried to knee him in the groin. It didn't work. His warm, sweaty hand reached under her top. She stamped on his foot, shoved him in the stomach and tried to bite him in the face. Somewhere nearby, a bull knocked against its own metal door, snorting.
'Fight all you want. I don't take no for an answer.' Edwin pushed her against the cold stone wall, fumbled with the buckle on his trousers. Fuck this. She elbowed him hard. He gasped; she did it again. The knife clattered to the floor, and she kicked in the direction she thought it had landed. The box was so narrow her foot hit the wall. She struck out again with her knee and he grunted in pain. His fist collided with her stomach, knocking out the air.
Dizzy, she slumped to the floor over his foot, her hands aching, her stomach stinging from where Henry attacked her. Unsuccessfully, she reached for the knife. Was that it? No. He kicked her hard. She couldn't think from the pain. She had to do something, fast. She couldn't see the knife, but. But. That was his foot. Gripping his trousers, she sat up, and sank her teeth into his bony leg, clamping hard until she drew blood. The bull bellowed somewhere. As Edwin screeched in agony, she headbutted him in the groin, scrabbled to her feet and punched him hard in the face.
At the punch Edwin slipped and toppled backwards. There was a sickening thud as his head knocked against the wall, and again on the metal door. The knife's handle clacked on the ground as he fell. Rita crawled around the floor, running her hand over the concrete. She found it. Good. He tried to sit up and gripped her arm – while her other hand clenched the cold wooden handle.
'You bitch,' he gasped, gagging, falling back onto the cold floor as Rita buried the knife deep in his chest. What she'd done sank in as she sat shaking beside him. She'd fired her weapon before but this was the first time she had ever killed anyone. The court would accept self defence, wouldn't they?
She put her hands in his pockets and found his phone and a key card for the cells. With the torchlight, she saw it had expired a month ago. How did he imagine he would get out?
Wait for his dad? Or Henry?
Stupid.
His phone was locked, and the bar of signal for emergency calls disappeared as quickly as it appeared.
'No network,' the screen said as Rita waved the phone around to try and make a call.
Still, she had light now, and a knife.
And, if only for a second, the signal bar had displayed.
AN: Henry does have a point regarding the 'authentic' sand - see if you can guess what it is? 🤣