William McGivern - The Caper of the Golden Bulls

Francois rubbed his hands together as if they had suddenly become cold.

A tic pulled rhythmically at the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t worry if everyone believed as I do. But my enemies believe in honour. Like you, they’re fools.”

“Francois, understand me.” Peter’s voice was deceptively mild, but something in his eyes sent an unpleasant chill down Francois’s back.

“I’m doing this job for my friends. To keep them free and alive. If I don’t bring it off, they go down the drain. And so do I. But I promise you this: Before that happens, I’ll break your back with my own two hands.”

“Well, we want the same thing.” Francois managed a shrug, a smile.

“There’s no need for threats. You can count on me.”

The walkie-talkie Peter took from his pocket was no larger than a deck of cards. He looped it about his neck and put a hand on the plunger of the blasting machine. Then he glanced at his watch.

“We’ll see,” he said.

Grace held a walkie-talkie to her lips. She spoke into it sharply:

“Peter? Two minutes!”

She stood at the windows of a third-floor hotel room looking down at the bull pens. In the small square facing the corral, men ranged about in excited groups, glancing from their watches to the bulls. The river curved around the scene like a silver arm, smooth and glistening in the grey morning light.

The animals milled about restlessly. Faint but clear, the brass bells of the oxen sounded on the air.

“Peter?” There was no answer; she began to pray.

“I’m reading you fine.” The voice was Peter’s in miniature, tiny and metallic in her ears. “How do I sound?”

“Perfect.” She tightened her grip on the walkie-talkie to keep her fingers from trembling. “Did everything go all right?”

“No trouble so far.”

“They’re clearing the square now. The police are sending everybody out. One man is going over to the gates of the corral. He’s taking the bar down.”

“I’ve got one minute. Are we synchronised?”

“Yes. Fifty-five seconds now.”

Grace pulled the curtains back and moved closer to the window. On a low platform behind the corral, a Spaniard in uniform knelt beside a plunger attached to a blasting machine. The wires trailing from it ran across the ground to the river bank, and disappeared under a metal shell which was surrounded by a fence of thick wooden posts.

“Thirty seconds,” Grace said.

“What?”

“Thirty seconds.” She made herself speak clearly and firmly. “Thirty seconds, darling.”

“I’m ready.”

“Oh, be careful.”

“None of that now.”

“Yes, I’ll try. They’re opening the gate now. The bulls are moving towards it. I love you, Peter.”

“Ten seconds?”

“Yes. Peter, the bulls are starting to run! They’re ready to blast.”

“Five seconds?”

“Four... three... He’s holding the plunger! Now, Peter. Now!”

The old Basque town rocked with the explosion. Smoke shot out from under the huge metal shell, and rose in erratic puffs above the river.

The bulls were loose!

Grace put a hand tightly against her trembling lips and stared at the creeping second hand on her watch. In the square below the bulls charged the barricades, their neck muscles cresting with excitement and fury. The noise mounted in waves. The oxen circled the raging bulls, their huge brass bells ringing in mournful counterpoint to the joyous roars of the crowd.

The Spaniard on the platform watched the animals alertly, his hand resting on the plunger of the blasting machine.

Grace said a prayer. Then she whispered: “Peter?”

“Yes, I’m okay.” He was panting so hard that Grace could barely make out the words. “It was a good shot. Three feet or more. The second’s all set. What’s happening?”

“The bulls are calming down. Some of them are standing with the oxen. Now the others are coming over to them. There’s only one loose. A big grey and white one. He’s still butting the corral gate. Peter, get ready! He’s turning. He’s trotting across to the other bulls.”

The seven bulls formed a group flanked on all sides by lumbering oxen.

A man in grey twill overalls came out from behind the barricades and cracked a whip. He turned and waved to the Spaniards on the platform.

“They’re running, Peter. Running fast, Now, Peter. Now!” The second blast rocked the city. The bulls were free and on their way, and the daredevils in the barricaded streets ahead of them spat in their hands for luck and took to their heels.

Peter had anticipated everything but the intensity of the noise. He had imagined the look of barricaded streets, the press of the crowd, and, with ghastly clarity, the thrusting, seeking horns of the bulls.

But he hadn’t imagined a clamour like the howling of a storm, limitless and infinite. Steadily and powerfully, the roaring of the crowd grew in volume, while beneath it, like the bass of a great orchestra, the pounding hooves of the bulls shook the earth.

The sound beat on him like flails, numbing and splintering his thoughts. There was a scream in his ears.

“I can’t do it.”

Francois crouched against the wall of the passageway and shook his head at Peter. The words seemed to have torn his mouth; it looked like a ragged hole punched into his straining features.

“You’ve got to!”

“No, no, no.”

Peter struck him across the face.

“There are no free rides,” he said. Then he hit him again, using the back of his hand this time, and the impact of the blow bloodied the Frenchman’s lips and drove him to his knees. Peter hauled Francois up, unlatched the barricade, opened it and booted him into the street.

Francois screamed and ran. Peter leaped after him, the door of the barricade swinging shut with a crash that was lost in the crescendoing roar of the crowd.

The small plaza was like the eye of a storm, an uneasy vacuum surrounded by turbulence and noise. Every window overlooking it was packed with screaming faces. Every eye was turned to the street leading up from the river.

The suicideros were running now. Only a half-dozen still danced nervously about the plaza, eyes rolling back and sideways in their heads to watch for the bulls. Above the rhythmic chanting and bellowing the sound of hooves came on the air like a rumble of artillery fire.

The last of the runners were beautiful in their fear; there seemed a holiness in their terror, some sanctification of the spirit in this willing and ritualistic acceptance of dangers that no sane or prudent man would expose himself to; their smiles were straining and ghastly, but their eyes seemed brightened by the prospects of grace and honour.

Everyone was shouting. The first oxen came into sight, their splayed hooves slapping and banging and slipping on the cobblestones. Then the bulls appeared and all the runners fled from the plaza.

Peter ran as he might in a nightmare. The harder he tried, the less progress he seemed to make; the air was like a physical barrier against his heaving chest, so dense and heavy that it seemed to take all his strength to force his way through it. His feet thudded ponderously, as if they were encased in lead. The street narrowed as it angled into the Estefeta, and the screams of the crowd hammered at the walls of the buildings like a cyclone trapped in a wind tunnel. From balconies and windows, thousands of white, disembodied faces floated above Peter like dangerously inflated balloons. There were thin faces, fat faces, wide faces, and long faces, all with black holes in the middle of them that seemed to be twisting and writhing in agony. Peter’s ribs were like red-hot bars caging his straining lungs. He had a horrid image of an ankle giving way, a pounding heel coming down solidly on an over-ripe banana peel.