Bull Running For Girlsl Read Online Free Page A

woman screamed. The people at the table in front of hers were closer to the cobbled street; they flung their chairs to one side and almost clambered over her to get into the café. Red wine spilled down her blouse as Michael grabbed her hand and dragged her into the entrance. Frantz followed close behind.
    “Get inside. Quick,” shouted Michael.
    The sound became louder, thunderous.
    Something horrid was thrown into the entranceway of the café.
    Outside, a sweat-soaked bull scrambled and slipped on the wet cobblestones, fell to its knees in front of the occupants and glowered at them. They fell back in panic into the dubious safety of the premises. The bull managed to get to its feet and then, with an indignant bellow, was gone. Another scream and Elise craned her neck to see what else was causing the commotion. A few people ran off in the opposite direction that the bull had taken—away from the blood-soaked body on the pavement. Others stood over the man, staring and pointing him out to their fellow onlookers.
    “Look—his hands and feet have been tied together,” cried out one person.
    Elise managed to break through the circle around the body. She looked down.
    The face was unrecognisable; the nose torn away as it had been dragged along the cobblestones. The rope around his wrists was still secure, his hands a mockery of common prayer. The man had been tied to the bull and the beast had dragged its grisly burden through the streets of Pamplona long after he was dead. He was naked from the waist down, a torn bloody shirt covering the upper part of him. The most horrifying thing of all, even though most of the body was grazed and covered in blood, was that the man had been castrated.
    The police and a priest were called. The police took statements and cordoned off the area. Finally, after Elise and the boys had told them all they knew the police told them they could go.
    “Shall we go back to the hostel?” Michael asked.
    “No, not yet,” said Elise. “I need another glass of wine.”
    As they left the café the three continued to speculate over the grim incident that had taken place. Elise tried to avoid the trail of blood, which could quite clearly be seen on the street.
    “What on earth had that man done?” added Michael. “Perhaps he fell afoul of some woman’s husband?”
    Frantz shrugged, “I’d rather not talk about it. There’s a bar in the next street. Come on.”
    “Don’t you want to talk about it Elise? Frantz is always like that, avoiding things.”
    “Yes, Michael—I do but let’s find that bar first.”
     
    The Txoko bar was full of locals, but quiet. The three found a corner where they could discuss what had happened. The unusually silent people in the bar were staring at them, and in a city of a thousand tourists there for the bull running, it made them feel quite vulnerable. Elise wanted more wine and ordered two bottles. She drank a full glass quickly, poured herself another and one each for her friends. A withered old woman sat in a chair opposite her and seemed to challenge Elise to stare at her. Elise wasn’t entirely sure that this was a woman; her legs below the knee-length skirt seemed mannish despite their age, and lipstick didn’t sit well on her lips. Her black wig was slightly askew and Elise thought that she looked like a very poor imitation of Edith Piaf. The woman smiled—strangely—at Elise and shuffled off into the night with a brief glance over her shoulder.
     
    The next day was the first day of the festival in honour of Saint Fermin. It was the seventhof July. At 8 a.m. a rocket signalled that the corral doors had been opened and a second rocket heralded the entrance of the twelve bulls in the uphill stretch called Santa Domingo. Many of the young men wore white shirts and trousers with the traditional red sash around the waist, but many just wore what they felt they could easily run in. Elise wore a simple white blouse and shorts. She tied a red ribbon in