Two things at once

Grrr. That’s all I’ve got to say about this government and His Orangeness, over The Pond.

I broke down yesterday. It came at like from left field. I was washing up and ‘He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother’, by the Hollies, came on the radio. And that was it. Floods of the stuff. I’ve only cried twice since I was a kid. One was telling my mum over the phone that Kevin had died the month before last. And yesterday. Bloody disease. It’s ok, though. This government is on top of it. At least not many more siblings are going to have to mourn for their brothers … or sisters

As for the US – and Trump. What can you say? He’s a monster.

[image error]the Bradley Stoke love snake is getting longer

Us? Well we’ve been having a quiet time. My days are quickly filled. I run first thing, Then I read two chapters of Blood Red Earth (I’m at Chapter 10/21), incorporating my proofreader’s notes. The aim is to get that finished by the middle of the month which will give me three weeks to do all the pre-publication stuff – typesetting, etc – which I hate. Then, in the afternoon, I write at least 1000 words of the new book. I am now at 47/75k words, which is about two-thirds of the way through. From experience, what happens now is that I speed up … alongside the plot. I’d hope to get draft one finished by the end of June. And then spend July sorting, before deciding what to do next.

Am I loving it? Well … let me tell you, as I have said before, writing a book is like running a marathon. It’s not for the faint hearted and requires a considerable degree of dedication and discipline. And when you get to the end you’re so exhausted you vow that you’re never going to do it again. But its is such a fulfilling feeling. Such a high.

About now you can begin to see the end – although, if this were a Sam Green novel I’d only be 47/130k words, and that is a completely different thing … like an ultra-marathon. And then it gets a bit easier. But it’s still tough.

Anyhow, Chapter 9 is below. Remember, please, that it is draft one, unedited and unproofread. You are getting it raw. And, enjoy.

Till mid-week. Please stay safe.

[image error]new olive tree!

==========================================

Chapter 9

It was two days later. Emily was out on her bike again, this time with real purpose. Yesterday had been a slow day. She’d wandered around the town without ambition, avoiding Chez Ami and trying to work out what Marc Segal’s business might be. It amused her that her mother had once been out with a fisherman from a small French seaside town – and that Frenchman was now clearly a major crook of some sort, one who had attracted the attention of the French government. What might have happened if her mum had eloped with the gangster? Would Emily be the chef at the restaurant, all miserable and … interesting?

It was a disturbing thought. Although, she had to face it, her mum’s choice of men hadn’t been great. At least – maybe – Marc Segal would have stayed with her and Emily might still have had a dad in her life, albeit a criminal one.

She’d had lunch at a restaurant down from Pierre’s cafe, found herself a piece of shade on the beach and spent the afternoon reading and sleeping. She hadn’t bothered with supper and was in bed by nine.

Today, though, was a special day.

It was the day they ran the bulls. 

She had learnt that, unlike Spain, France had mostly eradicated murdering its bulls for sport. The Camargue’s ‘bullfighting’ involved a raseteur – a matador – stealing rosettes from the horns of the region’s small, but very punchy, black bulls. It’s not without human blood – a raseteur had been gored to death by a bull a couple of years ago – but at least the bull’s made it through the encounter in one piece, even if the odd raseteur wasn’t so lucky.

Today, though, was different. And already Emily felt the buzz.

The town was packed with trucks and horse boxes, and the roads were set up with red and white barriers like a city-based Formula One track. There was a carnival atmosphere and people were pouring into the town.

She was on her bike and heading down the bumpy coast road toward the lighthouse – along with hundreds of other people, and horses, and 4x4s, and all other manner of humanity. It was packed – and slow moving. Leaving aside the guardians, who all looked both fabulous and very warm in their leather and denim gear atop their white horses, everyone else seemed a mixture of creeds and colours. But what made them singular was that they were all tanned, dressed for the countryside and in high spirits. There were dogs and picnic baskets, alcohol and long, thin bags holding numerous baguettes. Emily felt a little conspicuous in white shorts, a yellow singlet and a cycle helmet – helmets were not de rigueur for those on horseback; brimmed hats of every make were.    

Teams of white horses overtook the crowds, the riders a jumble of genders and ages. Other singleton or pairs of horses, often chestnuts and blacks, headed the same way. Emily guessed the riders were just like her, heading down for the spectacle, but had chosen a more pungent and irrational form of transport.

The smell was very stable yard. Even when the horses had moved on through and were just a bum, a swooshing tail and a casual rider above the heads of the crowd..

But that all added to the excitement. It was a completely alien experience to her. It was like she’d been invited to the local hunt – an offer, of course, she’d never accept – and was mixing with its aristocracy. Except, here it was at the working class, farm hand end of the spectrum. There was a dress code: anything you’d muck out a horse out with, and make sure you don’t wash it first. And there was humour – pranks and laughter regurgitated around the drove. Port and Madeira of the hunt had been replaced by bottles without labels. Cucumber sandwiches by chunks of pain and the local, aromatic cheese. 

It was enthralling.

And they hadn’t even started to run the bulls yet.

She sensed that that would raise things to another level. And she couldn’t wait.

The track forked after a couple of miles, the main road leading to the lighthouse bending left. Everyone else was heading right, down through the dunes onto the beach. Emily followed the flow.

The track twisted right then left, through the sandy hummocks and soon opened up onto a huge expanse of beach which floated away into the distance. The crowd spilled into three. The white horses broke into something more than a trot and headed straight down the beach. In the distance Emily could make out tiny groups of … she didn’t know what.

The rest of the crowd, including the more casual horse riders, split left and right. The left, under the dunes, was a set of badly arranged stalls selling quick food, alcohol and hot drinks. To the right, heading towards the sea which was fifty or so metres of pure golden sand away, were crazy, Mad Max cages. It was like the police were expecting a riot and had set mobile jails. The structures were the size of half a shipping container, with the bars wide enough for a normal sized human to squeeze through and, Emily guessed, too narrow for a bull’s head.

She’d found her spot. 

There were ten or so cages. And, she noticed, a few more just beyond the stalls on the left, next to a long row of 4x4s, their occupants sat on the bonnets in party mode. Between the stalls, the vehicles and the cages, and the milling spectators that fanned out into the distance, the stage was set. She was sure of it.

Emily stared into the distance. She was sure the ant-like blots were the bulls and their escorts, the guardians. The stage seemed set so that they would run, whatever that meant, down the beach towards them … towards the funnel created by the 4x4s, the stalls, and the cages. And then up to the track and back to the town.

That was the run?

But how?

When?

Looking at the state of the observers, neither of those questions seemed to matter. It would happen. And they’d know when it did.

Emily looked for somewhere sensible to leave her bike, remembering the words of the campsite owner by Tiki Ill. Someone else had strapped theirs to the back of one of the cages. She did the same.

She looked back down the beach. Nothing had changed. The sun was a quarter of its way through its daily cycle; it was warm, but not yet overly so. Its glance, from over her left shoulder, intensified the swab of main colours. There were four: dark blue, light blue, sand and spiky green. There was lots of it and it was magnificent.

She strolled towards the water, leaving everyone else and their booze and their bread and their burgers behind. As she walked, the sand gently darkened and a new colour appeared. The white ripples of a very sedate sea. To her it was the perfect panorama. The edged-white blues and the now, two-toned sand. The sea went on forever, in both directions. Far left she could make out some industrial towers, a whiff of white smoke from one announcing the arrival of something other than a new pope. To her right the bay swung away from the sun. If she squinted her eyes she could see the high rises of a distant resort. She and her cowboy colleagues were between industry and tourism. The horses and the bulls. Forgotten in time; left to their own devices.

She took off her sandals and waded until her ankles, yet again, were being washed by salt water. It would be an indelible feeling, etched into her history to be relived in an instant.

Barp!

The sound of a handheld fog horn from behind her.

The bulls were on their way.

It took her a couple of minutes to make it back to one of the pens. By then the specks of animals running their way were still too small to make out. But she could see that they weren’t running en masse. There were groups; some appeared to be further ahead than the others.

All of the pens were occupied, but she easily found a slot and squeezed her way to the front, both hands finding a metal upright, her head that of a convict looking at life anew. 

The noise of the crowd rose. There was cheering and chanting. One of the stalls was playing what sounded like folk music at a volume that must have hurt the ears of those standing close. If they didn’t turn it down the horses and bulls would surely bolt …

… and it soon became clear that that was the point.

The funnel – in fact the height of dunes made it more like a tunnel – with its entrance of cages and colours and noises and other unnaturalness was designed to startle anything that got close. Emily knew little about horses. But those she had experienced were spooked by their own shadows. 

This was going to be on an altogether different scale.

Soon the pens were close to full, but there were hundreds of people out amongst the danger, many blocking the route back to the village. 

And still the noise grew.

Whoosh! Bang!

A firework sliced through the sky and then exploded, the sound of twangy guitars and warbling, French lyrical music from the speakers lifted a gear. And the noise from the crowd joined the cacophony as the first team of horses, originally an indistinguishable scratch on the horizon, became form.

Emily squinted her eyes; she could now make them out.

Seven or eight horses with accompanying riders, so close together they might have been conjoined, the surgeons unable to separate them at birth. They were at a trot, not a canter and, disappointedly, the bulls were nowhere to be seen.

That can’t be right?

No!

Yes?

But there were more than seven or eight horses … she could see many more riders in the blob, seemingly in rows behind. 

A minute later, they were proper horses: full size, with nostrils and steam and muscular shoulders and dangerously flicking hooves – and they had reached the far end of the funnel, maybe a hundred metres from her. The crowd, thin at the far edges, surged towards the … she didn’t know what the collective noun for horses was; probably herd, or troop, or stable. ‘Ram’ came to her, because soon that’s what these horses would need to be doing.

Whoosh! Whoosh!

Bang! Bang!

Two more fireworks. If they were anywhere else and dogs would be hiding between the sofa and the radiator.

They were even closer now: thirty metres away with members of the crowd still rushing forward, screaming and waving their arms as if they were seeing off a swarm of bees.

And still the ram came. 

There!

She spotted the bulls.

God!

Poor bloody horses!

How are the riders managing?

Emily did a quick count. Fifteen human heads – that meant fifteen horses. In a diamond shape, close to. No gaps.

In the middle of the diamond were the bulls. They were small. Smaller than the horses, but notoriously feisty. 

She couldn’t see much of them, not yet. But soon the ram would be here, heading for a gap that didn’t exist but the guardians knew was there.

And still they came.

And still the locals ran in front of the leading horses, screamed and waved and then turned before they were trampled. The less brave, but just as noisy, were coming in from the sides.

Fifteen metres now.

She saw it. A brief glimpse. 

A horn. Between two of the leading horses. The horns were uncovered – horse muscle and cowboy limbs millimetres from impalement. 

The first ram was on them now. The noise was incessant and destructive. Another firework launched into the air and then, beyond belief, some lad let off a series of firecrackers at the horses’ feet.

Crack, crack, crack, crack, crack … 

One horse closest to her half-reared, but its rider had complete control and it quickly settled. The ram, a mass of determined, snorting horses, of broad-eyed and desperate bulls managed by deft and agile riders was better than the attack. It held together, and it held strong.

Seconds later the riders were on and above her, and Emily took the closest one in.

It was a woman, her age – but much older. There was experience and confidence about her as though she were born on this particular horse and had been riding it for just as long. She was smiling – and talking to? – the sweaty bull closest to her. As Emily watched, the woman leant into the middle of the ram and patted the animal, which was running along beside her, on its neck. It was an extraordinarily intimate moment. And it made Emily well up … 

… an emotion which was stabbed by the howl of a trumpet; a man on the back of one of the 4x4s, playing out some call to arms from beyond the ram.

More firecrackers and, as the ram pushed on, the crowd parted to let the horses and bulls into the breach … and then closed around them, the ram joined by a magnet of people determined to hustle and jostle the pack all the way to the village.

Emily, who like most of the crowd had been following the first spectacle, was caught by more hollering from where the first ram had come from.

It was the second, with the third just behind it.

These two teams were moving faster than the original and there were just as many mad spectators willing to give the pair of rams a good seeing off.

 The noise grew again. Caught up in the frenzy, Emily mouthed out some loud words, but she couldn’t be sure if any noise came out of her mouth.

The horses of the closest ram were now just twenty metres away. They seemed more determined, less in control … if that combination were possible. It was as though the riders knew of the ordeal to come, were uncomfortable with their own abilities, and the plan was to rush the crowd.

‘This is why you come!’

It was a shout in her left ear from a tall man, his head stooped so his mouth was close enough to be heard.

So enthralled with the oncoming spectacle, she didn’t want to look away to see who it was. But that wasn’t necessary. Even against the noise of the madness, the man’s voice was recognisable. 

It was the chef.

That was too much for her.

The noise and the smells and the fireworks and the heat. The horses and the bulls; and the expertise of the riders – their commitment and compassion.

And against that frenzy, mixed into the heady atmosphere, was Luis Segal. He was at her side.

Has he followed me here?

Was he stalking her?

No. Surely not. 

‘You have an admirer.’ Pierre’s words.

No. Maybe.

She half-turned and looked up. He was there; a half smile. He pointed at the two rams heading their way.

‘You should watch this. It’ll be something.’ His face was no longer expressionless. It was alive. He was excited as the rest of the crowd. And he was pointing in the direction of the horses.

‘This stable is from Agon. They have a reputation.’ He shouted again, his minty breath cut through the smell of the horse sweat and adrenalin.

She followed his lead. And he was right.

It was crazy. Just crazy.

One young lad had to be pulled from under the hooves of one of the side horses; another dived out of the way just before he became a hospital case. The racket and the firecrackers were nothing to the thunder of the two rams. They were cantering by the time they reached the venturi and anything and everything was forced from their paths. Emily could see the bulls much clearer as the speed of their encirclers extended the diamond, creating gaps that really shouldn’t be there.

It was potent. And it was alive. It was as if the animals and the riders and the crowd and the dunes and the sand and the smell was a single being – an holistic behemoth of energy and – and she couldn’t stop herself – sex. It was powerful and dominant … and it was exhausting.

The chef touched her arm. Electricity pulsed through it. In this atmosphere she couldn’t deny it.

‘I’m following the Agon team.’ He shouted. There was no hint that he expected her to follow him.

Emily turned –  his face was animated, his eyes alive. 

She dithered.

My bike? Realism crashed down around her.

She shrugged and half turned, back to the unfolding carnage of horse and bull. She was caught. Lost.

He grabbed her arm again. Gently, but with precision.

Oi?

She didn’t know what to think – to do. So she turned again.

‘Don’t trust him.’ It was a plea from Luis, his face chiselled with concern. He didn’t shout this time. But his lips made the message clear. 

‘Who?’ She thought she knew the answer. No, she did know the answer. And her synapses weren’t working fast enough to make any sense as the beguiling mystery unfolded.

But her question was lost on the back of his long, athletic body as it squeezed through the crowded cage. A second later, like a spy in a crowded street, he was gone. 

It was a full house, but Gbassy was on top of it. The second sitting was in train and, having set the small table up a couple of nights ago for the cute woman and Monsieur Segal’s friend, he’d made some room on the terrace and it was now a permanent feature. Typically his boss had just turned up, looked around, grunted at him – but hadn’t mentioned the new addition to the seating arrangements. Instead he had spread his largesse around the place and was now sat at a table of four locals reminiscing about today’s bull run.

It was something Gbassy could relate to. Because he had seen it. All of it. And he couldn’t have been more thrilled.

He had known this morning that they weren’t opening for lunch because of the pageantry and he’d expected to have a quiet day tidying up here and there. Assuming Monsieur Segal wasn’t coming in for his coffee and collect the takings, Gbassy had thought he might walk into town to see if he could find some Wifi, maybe even look for a Western Union branch or, if he were able, buy a SIM for his phone.

He had been disappointed, therefore, that just as he was finishing his morning ablutions a car pulled into the carpark. It was a small, tatty blue one. He’d never seen it before. But he recognised the driver. It was Luis Segal.

Gbassy was on the terrace in just his boxers, drying his face.

‘Get dressed! You’re coming with me,’ the chef shouted from across the hardened, parched earth.

Gbassy was initially unsure. It was an order from Luis Segal and one he knew he wouldn’t disobey. But, even though there was kindness in his demeanour, he dithered.

‘Come on! We have to get going.’ Luis Segal was waving now.

That was enough. Gbassy darted inside the hut, threw on his jeans and a shirt, slipped on his shoes, grabbed last night’s tip – which was twelve Euros – and his phone, and rushed outside. Halfway across the car park, he skidded to a halt, turned around, ran back to the restaurant, locked it, and ran back towards the car.

Luis Segal was stood by the driver’s door.

‘Where are we going?’ Gbassy asked, tentatively.

‘We’re going to the bull run. Have you got some cash?’

Fifty Euros – one twenty and three tens – flashed through his consciousness. He stammered.

The chef stretched across the roof of the car. He had ten Euros in his hand. He thrust it at Gbassy.

‘Here. This is for some food and drink.’

Involuntarily, Gbassy found himself leaning away from the note, as though it were infected. It was all too much.

‘What? Take it!’ Luis Segal was insistent, bordering on indignant. He pushed the note at Gbassy’s chest.

Gbassy reluctantly took the money between a single finger and his thumb and, with both men staring at each other, he replied, ‘Thank you, Sir.’

Luis Segal, the chef who had cooked him supper, the man who had stood up to his father on Gbassy’s behalf … forced a smile.

‘It’s Luis.’ The chef said. And then he added something which Gbassy did not understand.

‘We’ve more in common than you think.’ 

At that point the chef had lost his smile. His face was earnest now and, as they held the pose across the roof of the car for what seemed like an age, an energy seemed to bind them.

‘Let’s go.’ Luis Segal broke the deadlock. He got in the car. Gbassy followed suit.

The chef drove the car like it was an extension of his soul. At one point Gbassy was sure they were going to crash, but the man had complete control. 

The main road into town was busy, but Luis Segal knew some shortcuts and soon they were driving along a track between a row of houses and a canal, probably not far from where his boat had landed, but inland.

They turned a corner and were met by scores, maybe hundreds, of vehicles, all parked haphazardly. The chef found a spot and brought the car to a halt. Gbassy looked around. There were horse boxes and big trucks – more like mobile stables – with their backs down. There were cars and scooters. There were horses, some with riders, others tethered, nibbling at bails of hay. And there were hundreds and hundreds of people. It was like the Saturday market at Kankan, without the stalls. And they were all heading in one direction: seaward.

‘We’re going to walk to where the bulls start their run,’ They were both out of the car now. Luis Segal was stood by the bonnet. Gbassy was slower, he was closing his door, lost in the carnival. ‘It will take us half an hour. I’ll pick up some bread at the bakers on the way. Okay?’

Okay?

Of course he was okay.

Luis Segal was behaving as if he, a poor, black Guinean illegal, were human. 

He continued to take in the scene.

Amazingly he wasn’t the only black in the crowd; there were a number of faces just like his. It all seemed so normal. All of a sudden he felt as though the issues and torment of the past three months were dissolving; a weight was slowly lifting.

If Luis Segal treats me as if I’m human, maybe there is a chance for me at Tiki Ill ?

‘Yes. Sir … Luis. I’m very fine. Thank you.’ His words were without conviction; it was all so new. He squeezed out a toothy smile.

‘Good. Let’s go and get some food.’ Luis put his hand on Gbassy’s shoulder and led him into the crowd.

Half an hour later they had made it onto the beach. People were milling everywhere. There were strange cages and market stalls and vehicles and a population you couldn’t count. There was noise and music and shouting. There was colour and smells.

Gbassy was mesmerised. He’d never seen anything like it.

And he loved it.

He and Luis were sitting on top of a dune, above the crowd. The chef instinctively knew where to get the best view. It seemed that the bulls and horses were off to their left. The crowd below them formed a v-shape which, he assumed, the bulls would run through. He was very glad they were high up and out of the way of all manner of danger – the least of which might be from the bulls. There were plenty of inebriated men milling around, a number of them very boisterous. 

Luis tore off a piece of bread from a thin loaf and handed it to him. He then pulled out a pack of four small beers from a shopping bag.

Their eyes met as the chef ripped off a can from the plastic ring and held it out for him. 

Gbassy saw depth then. A depth of compassion and understanding that caught him off guard. It was as though there was a bond between them, a bond Gbassy couldn’t describe. Or begin to understand.

Luis  blinked.

And then a smile dissolved the intensity of the moment.

‘You’re a Muslim?’ The chef asked.

‘Yes.’ Gbassy nodded.

‘I have some water.’ Luis was already delving into the bag. He took out a plastic bottle and handed that to Gbassy instead.

‘Thank you.’ He didn’t know what else to say.

‘It’s nothing.’ The chef was now looking towards the bulls and the horses, one group of which was heading their way.

Gbassy chewed at some bread and twisted the cap off the water. He was focused on the middle distance. 

And then he saw her.

The cute woman.

She was walking from the direction of the sea towards one of the cages.

Yes. It was definitely her.

‘Sir!’ It was more than a whisper.

‘What?’ Luis turned back towards him, his face a frown.

‘The girl. She’s there …’ Gbassy pointed in the direction of the woman.

‘Wha …?’ Luis didn’t finish. Instead he’d followed Gbassy’s finger and found the girl straight away.

In a moment he was on his feet.

‘Take everything. Eat it all. Give the beer away.’ He was brushing the sand from his shorts. ‘Do you know how to get back?’ The chef was talking without really paying attention to what he was saying. His eyes were on the English woman.

Getting back to the restaurant would be easy.

‘Yes, sir. Go, sir. I’ll be fine.’

Gbassy was unsure if the chef heard him. He was already halfway down the dune.

Which gave Gbassy two dramas to watch. The horses and the bulls. And the chef and the English woman. One was mad and bold and noisy and dangerous. The other was fleeting and touching … and lasted just a couple of moments. 

And then it was over.

All that was left was the smell of burnt fireworks, a mingling crowd which was heading home, some vehicles and maybe ten metal cages, that looked like they might have once held slaves for the auditorium.

It was an odd vision. And it didn’t last.

Gbassy had followed the final group of horses and bulls back into town. Nothing other than restaurants and cafes had been open, so he had been unable to find a SIM for his phone. But he did find a shop which had a Western Union banner in its window. And, luck of lucks, when he walked past the entrance to the campsite he turned on his phone, just in case.

There it was. An open WiFi network.

Which was such a relief.

He found a comfortable spot on the side of  the track and put together a short email. He  sent it to one of the village elders. It explained that he was in France, safe and would be in touch very soon with much more detail. And would they please pass on his love to his family.

Gbassy got back to the restaurant mid-afternoon, set the tables, showered, prayed and, by then, Luis had turned up. The chef was in an indifferent mood and untalkative, so Gbassy gave him room. He had, however, left the four beer cans on the side by the fridge. It didn’t seem right to hand then over to a complete stranger. The chef hadn’t commented on them.

And now the evening was drawing to a close. Which was good. Because once the crowd had gone and he’d cleared up, he would prepare a much fuller email, walk to the entrance of the campsite and send it. Maybe there’d be a response from Guinea waiting in his inbox?

Maybe.

As he cleared a set of plates, he realised he was smiling to himself.

It had been a good day. No, a great day.

‘Oi.’ Monsieur Segal was at his side by the time he had reached the door to the kitchen.

Gbassy stopped. He couldn’t turn to face the man, because he was carrying too much and the doorframe was only so wide. So instead, he twisted his head.

‘Yessir.’ 

‘There’s a boat tomorrow night.’ His boss spoke in quiet tones. ‘It’s more complicated this time. You’ll need to be on the ball.’

Gbassy’s heart dropped. A balloon of contentment and hope had been pierced with one sentence: there’s a boat tomorrow night. He didn’t say anything.

‘Well?’ The boss almost spat the words.

‘Yessir. I’ll be ready … yessir.’

‘Good. Don’t let me down.’

Marc Segal turned on his heel. And was gone.

Gbassy sighed to himself. His day had just got slightly less wonderful.