I saw headlights pulling in at the front of the cottage. Amy had come home from the dance to put her feet up. But there was one waltz yet to go. Or shall I call it a tango? With the bull.
Picasso put on his bee-keeper’s gear, overalls, gloves and a veil – he didn’t look like a blushing bride in it – and came up to the top of the centre aisle where someone had brought in jumping poles to paint. They stood upright against the wall. To their left was a wasps’ nest.
For this to work, y’see, the law’d have to at first conclude that Amy came home, saw the TV on, wondered where her sister was, saw the light on in the shed, went in to check, found that the bull was loose and in the wrong bay, tried to shoo it back to where it should have been – out of harm’s way from the open slats – and found that it, coming into the mating season and pissed off, ran at her, hit the pole and broke open the nest. The wasps went mad and started stinging all round them, which sent the bull nuts and he chased Amy, who couldn’t see too well with all the wasps stinging her eyes, fell into the pit and was poisoned by the gas – it acts in seconds.
So Picasso took hold of a pole and cracked open the nest. Then he bolted for the door and left the wasps to blame the bull. I wasn’t sure about this bit. I didn’t know how wasps blamed bulls. Could they sting through hide for instance? Leather’s tough. Then again, hide gets a good deal of its toughness only in the tanning process. Besides, it had two eyes, two nostrils, a mouth, open ears and balls the size of milk bottles to sting. How the latter’s performance might later be affected, I wasn’t sure of either. I’ve never performed with my nuts covered in wasp stings, so I can’t say.
By the time I’d crept round from my ringside seat – a hole high up in the cowshed wall where a block had been left out for ventilation – (I’d covered it with a little mesh to keep the stingers at bay) – Picasso had removed his veil, gone over to the cottage, rapped on the door and was talking to Amy through the open living-room window.
‘Excuse me,’ he was saying. ‘Might your name be Amy?’
‘Yes. And you are?’
‘I am with the vet: Mr Feeney.’
‘What’s Feeney doing here?’
‘Administering to the bull. It has slipped its moorings, so to speak, and has injured itself as a result. Your sister Edna is asking for you.’
‘Edna’s asking for me? I thought she was in bed.’
‘She may well have been. Now she is in the slatted cowshed with the vet.’
‘What does she want me for?’
‘She is of the opinion that you are the one who normally deals with the bull.’
‘Why didn’t she come herself? Why did she send you?’
‘I volunteered. Would you like me to fetch her?’
‘No, it’s all right. I’d better come.’
She opened the door and followed him round behind the cottage and halfway across the yard then stopped at the noise coming from inside the shed. The bull was wrecking the place.
‘Is he loose?’
‘He is. Though he presents no immediate danger.’
‘What’s all that buzzing?’
‘Perhaps the vet has his electric shaver on. To shave around the wound before stitching.’
‘What – with him going buck mad?’
‘He’s waiting until the anaesthetic takes effect.’
‘Where’s his van?’
‘We drove it straight in and locked the doors in case the bull got out.’
‘Oh.’ Talkative bitch – I thought she was never gonna shut up. ‘I’d be afraid to go any further with all that commotion. I’ve never heard him this bad. Edna?’
‘I doubt she will hear you.’
She saw Picasso’s bee-keeper’s veil lying near the wicker door. ‘What’s that?’
He got it and put it on. She didn’t fancy him in it. And no way was she going anywhere near that door.
‘This?’
‘Yes. What’s it for?’
Fuck knows what she thought with him standing there in that get-up. He looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. She made to back away and Picasso scooped her into his arms.
I didn’t like it. A bull charging her down would not leave paw marks on her. A small point, I know. But if forensic found bruises consistent with being grabbed, it might ruin everything. Still, what was I worrying about? Lucille would get the blame when the time came.
Picasso opened the wicker and turfed her in then went in after her.
And I returned to my air vent. Amy was standing screaming and grabbing her hair as the wasps got to work. Picasso lifted her over the metal feeder into the bay where the bull was going mad. Then he stepped back.
To be fair to her, she didn’t faint. She just stood in the corner wailing. She didn’t try to climb back out either. Whether she was in too much of a state or she knew Picasso would prevent her, I couldn’t say. The wasps were keeping her mind on other things.
The strange thing was the bull never charged. I thought he’d be so out of his head that he would’ve gone straight for her. Maybe she’d been good to him. You can never plan for how an animal will react.
Picasso climbed over, lifted her into the aisle then carried her up and turfed her back over the feeder rail to where the bull was.
The bull was
