The Bull
by Pat Black
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: When a bull runs loose in a remote service station on the Scottish tourist trail, a woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta...
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Kirsty slid the Loch Ness Monster key fobs onto the railings. There were dozens of them, little grinning creatures made of green felt with tartan tammies. They wore tiny T-shirts which said, “I heart Scotland”, and bobbed against each other as she sorted them out and fed them into the rack of tourist tat. Beside them, their brothers-in-fluff, the Highland cows - fluffy ginger-fringed creatures without a stitch of clothing.
“You’d never believe these things sold so well,” Kirsty said. “How often do we restock the Nessies?”
Moira, minding the counter, sucked hard on a blue Slush Puppy. “Dunno,” she said. “Every couple of months, maybe.”
“It’s unbelievable. They must pull in a fortune from this stuff. We should start a fluffy bunnies company, or something. Make a million dollars. What do you say?”
“You’re on. It’d work, too. It’s all pester power, isn’t it? Screaming kids wanting a toy. There’s money in them kids. They’d get fuck all off me, though.”
“Remind me never to ask you to babysit.”
Moira sucked in the last of the Slush Puppy, then binned the cardboard carton. “Little bastards,” she said. “When you see them in here, whinging and gurning, it reminds me of my Eddie when he was a boy. ‘Mummy, give me this, give me that.’ You know what I gave him when he tried that shit with me?”
Kirsty giggled. “A cuddle?”
“No, Kirsty,” Moira said. She raised the palm of her hand. “The fucking hairy side of that, is what he got.”
Kirsty laughed, scrunching up and binning the Nessies box and joining her behind the cash desk. “Maybe that’s the way forward for me, when Katie gets to school age. Brutality. Show them who’s boss.”
“It’s the best thing for them. And it’s good exercise. Beat your children, I say. A stress-reliever for tired mums and dads.” Moira frowned, then took her glasses off and polished them on her work blouse. She always looked comical when she took off her gregories, the classic mole-eyed type; she put Kirsty in mind of a young Deirdre Barlow, a person almost entirely overwhelmed by her spectacles.
“Nearly McAnespie time,” Kirsty said.
Moira sighed. “Yes. It’s always nearly Mrs McAnespie time. There’s a permanent countdown in my head, starting from the second she leaves here. But, never mind... you know who I can see out the window?”
“Search me.”
“I’ll give you a clue.” Moira raised her two index fingers above her head, snorted and pawed the floor with her slip-ons.
“Aw, don’t start, Moira.”
Moira rubbed her hands. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you don’t look forward to Mr Beefto on his rounds.”
“Terrible. Terrible, you are. A married woman, too!”
“When you been married as long as me, you start looking forward to a bit of Beefto. There’s nothing wrong with a look at the menu. Wonder what he’ll be wearing today?”
“His name is Kieran, by the way.”
“How did you know that?” Moira gazed heavenwards. “I’ve had five years of Beefto coming through these doors, and I barely get a hello when he drops in for his sandwiches. You’ve been here 10 minutes and you’re on a first-name basis. I knew I should’ve gone blonde when I had the chance.”
“He’s nice,” Kirsty said, unconsciously smoothing back a strand of her hair.
“Nice? Nice?”
“Nice, and that’s all!”
“You protest too much, darlin’. He likes the look of you. I’ll bet you my lunchtime Slush Puppy he comes over to your end of the desk, not mine.”
“Away you go!” But Kirsty knew he would, too. She was a good blonde, and always drew the eye of the boys. But better than that, she was a chatterer. All of Baxter Services’ regular customers from the village had fallen in love with her. She was particularly popular with the old dears - including Mrs McAnespie, who had an interminable chinwag with the girls on the desk every day when she came in for her rolls and papers.
“Christ, here he comes,” Moira said. “Chin up, tits oot.”
The automatic doors slid open and Mr Beefto strode in. He was in his mid-thirties, tall and handsome, if you liked chunky, his head shaven as a token of surrender to male pattern baldness. Kirsty had to admit he filled out a T-shirt well. He had the easy familiarity of a born flirt and he winked at Kirsty as soon as he spotted her. “Ah, girls, girls,” he said.
“Morning stranger,” Moira said. It was like someone had flicked on a light switch in her.
“Hey, Moira, what’s up doll?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing. Same as usual, you know. Oh no, wait; did I tell you we got held up?”
He had crossed to the fridge and lifted out his usual, a half-litre carton of milk and some egg mayo sandwiches. “You’re kidding,” he said.
“Nope. Boy with a knife. Junkie.”
“Jesus. He get away with anything?”
“Well, I managed to call the cops while Kirsty, er, made herself busy.”
“Oh aye! Distract him, did you?” He touched the corner of his mouth with his tongue.
“I ran,” Kirsty said, biting her lip.
“Yep. You’re looking at Baxter Services’ new 100-metre dash champion.” Moira thrust a thumb out towards Kirsty. “She got off her mark, alright. Faster than shit off a shovel.”
Kirsty hid her head in her hands, in mock distress. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never had someone point a knife at me before.”
“Jesus,” Mr Beefto said to Kirsty, soberly. “You alright?”
“I’m fine. He chased me around the sweeties counter a couple of times, then he lost interest and ran for it. I think I tired him out.”
“Cops picked him up, eventually,” Moira said. “Poor bastard barely covered half a mile on foot when they lifted him.”
Mr Beefto shook his head. He placed an elbow on the counter and leaned in towards Kirsty. “Some people, eh? Just desperate, that’s all that is. Anyway, I hope it didn’t scare you too much.”
“I feel sorry for him,” Kirsty said. “He was just a young guy. You know?”
“Don’t feel sorry for the junkies,” Mr Beefto said. “They’d steal the eyes out your head, if they could. He won’t even be in jail – he’ll be out on probation or something. Back on the streets.” He quickly changed the subject. “Anyway; I need to be off here. Got a randy one outside in the trailer.”
“You what?” Kirsty paused before she put his sandwiches through the scanner.
“A randy bull. Big bugger, too, a total monster. You should have seen the fight he gave the guys at the market, trying to get him in the lorry.”
“Maybe you should introduce him to some cows,” Moira said. “Take the edge off him a wee bit.”
Mr Beefto snorted. “He’s had plenty of that, it seems. They’ve been breeding them off him for a while; and no wonder. You should see the muscle on him, he’s like something out of a prehistoric monster movie. But his time’s coming. I’m taking him down to the Beefto slaughterhouse today.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Kirsty said. “It doesn’t seem right, really, does it?”
“You wouldn’t say that if you met him,” Mr Beefto said, grinning.
“You didn’t say that when you had a sausage roll this morning,” Moira said, and they all laughed.
A voice carried through to them from the forecourt; someone shouting, at the top of their voice. Then a person – too fast to be distinguishable, a blur – sprinted past the window.
“What’s going on out there?” Moira adjusted her glasses, and frowned.
“Christ knows.” Kirsty gripped the counter; she had visions of the young junkie guy running around the forecourt with a knife. She checked the CCTV monitor.
“Kieran... isn’t that your van?”
Mr Beefto lunged forward. One of the screens showed a black and electric blue image of the Mr Beefto lorry , with its comedy cow logo; bright eyes, long lashes, tongue poking out at a cheeky angle.
One of the doors at the back of the lorry was ajar, swinging slightly in the breeze.
“Oh my God...”
Then they all saw the bull. It was black and white, with a heavy face that reminded Kirsty of old, tired British wrestlers. It pranced across the forecourt, almost stately in its gait, haunches quivering. Steam rose from its shoulders and spumed from its nostrils. The image was absurd, completely and utterly incongruous.
As one, they saw it canter past the windows, a curtain of speckled flesh.
Mr Beefto uttered a strange sound, half whoop, half shriek. A stream of loose change spilled from his hands and scattered across the floor.
The bull turned and charged at one of the rubbish bins beside the petrol dispensers, knocking it up and over like a skittle. With the electric lights sparkling in its eyes, it sprinted towards the shop. Moira gasped; Mr Beefto vaulted the counter with that smooth athleticism born of pure nerves and fear.
“Get down,” he shouted. “Get down!”
Mr Beefto pulled her onto the floor and she fell heavily.
The automatic doors swooshed open. The bull snorted, hooves muffled for a moment on the pressure-sensitive mat before battering off the floor tiling. Kirsty followed its progress on the CCTV monitors.
It paused before the snack foods rack and lottery stand, as tall as a man and immeasurably broader. It gave an almost human grunt as it charged into the sweetie counter, scattering travel packets of Starburst and Maltesers. Then it turned to the tourist tat, ramming the display with awesome power. Nessies and Highland cows jangled on the racks, grinning inanely as the monster roared at them, and Kirsty cringed.
A dead-eyed porcelain piper doll spilled out of its plastic cylinder before being trodden to a pulp beneath one of the hooves. Mugs and plates shattered, further enraging the beast. It leapt and kicked its back legs the air, and they felt the impact from behind the counter as it crashed down.
“Oooh...” Moira moaned.
“Moira!” Kirsty cried, struggling onto her elbows. “Are you alright?”
Mr Beefto, cowering on the floor, grabbed a fistful of Kirsty’s work blouse. “Don’t go out there! It’ll kill you!”
“Get off me!” She jerked out of his grip. “Moira, hold on darlin’.”
On another screen, she saw the thing sprint towards Moira’s side of the cash desk, head down, a slab of muscle across its back tensed for impact.
The chewing gum rack was thrown skyward as the thing crashed into the cash desk, showering the scene with packets of double mint and juicy fruit. Cigarette packets scattered onto the floor like a tossed deck of cards.
“Moira!”
“Shh!” Mr Beefto had her clinched in an embrace as tight as a lover’s. She felt his ribcage rise and fall under his T-shirt, his thudding heart. “Don’t shout!”
The bull grunted. Its hooves clicked across the floor, then there was silence for a while.
“Moira?” Kirsty whispered. “Moira, are you alright?”
There was a long, low moan from Moira’s side of the desk.
The sound of its breath became loud; Kirsty could almost feel its presence, separated only by a foot and a half of glass and plastic. When its head lunged forward above the cash desk, its forelegs bent on the counter, Mr Beefto squeaked like a squirrel. Drool trailed from its downturned mouth in a long, thick stream, and she had a clear view of the ring in its nose as it sniffed the air. A See You Jimmy comedy hat was skewered on one of its horns. She could hardly breathe as the gigantic head swung to and fro. It looked down, and she whimpered. Both eyes fixed on hers. Ancient eyes, no colour she had ever seen before, no colour she could describe. Then, almost petulantly, it slid back off the counter and trotted away.
There was a swooshing sound, and the hooves receded, before the doors closed again. Kirsty waited a second or two until the bull came into view on one of the forecourt CCTV monitors, then called out: “Moira? Oh my God, are you okay?”
“Kirsty,” Moira said. “Oh!”
“Get... get off me!” She shoved Mr Beefto aside, extricated herself and then ran around the counter. The shop was a study in chaos; all the shelves she’d stocked earlier that day at the tourist tat were now unstocked. Broken glass and shredded packaging festooned the floor tiles; travel size mints and boiled sweeties wrapped in a bow glittered in the lights. And on the front door mat, one surreally big pile of shit.
She went around the counter, where Moira was already getting up. Her glasses had been knocked askew. “Kirsty...”
“What is it? Oh my God, are you hurt?” She looked her friend over; no obvious signs that she’d been gored. “Did you bump your head?”
“Kirsty... can you ever fart lumps, darlin’?”
“What?”
“If you can’t fart lumps, then I may have shat myself.” She snorted laughter. “Dear lord, have you ever seen anything like that?”
“You idiot! You gave me a fright!” Kirsty said. Then she started to giggle, too.
Moira turned to Kirsty’s counter. “Hey... Mr Beefto? Um, what did you say his name was? Kieran? Hey, Kieran... You’ll get a medal for that, son. The way you leapt into action there and calmed the thing down. Outstanding. You should invest in a new suit – you’re headed for the New Year Honours list.”
“That thing is a killer,” came a shaky voice from behind the desk. “I’m calling the police. It’ll kill anything in its path.” Three single tones sounded from his mobile phone.
“How did it get out?” Kirsty watched it trot past the open door of the Mr Beefto lorry. It seemed confused in some way, swinging its head left and right.
“How should I know?” said Mr Beefto. “It was locked all the way through the journey. I dunno how it happened... Maybe it rammed it... it’s not impossible...”
“Tell that to the insurance man,” Moira muttered. “Maybe you’ve left a few bulls dotted around the country on your way down here?”
Kirsty gasped, “Oh shit.” She tore around the counter and went up and down the aisles, searching.
“What is it? What are you looking for?”
“Got it.” Kirsty waved a woolly tartan scarf above her head.
“What are you playing at? What’s the matter?”
“It’s that time of day,” she said, pointing at the CCTV screens.
On one of the monitors, a frail figure in a long beige raincoat tottered across the forecourt, as she did at 10am every morning.
“Where are you going? Wait!”
But the doors had swooshed closed, and Kirsty was gone.
She’d forgotten how bitterly cold it was, and her breath steamed the air in front of her face. Just as it did in front of the bull’s, as it stood in the centre of the forecourt, next to the pumps. The two other cars in the service station forecourt apart from the Mr Beefto lorry had been abandoned, doors ajar. Facing the bull, at the mouth of the service station’s entrance, Mrs McAnespie cowered against an advertising hoarding, holding her purse out in front of her as if to ward the thing away. Fortunately, the bull hadn’t seen her yet, though it had unhooked one of the petrol nozzles, petrol bleeding into the gutter.
“Oh Jesus!” the old lady said. She seemed to shrink into herself, eyes bulging in sheer fright. The bull halted a leisurely canter across the forecourt, near the Spit N’ Polish car wash, tilting an ear towards the sound. When it saw Mrs McAnespie, it lowered its head and released a long, loud sigh. Then it pawed the paving, exactly as it might have behaved in a cartoon.
“Mrs McAnespie!” Kirsty called. “Stay where you are!”
“Kirsty!” Mrs McAnespie cried.
“Stay where you are!” Kirsty unfurled the woollen scarf and ran across the forecourt, passing the bull’s line of vision. The scarf caught the wind and trailed out behind her.
“That’s a bull!” Mrs McAnespie said.
“I know!”
The bull flinched a little at the sight of her, then bellowed. She fancied its hooves kindled sparks as it set off after her and she ran back towards the automatic doors, letting go of the scarf. She could hear it coming, hear its breath, the dread drumming of its hooves clattering off the forecourt. She could tell by the frequency of the sound, and from Moira’s horrified face at the window, that she was not going to make it. It bellowed, and she felt the sound in her very marrow.
Even when she looked at the video later, and saw it repeated several times on the news, Kirsty couldn’t have told you how she got to the top of the Paul Apologies flower bouquet stand with such cat-like grace; how she stood, perfectly balanced, after turning to look at the bull as it pulled up short.
But she could remember looking into those eyes one last time as the creature seemed to stamp its hooves in frustration, shoulders bulging, slick with foaming sweat and completely magnificent, before she heard the report of the rifle shot and the bull sagged onto its haunches, dead.
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: When a bull runs loose in a remote service station on the Scottish tourist trail, a woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta...
_____________________________________________________________________
Kirsty slid the Loch Ness Monster key fobs onto the railings. There were dozens of them, little grinning creatures made of green felt with tartan tammies. They wore tiny T-shirts which said, “I heart Scotland”, and bobbed against each other as she sorted them out and fed them into the rack of tourist tat. Beside them, their brothers-in-fluff, the Highland cows - fluffy ginger-fringed creatures without a stitch of clothing.
“You’d never believe these things sold so well,” Kirsty said. “How often do we restock the Nessies?”
Moira, minding the counter, sucked hard on a blue Slush Puppy. “Dunno,” she said. “Every couple of months, maybe.”
“It’s unbelievable. They must pull in a fortune from this stuff. We should start a fluffy bunnies company, or something. Make a million dollars. What do you say?”
“You’re on. It’d work, too. It’s all pester power, isn’t it? Screaming kids wanting a toy. There’s money in them kids. They’d get fuck all off me, though.”
“Remind me never to ask you to babysit.”
Moira sucked in the last of the Slush Puppy, then binned the cardboard carton. “Little bastards,” she said. “When you see them in here, whinging and gurning, it reminds me of my Eddie when he was a boy. ‘Mummy, give me this, give me that.’ You know what I gave him when he tried that shit with me?”
Kirsty giggled. “A cuddle?”
“No, Kirsty,” Moira said. She raised the palm of her hand. “The fucking hairy side of that, is what he got.”
Kirsty laughed, scrunching up and binning the Nessies box and joining her behind the cash desk. “Maybe that’s the way forward for me, when Katie gets to school age. Brutality. Show them who’s boss.”
“It’s the best thing for them. And it’s good exercise. Beat your children, I say. A stress-reliever for tired mums and dads.” Moira frowned, then took her glasses off and polished them on her work blouse. She always looked comical when she took off her gregories, the classic mole-eyed type; she put Kirsty in mind of a young Deirdre Barlow, a person almost entirely overwhelmed by her spectacles.
“Nearly McAnespie time,” Kirsty said.
Moira sighed. “Yes. It’s always nearly Mrs McAnespie time. There’s a permanent countdown in my head, starting from the second she leaves here. But, never mind... you know who I can see out the window?”
“Search me.”
“I’ll give you a clue.” Moira raised her two index fingers above her head, snorted and pawed the floor with her slip-ons.
“Aw, don’t start, Moira.”
Moira rubbed her hands. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you don’t look forward to Mr Beefto on his rounds.”
“Terrible. Terrible, you are. A married woman, too!”
“When you been married as long as me, you start looking forward to a bit of Beefto. There’s nothing wrong with a look at the menu. Wonder what he’ll be wearing today?”
“His name is Kieran, by the way.”
“How did you know that?” Moira gazed heavenwards. “I’ve had five years of Beefto coming through these doors, and I barely get a hello when he drops in for his sandwiches. You’ve been here 10 minutes and you’re on a first-name basis. I knew I should’ve gone blonde when I had the chance.”
“He’s nice,” Kirsty said, unconsciously smoothing back a strand of her hair.
“Nice? Nice?”
“Nice, and that’s all!”
“You protest too much, darlin’. He likes the look of you. I’ll bet you my lunchtime Slush Puppy he comes over to your end of the desk, not mine.”
“Away you go!” But Kirsty knew he would, too. She was a good blonde, and always drew the eye of the boys. But better than that, she was a chatterer. All of Baxter Services’ regular customers from the village had fallen in love with her. She was particularly popular with the old dears - including Mrs McAnespie, who had an interminable chinwag with the girls on the desk every day when she came in for her rolls and papers.
“Christ, here he comes,” Moira said. “Chin up, tits oot.”
The automatic doors slid open and Mr Beefto strode in. He was in his mid-thirties, tall and handsome, if you liked chunky, his head shaven as a token of surrender to male pattern baldness. Kirsty had to admit he filled out a T-shirt well. He had the easy familiarity of a born flirt and he winked at Kirsty as soon as he spotted her. “Ah, girls, girls,” he said.
“Morning stranger,” Moira said. It was like someone had flicked on a light switch in her.
“Hey, Moira, what’s up doll?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing. Same as usual, you know. Oh no, wait; did I tell you we got held up?”
He had crossed to the fridge and lifted out his usual, a half-litre carton of milk and some egg mayo sandwiches. “You’re kidding,” he said.
“Nope. Boy with a knife. Junkie.”
“Jesus. He get away with anything?”
“Well, I managed to call the cops while Kirsty, er, made herself busy.”
“Oh aye! Distract him, did you?” He touched the corner of his mouth with his tongue.
“I ran,” Kirsty said, biting her lip.
“Yep. You’re looking at Baxter Services’ new 100-metre dash champion.” Moira thrust a thumb out towards Kirsty. “She got off her mark, alright. Faster than shit off a shovel.”
Kirsty hid her head in her hands, in mock distress. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never had someone point a knife at me before.”
“Jesus,” Mr Beefto said to Kirsty, soberly. “You alright?”
“I’m fine. He chased me around the sweeties counter a couple of times, then he lost interest and ran for it. I think I tired him out.”
“Cops picked him up, eventually,” Moira said. “Poor bastard barely covered half a mile on foot when they lifted him.”
Mr Beefto shook his head. He placed an elbow on the counter and leaned in towards Kirsty. “Some people, eh? Just desperate, that’s all that is. Anyway, I hope it didn’t scare you too much.”
“I feel sorry for him,” Kirsty said. “He was just a young guy. You know?”
“Don’t feel sorry for the junkies,” Mr Beefto said. “They’d steal the eyes out your head, if they could. He won’t even be in jail – he’ll be out on probation or something. Back on the streets.” He quickly changed the subject. “Anyway; I need to be off here. Got a randy one outside in the trailer.”
“You what?” Kirsty paused before she put his sandwiches through the scanner.
“A randy bull. Big bugger, too, a total monster. You should have seen the fight he gave the guys at the market, trying to get him in the lorry.”
“Maybe you should introduce him to some cows,” Moira said. “Take the edge off him a wee bit.”
Mr Beefto snorted. “He’s had plenty of that, it seems. They’ve been breeding them off him for a while; and no wonder. You should see the muscle on him, he’s like something out of a prehistoric monster movie. But his time’s coming. I’m taking him down to the Beefto slaughterhouse today.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Kirsty said. “It doesn’t seem right, really, does it?”
“You wouldn’t say that if you met him,” Mr Beefto said, grinning.
“You didn’t say that when you had a sausage roll this morning,” Moira said, and they all laughed.
A voice carried through to them from the forecourt; someone shouting, at the top of their voice. Then a person – too fast to be distinguishable, a blur – sprinted past the window.
“What’s going on out there?” Moira adjusted her glasses, and frowned.
“Christ knows.” Kirsty gripped the counter; she had visions of the young junkie guy running around the forecourt with a knife. She checked the CCTV monitor.
“Kieran... isn’t that your van?”
Mr Beefto lunged forward. One of the screens showed a black and electric blue image of the Mr Beefto lorry , with its comedy cow logo; bright eyes, long lashes, tongue poking out at a cheeky angle.
One of the doors at the back of the lorry was ajar, swinging slightly in the breeze.
“Oh my God...”
Then they all saw the bull. It was black and white, with a heavy face that reminded Kirsty of old, tired British wrestlers. It pranced across the forecourt, almost stately in its gait, haunches quivering. Steam rose from its shoulders and spumed from its nostrils. The image was absurd, completely and utterly incongruous.
As one, they saw it canter past the windows, a curtain of speckled flesh.
Mr Beefto uttered a strange sound, half whoop, half shriek. A stream of loose change spilled from his hands and scattered across the floor.
The bull turned and charged at one of the rubbish bins beside the petrol dispensers, knocking it up and over like a skittle. With the electric lights sparkling in its eyes, it sprinted towards the shop. Moira gasped; Mr Beefto vaulted the counter with that smooth athleticism born of pure nerves and fear.
“Get down,” he shouted. “Get down!”
Mr Beefto pulled her onto the floor and she fell heavily.
The automatic doors swooshed open. The bull snorted, hooves muffled for a moment on the pressure-sensitive mat before battering off the floor tiling. Kirsty followed its progress on the CCTV monitors.
It paused before the snack foods rack and lottery stand, as tall as a man and immeasurably broader. It gave an almost human grunt as it charged into the sweetie counter, scattering travel packets of Starburst and Maltesers. Then it turned to the tourist tat, ramming the display with awesome power. Nessies and Highland cows jangled on the racks, grinning inanely as the monster roared at them, and Kirsty cringed.
A dead-eyed porcelain piper doll spilled out of its plastic cylinder before being trodden to a pulp beneath one of the hooves. Mugs and plates shattered, further enraging the beast. It leapt and kicked its back legs the air, and they felt the impact from behind the counter as it crashed down.
“Oooh...” Moira moaned.
“Moira!” Kirsty cried, struggling onto her elbows. “Are you alright?”
Mr Beefto, cowering on the floor, grabbed a fistful of Kirsty’s work blouse. “Don’t go out there! It’ll kill you!”
“Get off me!” She jerked out of his grip. “Moira, hold on darlin’.”
On another screen, she saw the thing sprint towards Moira’s side of the cash desk, head down, a slab of muscle across its back tensed for impact.
The chewing gum rack was thrown skyward as the thing crashed into the cash desk, showering the scene with packets of double mint and juicy fruit. Cigarette packets scattered onto the floor like a tossed deck of cards.
“Moira!”
“Shh!” Mr Beefto had her clinched in an embrace as tight as a lover’s. She felt his ribcage rise and fall under his T-shirt, his thudding heart. “Don’t shout!”
The bull grunted. Its hooves clicked across the floor, then there was silence for a while.
“Moira?” Kirsty whispered. “Moira, are you alright?”
There was a long, low moan from Moira’s side of the desk.
The sound of its breath became loud; Kirsty could almost feel its presence, separated only by a foot and a half of glass and plastic. When its head lunged forward above the cash desk, its forelegs bent on the counter, Mr Beefto squeaked like a squirrel. Drool trailed from its downturned mouth in a long, thick stream, and she had a clear view of the ring in its nose as it sniffed the air. A See You Jimmy comedy hat was skewered on one of its horns. She could hardly breathe as the gigantic head swung to and fro. It looked down, and she whimpered. Both eyes fixed on hers. Ancient eyes, no colour she had ever seen before, no colour she could describe. Then, almost petulantly, it slid back off the counter and trotted away.
There was a swooshing sound, and the hooves receded, before the doors closed again. Kirsty waited a second or two until the bull came into view on one of the forecourt CCTV monitors, then called out: “Moira? Oh my God, are you okay?”
“Kirsty,” Moira said. “Oh!”
“Get... get off me!” She shoved Mr Beefto aside, extricated herself and then ran around the counter. The shop was a study in chaos; all the shelves she’d stocked earlier that day at the tourist tat were now unstocked. Broken glass and shredded packaging festooned the floor tiles; travel size mints and boiled sweeties wrapped in a bow glittered in the lights. And on the front door mat, one surreally big pile of shit.
She went around the counter, where Moira was already getting up. Her glasses had been knocked askew. “Kirsty...”
“What is it? Oh my God, are you hurt?” She looked her friend over; no obvious signs that she’d been gored. “Did you bump your head?”
“Kirsty... can you ever fart lumps, darlin’?”
“What?”
“If you can’t fart lumps, then I may have shat myself.” She snorted laughter. “Dear lord, have you ever seen anything like that?”
“You idiot! You gave me a fright!” Kirsty said. Then she started to giggle, too.
Moira turned to Kirsty’s counter. “Hey... Mr Beefto? Um, what did you say his name was? Kieran? Hey, Kieran... You’ll get a medal for that, son. The way you leapt into action there and calmed the thing down. Outstanding. You should invest in a new suit – you’re headed for the New Year Honours list.”
“That thing is a killer,” came a shaky voice from behind the desk. “I’m calling the police. It’ll kill anything in its path.” Three single tones sounded from his mobile phone.
“How did it get out?” Kirsty watched it trot past the open door of the Mr Beefto lorry. It seemed confused in some way, swinging its head left and right.
“How should I know?” said Mr Beefto. “It was locked all the way through the journey. I dunno how it happened... Maybe it rammed it... it’s not impossible...”
“Tell that to the insurance man,” Moira muttered. “Maybe you’ve left a few bulls dotted around the country on your way down here?”
Kirsty gasped, “Oh shit.” She tore around the counter and went up and down the aisles, searching.
“What is it? What are you looking for?”
“Got it.” Kirsty waved a woolly tartan scarf above her head.
“What are you playing at? What’s the matter?”
“It’s that time of day,” she said, pointing at the CCTV screens.
On one of the monitors, a frail figure in a long beige raincoat tottered across the forecourt, as she did at 10am every morning.
“Where are you going? Wait!”
But the doors had swooshed closed, and Kirsty was gone.
She’d forgotten how bitterly cold it was, and her breath steamed the air in front of her face. Just as it did in front of the bull’s, as it stood in the centre of the forecourt, next to the pumps. The two other cars in the service station forecourt apart from the Mr Beefto lorry had been abandoned, doors ajar. Facing the bull, at the mouth of the service station’s entrance, Mrs McAnespie cowered against an advertising hoarding, holding her purse out in front of her as if to ward the thing away. Fortunately, the bull hadn’t seen her yet, though it had unhooked one of the petrol nozzles, petrol bleeding into the gutter.
“Oh Jesus!” the old lady said. She seemed to shrink into herself, eyes bulging in sheer fright. The bull halted a leisurely canter across the forecourt, near the Spit N’ Polish car wash, tilting an ear towards the sound. When it saw Mrs McAnespie, it lowered its head and released a long, loud sigh. Then it pawed the paving, exactly as it might have behaved in a cartoon.
“Mrs McAnespie!” Kirsty called. “Stay where you are!”
“Kirsty!” Mrs McAnespie cried.
“Stay where you are!” Kirsty unfurled the woollen scarf and ran across the forecourt, passing the bull’s line of vision. The scarf caught the wind and trailed out behind her.
“That’s a bull!” Mrs McAnespie said.
“I know!”
The bull flinched a little at the sight of her, then bellowed. She fancied its hooves kindled sparks as it set off after her and she ran back towards the automatic doors, letting go of the scarf. She could hear it coming, hear its breath, the dread drumming of its hooves clattering off the forecourt. She could tell by the frequency of the sound, and from Moira’s horrified face at the window, that she was not going to make it. It bellowed, and she felt the sound in her very marrow.
Even when she looked at the video later, and saw it repeated several times on the news, Kirsty couldn’t have told you how she got to the top of the Paul Apologies flower bouquet stand with such cat-like grace; how she stood, perfectly balanced, after turning to look at the bull as it pulled up short.
But she could remember looking into those eyes one last time as the creature seemed to stamp its hooves in frustration, shoulders bulging, slick with foaming sweat and completely magnificent, before she heard the report of the rifle shot and the bull sagged onto its haunches, dead.
About the Author
Pat Black is a thirtysomething writer, journalist and bletherer, born and raised in Glasgow. He says he has made that difficult transition from aspiring novelist to failed novelist, although he has had a couple of short stories published. He’s the author of Snarl, a completed novel about a monster that tries to mount the Houses of Parliament. Holyrood emerges unscathed, for now.