When Kevin Decided To Run With The Bulls -- A Short Story

I wrote this last night after watching a documentary on Amazon Prime about the original of the Greek myth of the Minotaur. I had fun writing it -- I hope you will enjoy it too.

Photo by San Fermin Pamplona - Navarra on Unsplash

It began reasonably enough one Saturday morning when I discovered my husband mending the ceiling light in the ensuite.

“Are you sure you should be doing that?” I asked him. “Isn’t that a job for a proper electrician?”

He grunted. He does have a basic City & Guilds qualification, earned many years ago when we were both teenagers at our local sixth form college.

But that was before he met Zandy, and Zandy persuaded him to apply to for a degree course in American Literature, because that was what Zandy wanted to do and he wanted Kevin to come with him.

And then Kevin got accepted onto the course, and Zandy didn’t, and to everyone’s surprise, Kevin said: “Fuck electrical installation, I’m going to be the next Ernest Hemingway.” And he applied for grants and student loans and went to university whilst Zandy, having punched him in face, went off and got a job in a bank selling mortgages.

And that was the last we heard from him for while.

But seven years later, when Kevin and I got married, it was Zandy who sold us our mortgage. By then, Kev had finished his degree and got his NCTJ Diploma. He was a qualified journalist working on a small trade publication in the north of England. And I’d long since abandoned my Hair & Beauty course in favour of a sit-down job in healthcare administration.

We never really lost contact with Zandy after that, mainly because Zandy and Kevin had a lot in common, including a passion for American literature. They were best mates, drinking buddies and in time – because I got on quite well with Zandy’s partner Jane -- we all became godparents to each other’s children.

By this time Kevin was Deputy Editor of Gadget Monthly, which sounds swish until you know there were only two permanent staff members left working on the publication, along with an endlessly churning roster of hopeful interns.

Whereas my own career had blossomed – mostly because private healthcare is an expanding industry. Whereas print media has been dying on its feet for at least three decades.

By then I wasn’t hearing so much about Ernest Hemingway. Kevin seemed pretty worn down by his workload. And to make matters worse his best mate Zandy, who by now was managing his own FCA-accredited financial advice business, had developed odd symptoms in his arms and legs and had started slurring his speech.

It was a brain tumour.

Initially we were all – even Zandy, who’d never yet found himself in a situation he couldn’t talk himself out of – quite blasé about it. “There’s so much modern medicine can do nowadays,” we told each other knowingly. “Immunotherapy and that.” And we congratulated ourselves on our mature perspective.

But despite the latest advances in medical care, to our surprise, Zandy’s brain tumour progressed remorselessly through the stages until he died. We didn’t see much of him in those final weeks – he only wanted his closest family around him. But we did go to his funeral, and Kevin sang and played an acoustic version of ‘Sweet Child O Mine’ by Guns N’ Roses on his guitar because that was Zandy’s favourite song.

And here we were, six months later, with me holding the stepladder and telling him to be careful whilst Kevin, cursing softly to himself, fixed the ceiling light in the ensuite.

It didn’t stop there. Perhaps in response to the sheer scale of my gratitude, Kevin turned his attention to our badly fitted kitchen door. Now it no longer creaked at the hinges. The loft hatch on the landing – raw wood for half a dozen years since we got the loft panelling installed – was beautified with a coat of Muted Stone paint. And the back door key that always stuck was replaced with a state-of-the-art security system.

Gabby’s trampoline in the garden was stabilised. And Luka’s quad bike was given a thorough service.

It dawned on me that there was a pattern to all this. My husband wasn’t attacking these jobs at random, as the mood took him, but moving steadily, quietly and with purpose down a list.

“Uh huh, that isn’t great,” said my sister Alice when I shared my concern.

“Is he planning to leave me?” I asked her.

Alice read Psychologies Magazine. She knew more about these things than I did.

“Possibly,” she admitted. “Does he have a girlfriend?”

I doubted it. Kevin lacked the financial resources to have a girlfriend. Although now I came to think of it, my ‘liberated’ insistence on separate bank accounts (actually a ruse to prevent him finding out I earned more than he did) – meant I couldn’t rule it out entirely.

Perhaps it was one of the interns.

But what would an ambitious 20-year-old want with his collapsing middle-aged body?

Then the jogging started. I say ‘jogging’ but it was more like half-marathon training with interval sprints.

Every morning. I mean, every morning, without fail, whatever the weather, he was out there. For months. The weight fell off him and he began to look lithe.

“What’s going on, Kev?” I confronted him. “Are you planning to run a 5K?”

He looked shifty.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“Something like what, exactly?”

“It’s just… me and Zandy. I made a promise…”

“To Zandy? In the hospice?”

“Well, not exactly. It’s just… something we talked about doing. Only Zandy never did.”

“So now you’re going to do it? Whatever it is? For Zandy?”

“Yeah.”

He wasn’t going to tell me what it was. Which means I wasn’t going to approve.

A parachute jump? I wondered. Or one of those endurance things like… what was it called? An Iron Man or a Tough Mudder?

At least it wasn’t an affair. But where did the assiduous DuoLingo Spanish every evening fit in? Perhaps he was planning to run the entire length of the Camino de Santiago in honour of Zandy’s latent Roman Catholicism. That wouldn’t be so bad, especially if he did it for charity. I could get my co-workers to sponsor him.

And there things rested until one day in early July I came home to find no supper and a note on the kitchen worktop.

I have gone to Pamplona, it said. I have to do this. Sorry.

There were three kisses at the end of it. One for me, one for Luka and one for Gabby.

I try ringing him on his mobile but it’s switched off. What the hell? I text him. Where’s Pamplona?

I ask Alexa whether Pamplona is on the route of the Camino de Santiago and it is. Good.

When Gabby comes in from cheerleading practice – it’s fortunate that another parent can take her and bring her back because what with the new theatre wing I don’t have time at the moment – I tell her:

“Daddy has gone to run the Camino de Santiago. It’s a Christian pilgrimage route. He’s doing it for Zandy. We should all be very proud.”

“Is he?” she says, looking puzzled. “I thought he was running with the bulls.”

“He… wha? Who are The Bulls?”

“You know. Through the streets. It’s like… a bullfighting thing.”

“He’s gone… your father… BULL FIGHTING?”

Gabby is pouring herself a juice from the refrigerator as though her father going off to be a bull fighter is the most ordinary thing in the world.

“No, mummy. It’s kind of a race. Except nobody really wins. You just have to try to get near to the bulls.”

She takes a sip and observes calmly: “Sometimes people get gored.”

By now I’m Googling frantically. In the broad details she is correct. The Running of the Bulls is an ancient religious festival in Northern Spain. Since 1910, when records began, 16 people have died, and countless numbers been wounded.

I am suddenly in a very bad mood with Ernest Hemingway. In fact, if he wasn’t already dead, I would try and kill him.

“Animal cruelty,” I splutter. “Apart from anything else, your father is participating in animal cruelty.”

This is terrible. It’s far worse than an affair. If he was having an affair I’d get some sympathy. But this? It’s shaming.

“He says the bulls are bred for it. It’s their moment of glory. We are living in a matriarchy and matriarchal values have gone too far.”

“I’ll give him… matriarchal values.” With gritted teeth I’m already on Skyscanner. I know he won’t pick up his phone now until he’s run the race. The only way to stop him is to fly out there.

I’ll take Gabby with me. Perhaps the sight of me with her…

Luka will have to go to his grandma’s. If I take him with me he might get ideas.

The next day finds me and Gabby at Manchester Airport. I’ve taken Gabby and Luka out of school without permission, which means there will be fines, but I’ll face that issue when I get to it.

I’ve already called the Hospital Director. “It’s an emergency,” I tell her. “My husband is having a mental health episode. It’s been brewing for some time.”

She is all compassionate concern: “Oh, Linda. That’s terrible. How can we support you?”

I think about something Gabby has said, about Daddy wanting to “get on the horns” – “he said he only needed a minute or two” -- and I give a gulp of misery.

“I think he may be trying to commit suicide. Please cancel my meeting with GE Healthcare. And tell Susie that the costings for Imperial are in the S drive. I have to go.”

I sob all the way to Pamplona, with the flight attendant giving me filthy looks and Gabby plucking ineffectually at my arm.

“Don’t cry, Mummy. He wants to do it. He wants to stare death in the face, like Zandy had to do.”

“Why didn’t he tell me all this?”

“Well, he can’t talk to you. None of us can anymore.”

I am almost beyond tears now, to the relief of the flight attendants, who have clearly decided I am a security risk. I stare stony-faced out of the window, a hiccup escaping every so often, until we come into land.

The July heat hits us like a sledgehammer when we emerge from the airport. I have no idea where my husband is or how to find him but that morning’s bull run is being played and replayed on every screen in the city and so I look for him there.

Gabby is thrilled but baffled. She had expected another day at school but now finds herself sitting in a dingy Spanish bar with her mother (who she doesn’t see very often) and a bottle of Pepsi (which she isn’t allowed). Around her a crowd of old men are murmuring and commenting with approval on the scenes of carnage being played out on the television. Thousands of grown-ups – mostly male -- in white trousers and shirts, with blood-red handkerchiefs tied round their necks, are running through the narrow streets of the city as crowds roar their encouragement from balconies.

The bulls stampede through the lanes in herds, driven by men waving sticks. They are huge, muscular, shining with good health. Their horns are like the horns of animals you see in cave paintings.

One breaks off from the rest in confusion. When it stops running and lowers its head, all the runners who have been trying to get as close as they can to it, stop still. The runners who have fallen over take care to cover their heads.

Even I, who knows nothing about the art of bull running, can see that this is a moment of great danger.

“There’s Daddy,” shrieks Gabby.

And at that moment, another wave of thunderous, fear-maddened bovine comes crashing down the narrow lane like a beef tsunami. They gather up the lone bull as they go, and head downhill towards the Plaza de Toros.

Standing in their way is Kevin. He’s wearing his cricket whites and round his neck is a red handkerchief – he must have bought it when he got here unless he made it himself from my old red nightie.

I think at first that he’s rooted to the ground in terror. The wall of bull gets closer but he doesn’t move, though his eyes widen.

Then suddenly he’s off, running. The bull is almost upon him but he doesn’t care. He’s picked his moment and he’s going with it. Faster and faster he runs – those sprint intervals are paying off – but never so fast that the bull can’t reach him. Every few seconds he glances backwards just to check how close it is to him. It’s scarcely more than a yard away. Perhaps he can smell it, feel its breath on the back of his neck.

And as I watch, the animals merge together, become a single bull – an enormous, jet-black bull as huge as the sky – that rises from the earth to swallow the stars.

I think at that moment I must have fainted. It had been a long day, up at 4am to drive to Manchester, with no sleep and little food. All I know is that when I come round, Gabby is still shrieking: “That’s Daddy! That’s Daddy!” And some kindly old Spanish gentlemen are moving the chairs and tables away to help me stand. They seem impressed with the raw intensity of my emotion. My brief loss of consciousness honours the power of the festival.

Kevin is lying on the ground now, surrounded by medics. His arm is twisted uncomfortably and he has grazing on his cheek. It wasn’t a bull that did for him, but a fellow runner into whom he walloped during a moment when he was glancing behind.

He did exactly the right thing, as with innumerable Pamplona instruction videos and much game-planning he’d trained himself to do. He lay stock still covering his head as the bulls leapt over him and he was inches and micro-seconds from death.

·          *   *

Gabby and I head for the Clinica Universidad de Navarra, which is where we are told the injured are taken. We sit for hours on seats in the foyer waiting for Kevin to emerge. When he does so he’s wincing painfully and has his arm in a sling.

When he sees me he flinches. It hurts me to the core. He isn’t overjoyed to see me -- he is expecting the biggest rollocking since the time he let Luka climb onto the roof. But at the same time there is an aura about him. He had a good bull run and he really doesn’t care anymore.

Gabby launches herself at him. “Daddy, you did it! You ran with the bulls!”

“You idiot,” I say weakly. I am irrelevant. What can I possibly say as a woman when he now has the respect of his masculine, bull-running peers?

Somehow, footage and pictures of his bull run have already reached both Gabby’s and Luka’s school WhatsApp groups. My phone is almost leaping out of my handbag as a few parents congratulate me on having such a brave husband and the rest cancel the entire family for our treatment of bulls.

Our nearly moribund local newspaper wants a word.

“Can I run with you next year, Daddy?”

“Maybe not next year but girls can do it too.”

But I don’t want my daughter to run with the bulls. It is a bloke thing and we should leave them to it whilst we get on with holding the world together.

“I need a drink,” says Kevin.

“Mummy and I went to a bar,” says Gabby. “Mummy fainted under the table and some men helped her up.”

“I need a drink too,” I hear myself saying. “I tell you what, we’ll all have one for Zandy.”

“Let’s do it,” says Kevin. He gently takes my hand using his good arm.

“Sol de mi vida, luz de mis ojos, » he sings. « Sun of my life, light of my eyes.”

The End