CW: violent, upsetting scene

Aidan woke up in pitch darkness. He tried to stand up and immediately hit his head. He tried to get out and push at the metal box holding him inside. He couldn't see any holes. It was hard to breathe in here. He reached in his pocket for his phone, but it had gone. Where was he? He couldn't remember anything! Was this a nightmare?

'Hello,' he yelled, but immediately realised this was a mistake. He felt something hot between his legs. Oh no. He had pissed himself. Whoever it was, was going to leave him here. He should have gone to the gym more often, should have gone for more runs, then maybe he could get out of this situation. He remembered finishing his shift, sitting down at the bus stop; after that, he couldn't remember anything else.

If only he hadn't argued with his mum before he went to work. If only he hadn't taken the piss out of that new guy at work last week. He was such a dick wasn't he. He'd been texting Summer, hadn’t he? What if she'd messaged him again and he hadn't replied?

'Hello, Aidan,' said a voice he couldn't see. He felt his blood run cold. Where had he heard that before? Then the metal door slid vertically open with a clank. He tried to pull himself to his feet. The light disorientated him and something was stabbing into the back of his neck. He felt sick. Twisting round, Aidan saw there were seats round one side. The floor was covered with sand. Above the seats was written 'Property of the Taurine Club of Kensington.'

There was a chandelier on the ceiling that looked expensive. The walls were covered with stuffed animal heads. Three bulls, an elephant, a lion, two horses, a giraffe, a moose, a tiger, a leopard - and then a cat. Aidan gasped, sank to his knees, trying to stop himself throwing up. He put his hand round the back of his neck and felt some sort of ribbon attached to a metal object. He gave it a tug and it didn't come out, just drenched his hand in blood. He winced in pain.

'Gonna let me go then, you fucking pervert,' Aidan shouted, panic rising inside him as he tried to stand up, disorientated and nauseous. He yanked at the ribbon again, hard. This time it came off in his hand. Warm blood ran down his neck and on his hands. Aidan felt faint and sick. He was looking at a metal dart attached to a green and pink rosette, sticky with blood. He ripped the rosette away and stuffed the dart in his pocket, feeling lightheaded and faint. He took his hoodie off and started tying it around his neck. It hurt too much to tie it tightly, and the fabric became soaked when he pressed hard.

'What's all them animal heads? You gonna add me to your taxidermy collection or summat you weirdo?' Aidan knew he had to keep this nonce talking, he'd seen it on the murder programmes his mum liked watching. He couldn't see an exit. The sand on his hands was stinging him. He was so hungry. He needed to drink something. It was hot in here. There was no way out.

'You said you wished I'd been gored by a bull,' a posh voice spat, he couldn't see him. His voice was full of hate. What? In spite of his fear and agony Aidan started laughing. It was such a mental thing to say.

'You what now?' Aidan gasped. He couldn't see the prick. But he recognised his voice from somewhere. Then the man strode out from behind a painted wooden board near the animal heads. He seemed to come from nowhere. He had two massive yellow sticks in his hands. He was wearing one of those glittery outfits those pricks in Spain did when they -

Oh. Oh yeah.

'I know who you are, you're that politician. Well, it's true, I wish you had been, cunt, wish it gored you all to death. Game for sick bastards.' Aidan was sweating. His top was becoming loose. He knew he had to fight back. He could hardly breathe. As he attempted shakily to get to his feet, Henry kicked him hard in the stomach. The air was knocked out of him. He tried to feel in his pocket for the dart. His hand clenched around it. He could grab it and stick it in this fucker and then try and run.

Aidan pushed past the pain, forced himself to get up and threw himself at Henry, trying to shove the dart at him. Far too late, he saw the huge blades on the ends of the yellow sticks his attacker was holding. Henry merely smiled as Aidan tried to pull back, then he pressed the sticks down into Aidan's back. The dart fell uselessly to the floor and Henry kicked some sand over it.

'One way to truly appreciate something, is to experience it for yourself. It's a great pity there aren't enough of us here to enact the whole performance in its full glory,' Henry laughed as Aidan screamed in agony, an unpleasant smile playing across his lips.

****

After he had finished, Henry got changed out of his 'suit of lights'. Along with the sword he'd used to deal the killing blow, he had won it in an auction at Sotheby's for £350,000. These priceless treasures had belonged to Juan Belmonte, one of the most awe-inspiring matadors of all time; when Henry wore the costume, it felt like he was channelling the spirit of the great man. He washed the blood off his hands in the small sink at the foot of the stairs. He really had to sort out the soundproofing in the cellar. He didn't think the help could hear anything, but one couldn't be sure. No matter how much he paid, shoddy building jobs by lazy workmen remained a perennial headache.

He checked to make sure there were no spots of blood on his clothing, then walked up the stairs and entered the code to leave the cellar. Once out, he padlocked the door and picked up the phone he'd left on a teak dressing table with ivory handles that his great great grandfather had brought back from the colonies. Next to his phone was a bull's ear thrown into the crowd one time, which Henry had picked up and preserved in a jar.

'Am I right in thinking the Club's next Spain visit is next week?' an MP called Eloise Skerrett had written in the Taurine Club's WhatsApp group chat. Henry didn't care for female politicians other than Margaret Thatcher and, at a push, the Home Secretary and one of the recent Tory Prime Ministers. Women were emotional and couldn't view anything objectively. But Eloise was something of a rising star in the Tory ranks - and she shared his passion, making her one of the few females deserving of respect.

'Week after,' Henry wrote back. Eloise gave him the thumbs up. A woman after his own heart, he thought. Or she would be, were it not for the tawdry Westminster gossip circulating in the WhatsApp chats Henry checked religiously.

There was something else he had to do, too. Using his secret account, he went onto the Facebook group Caroline McKenzie had been active in. Henry regularly used this account to keep tabs on his critics, follow their discussions and scour Facebook for posts about himself.

The latest post in the group was a video. There were 40 comments on it. Henry walked into his study and opened the Facebook thread on his computer so he could read properly. Under his computer chair was a snow leopard he had shot on a clandestine hunting trip in Mongolia and turned into a rug. So what if they were endangered? All the more reason to nab one while he could. One day, he’d be the man to bag the very last one of something.

What a prize that would be.

‘I’m heartbroken – they’re going to kill him now, I saw them take him away!!! 😭’ the thread starter, someone called Lucia Alvarez, had written in translated Spanish. Kill who? What could this be about?

The grainy video showed two men and a woman leading a bull down a narrow street on a rope, bringing to mind some of the festivities Henry enjoyed, where, in time-honoured fashion, crowds of men tugged ‘toros ensogados’ through the streets on long ropes. Yet this was no festivity. A vein throbbed in Henry’s temple as he watched Pepelito eat from the woman’s hand. Already one of the worst he’d watched, this soft treatment would surely ruin the bull beyond repair.

‘Delete this,’ an anonymous user had posted. ‘I trust one of the people in this video. I’m 100% sure it won’t be what it looks like. I’ll DM you.’

Incensed, Henry took screenshots of everything and sent them to Javier Castella. He had promised to help, after all, and these fools had deprived Pepelito of the honour of dying in the ring! Genius though Javier was, it smarted a little to discover the Valladolid Policia Nacional had considered giving him credit for Henry’s work. Thankfully, his friend had been released without charge, which was better for all concerned.

Henry looked back at his WhatsApps. Eloise Skerrett had sent the club's group chat a message. 'We could sue for defamation here, couldn't we?'

Henry opened the link, instantly recognising the name - Robyn Casey.

'Who are the Taurine Club of Kensington?' the title read - never a good start.

It carried on, 'Last week, Tory House of Lords member Henry Dixon was allegedly filmed violently attacking the bull which attracted worldwide attention with its dramatic escape from a Spanish bullfight. Dixon, a well-known fan of the controversial sport, is president of the Taurine Club of Kensington, a group for devoted aficionados which organises events throughout the year...'

What he read made him sick with fury. Every sentence portrayed the club, its members, and Henry himself in a thoroughly derogatory, unfair and unbalanced light. To be a member was to be snobbish, cruel, corrupt and selfish. Robyn described in detail how the Club's members had recorded their bullfighting and hunting holidays as parliamentary expenses, so the taxpayer picked up the tab. This was inaccurate - as an MP, Henry himself had only done that four or five times, not every time as the article implied.

'Wow. She's just interviewed a group of animal rights fanatics with nothing positive to say,' Henry said in his text.

'Think it's 'they' rather than 'she',' Eloise replied.

'Ah. That explains everything.' He would have to do something about Robyn, but maybe it could wait until he got back from Spain, unless he did it in the next week or two. He had so much to do while he was there, besides the many corridas he planned to attend, the visits to the bull farms, the hunting excursions and the extensive lunches, dinners and drinks he planned to enjoy with the great and good of society.

That bloody bull had cheated Henry of a great spectacle that afternoon. It was hard for him not to take the incident as a personal slight; besides Robyn's piece, Henry himself was now the butt of jokes in several cartoons. And what a gift this whole sorry business was for Labour’s attacks on the Tories.

Pepelito had to be found; the irresponsible fools and do-gooders who had him would pay.

Henry would ensure it.

AN: I'm sorry, he's sooooo disgusting, definitely one of the worst creeps I've ever written about haha.