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A Feeling
“I’m being followed wherever I go. I’ve come out of the
fiesta now and I’m not actually sure where the bull is … I don’t
know what to do … I don’t know whether to go back, or stay away,
because I don’t feel it’s safe at all … Something’s
very, very wrong.”
Down the line Tony could hear the roar of the crowd in the background
and the familiar screams of, “Fuera! Fuera!” (Out! Out!), aimed
at the British film crew; unwelcome intruders in their village, hellbent
on thwarting their fiesta, their valued traditions. He could also detect
the fear in Vicki’s voice, but neither was unusual. Danger and risk
came with the job and angry mobs were an occupational hazard.
“Are you still there, Tony?” came her voice again, more urgently
now. “What should I do?”
Despite her courage, Vicki had certainly been afraid before – she
had found herself in endless tight spots in pursuit of her campaign againstanimal
cruelty, particularly in the Spanish blood fiestas – but it was not
normal for her to behave like this; to look for a way out. She and Tony
were often forced to embark on missions alone, usually because of financial
constraints, and then they would telephone each other for advice on what
strategies to adopt in the often frightening situations in which they
found themselves.
And so it was that Tony said what he now considers to be the fatal thing
and which he has bitterly regretted ever since.
“You know, I’m not there. I can’t tell you what to do.
It’s up to you whether you can go back or not. You have to make a
decision on that one, I’m afraid.”
He remembers that towards the end of the conversation she suddenly began
speaking in Spanish – not very good Spanish, but enough to say, “Erm
… it’s quite interesting … I’m having a good time.”
Tony realised that they must have come right up close to her and she quickly
ended the call.
As he replaced the receiver he suddenly remembered what Vicki had said
to him just before she left for Spain.
“I don’t want to go. I think there’s something wrong. I
just don’t feel safe.”
He had paid little attention to her words at the time, putting them down
to her superstitious nature, but now they reverberated around inside his
head and he was filled with a terrible foreboding. He anxiously paced
up and down, unable to think of anything else.
An hour later the telephone rang again, and with a sinking feeling, he
lifted the receiver.
“Señor Moore?” said a voice in a thick Spanish accent.
“Yes … speaking.”
“Your wife is dead …”
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