She realized she was walking on sand, some of it going between her toes in her open sandals. Painted wooden barreras, or wooden panels, dimpled and cracked from generations of fights, were set atop the stone wall which framed the ring, with four larger boards, burladeros, set out in intervals in front of them on the ground for the toreros to hide behind.

‘Olé!’ The excitable shout came from above her. She stopped walking and looked around and up. Marina. She was up there? Charlotte frowned. It had sounded like she was down . . .

Were the acoustics distorted by the shape of the—

‘Charlotte!’

It was Nathan. He was standing up, his body tense and unnaturally still, like he’d been deep-frozen on the spot. He was with Marina and another man she didn’t recognize. For a moment, the peace held as she looked up at them all and wondered what they were doing up there.

Then she heard the sound of chains, of mechanisms moving. She saw Nathan’s head turn and something in his manner made her go cold. A door was being lifted up, like a guillotine being readied, and suddenly she realized what those men on the terraces outside had been doing, what they had been lifting: more doors. Creating a secure tunnel – to here.

‘Shut the doors!’ Nathan began yelling. ‘Shut the doors!’ He was waving his arms madly, trying to get someone’s attention, but whose? No one could be seen from here behind the high walls; they had been designed to protect, to create a strong, safe seal.

The man sitting beside him was speaking rapidly into a radio, standing up too now and issuing urgent directives. ‘Close the toril! Close the toril!’ He listened to something that was said, his face slackening. He looked over to her. ‘Run! Get behind the burladero!’

Charlotte stared at him. She knew what he was saying. She understood his command. She just couldn’t seem to . . . move.

‘Charlotte! Get behind the board!’ Nathan hollered, his voice more like a bear’s roar, as suddenly she heard a terrible sound – deep snorting, heavy shoulders barging against walls, the stamp of hooves. Getting closer, closer . . .

Here.

She felt all the breath leave her as the bull ran into the ring. It was a dappled grey, lighter in build than she might have expected and yet still so . . . huge. It barrelled through in an awkward up-down motion, not yet noticing her, pawing at the sand and snorting wildly. It was stressed and defensive.

She didn’t move. Nor did anyone else. There was just a moment of utter stillness as the beast acclimatized to its surroundings, taking in the sudden space. And then her.

Her mouth dried up. There was nothing else now but her and it. She could see nothing, hear nothing. She wasn’t aware of the screams from the stands, she didn’t see the blur of motion as someone suddenly jumped down into the callejón pit, and up onto the defensive stone wall, vaulting the barreras and charging towards her. All she could hear was the sound of blood rushing in her head, all she could see was the animal beginning to run now, dipping its head, that vast bulk on stumpy legs, getting closer . . .