The crowd drink, they hiss like snakes. The insults hurt sometimes, but you need a thick skin. They bring their own drink; the drink here is too dear. Even for a top buster—but they’d get it free anyway. Last week some auld fella called Matty’s sister a wagon. He jumped over the ring fence and beat the shit out of him. The crowd tried attacking Matty, but he just swung and kicked like a bronco. In fact, I reran the clip a few times and Matty got the better of the crowd. Matty fingers his beads. Matty and his fucking beads. There’s too many sheep in the crowd these days anyway—just don’t let them hear you say it. The bull is black, with a sprayed-on luminous blue Four Knights beer advert. The bull looks at me through the bars, one giant eye. It looks at me like it knows everything about me. I look away.
The Texan is in today. He walks the pens, tutting, grinning. He said the Irish are sheep, fags. He said there’s no real bronco busters in Dublin—said it’s just a fad. Nothing but drunks and British fags, and we should be thanking him for being here. I’m nervous tonight. Sometimes I doubt myself with the crowd. Last week I was even called baldy. I look at my hairline in the mirror—it is going back a bit. Some of them call me bird, a slag. Maybe she is. You doubt yourself in the dome. You doubt yourself, and only a good lap will bring you back to who you really are. With the crowd on your side again—on their feet, unable to throw any abuse at you—as awe and brilliance pull them from their seats, clapping. When you’re in the zone, and when you’re in the zone, everybody keeps clapping.
Brutus is in the cells. He looks back at me with that giant black eye. I’ll show that cunt who’s a Brit. Brutus’s eye doesn’t leave me—black, staring out at me, and me toward him, staring into nothingness. I look away. I know Brutus is still watching, waiting. I hope Brutus is good today. I hope Brutus is kind. Some days he can be in a mood. Those are not good days.
I whistle a lullaby. Brutus doesn’t look amused.
I whistle something different. His eye never leaves me.
Matty walks the pens. He looks confident. He’s never double denim—he wears black Levi’s with a denim shirt, brown cowboy boots, and a brilliant white Stetson. He chews on a Henri Winterman. The smoke is sickening, but Matty is charismatic, funny. After a while you forget about the smell. But sometimes it makes me nervous, especially when we’re about to saddle up.
“You ready, boy?”
“I am,” I said.
“You better be. That son of a bitch has the eye locked on you.”
“I thought he always did that,” I said.
“Uh-uh,” Matty exhaled. “He likes you. Just not the same way we like things.”
I clench my fist. I catch Matty right on the jaw. He goes down like a ton of bricks. I knew the cunt had a glass jaw. He gets up, laughs, says he didn’t feel a thing. I laugh too—but I believe him. He touches his beads. I look back at Brutus. The eye doesn’t leave me. Eventually I touch my beads too. I hear the crowd above me. They cheer for some unseen bronco buster. Brutus doesn’t even budge. Bill gives me the sign. I climb the metal frame, then gently lower myself onto Brutus. Matty watches from outside, rubbing his jaw. I can feel the heat rise from Brutus. The heat is visible—the heat is steam. These companies can make anything nowadays. I rub my boot down his rib cage, then take the rough leather plate and push it down against his back to irritate him. He doesn’t complain much, but I can feel a funny energy. Steam keeps rising. The announcer blares on the speaker above. The crowd cheer. Steam keeps rising.
I push my hat down tight. I hear my name up above, then the cheer. I wrap the strap around my wrist a couple of times. I hold on tight. The steam keeps rising. I hold on. The bell rings at full tilt and the red and blue lights flicker like a strobe. Brutus is still for a moment, not realising the cage door has lifted yet. After a second he bolts—a second that seemed like a minute. The light is intense. When you leave the tunnel into the turf, it takes a while to adjust your eyes—to the sound of the stadium. The sound swallows you up, frightens you at first, until you realise you’ve bigger problems under your arse.
Sometimes I forget Brutus is part droid. But I’m not sure yet which part is more vicious. I think it’s the part of him that’s still an animal. The other part is too cold. I realise I’m on top of the vicious part now. The crowd are screaming, wailing, the light blinding. I use one arm; I raise the other. It keeps me upright, on Brutus longer. I grab my hat. The Stetson goes up in the air in my hand and the crowd go nuts, rising with it. I hold on hard. Everything hurts. I twist my wrist but somehow still hold on. The crowd lift again when they see the Stetson, high up, like victory. The stadium rumbles under Brutus but I can’t feel a thing.
Brutus is angry now—angrier than he ever was before. He bucks in quick sequence, but I’m still holding on. The Stetson is gone, flipped off with the quickening air. My wrist is bending, and my back, along with every other bone in my body. The pressure is everywhere—even in my mind, in the places I escape to avoid the pressure. I can’t hide in the cave. The pressure is pushing me out. The crowd are on their feet. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a bronco so long—let alone Brutus. I’m still in my cave. I’m not coming out. Not yet.
The beads on my wrist—the beads keep me safe. Matty and his fucking beads.
I’m still in the cave. It smells of scented candles—the vanilla ones my mother used to buy from Count’s Discounts. They’re chillingly cheap. The cave is hot, then a cold draught passes through. I’m not going anywhere yet. The cave is hard. It’s never soft. It’s comfortable, but never too much. The cave exists—but it doesn’t. Matty and his fucking beads. It’s hard to avoid pain, but we’ve been doing it well lately. I hear the crowd through a draught in the cave. The gust of sound gets louder. I feel I’m vibrating inside, that every bone in me is rattling. I hold the beads, flicking them through my fingers gently, with care—one after the other. The draught is getting stronger. I pray. The beads go from one finger to the next. The cave shakes—violently now. No more draughts. No more beads.
I hear the crowd, but I can’t see them yet. I see part of a buckle, a hotspur, part of Brutus—but I’m still in the cave. I touch the beads. I think hard. Relax. Switch off—but stay connected. The cave is quiet again. Then I feel an earthquake. Then I’m on the turf, dusty, looking up. The ex-busters dressed as clowns run around, distracting Brutus. The crowd are on their feet, roaring, shouting. Eventually they are all standing. Brutus is cordoned off by another fence. I slowly rise to my feet. I raise my arm in the air. The crowd call my name, in unison, over and over again.
I’m a buster now.
I’m a buster.
DoubleSpeak 