The driver pondered for a moment and then answered the question as best he could. “I honestly don’t know. I mean if I had time, I’m sure I could make a list a hundred foot long, but right now ...” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Matthew shrugged his shoulders. “An hour ago,” he explained, his voice relaxed, “I didn’t have this money.” He paused, contemplated. “Do you know what I intend to do with it?”
The driver looked at Matthew’s reflection in the rear-view mirror, eager to hear the answer.
Matthew continued, “I have absolutely no idea. One hundred million, no idea.” He thought. “One hundred million, no idea,” he repeated with a smile. “I guess that’s what they call having more money than sense.”
6
Matthew Jester and Charles Edinburgh walked through the doors to The King and Spade pub. Outside, the sun had slipped away and the world had turned an eerie grey. The pub was half-full. Three bartenders served around twenty-five customers, consisting of a middle-aged majority and a teenage and elderly minority.
A large bar stretched through the middle of the building, with stools placed at intervals along one side. Matthew Jester and Charles Edinburgh, receiving recognition and judgemental stares from every eye that fell their way, sat down next to each other at the bar.
Charles looked around the bar with a curious expression. Matthew stared at a young female bartender currently serving another customer. Half a dozen customers were drinking at the bar, hunched over on the stools. Behind Matthew, sitting amongst the half dozen oak tables that dotted the area, were another handful of customers.
In the corner furthest away from Charles, a jukebox played. Melodies of rock eras gone-by floated through the pub, but were crowded out by the brash sound of a television set, the large plasma television tuned into a sporting news channel and mounted on the far wall.
Content with his surroundings, Charles returned his eyes to the bar. The young waitress had finished serving her customer and made her way over.
“Hello,” she said, her face reddening by the second, her voice filled with a nervousness. “What can I get you?”
“Jack Daniels,” Matthew said with a smile, staring into her shy eyes. “Double, with ice. And a lemonade, please.”
The waitress nodded. She struggled to hold Jester’s stare.
“Could you put a touch of lime in that lemonade, please?” Charles enquired.
The woman smiled – again awkwardly – and nodded.
“A touch of lime,” Matthew repeated. “So, Charlie,” he said, and turned on his stool, spinning his backside ninety degrees so that he faced Charles. “Tell me, how did you get into the limousine business? I’m guessing it wasn’t a childhood dream of yours.”
“I always wanted to be an actor,” Charles said with a soft laugh. “Strange how things never turn out the way you want them to, isn’t it?”
Matthew smiled broadly, a cheeky smile that said more than words could.
“Ah,” Charles said with a nod, a smile on his face, too. “Look who I’m asking.”
The waitress finished pouring the drinks and looked up with a timid smile. “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” she began, putting Matthew’s drink down in front of him, where the amber liquid in the glass sat lovingly atop a spoonful of crushed ice. “But aren’t you Matthew Jester?”
Matthew merely nodded, taking a sip from his drink.
“I’m a big fan,” the woman said, her cheeks turning a rhubarb colour.
Matthew raised his eyebrows. “Of what?” he asked dryly.
“Of you,” the woman explained. “I’m a big fan of you.”
Matthew pondered this statement for a moment. “But I don’t do anything,” he said honestly.
The woman merely nodded. Her eyes were caught in a dreamy stare.
Matthew raised his eyebrows at her and then turned to face Charles again. “How does a wannabe actor end up driving a limousine around for a living?”
“A bit of luck,” Edinburgh said. “Two bits,” he corrected. “A bit of bad luck and a bit of good luck. I was never a good actor. My parents were well off, they paid for drama lessons -- every Tuesday and Thursday after school and dance lessons on Saturday,” he remembered with a touch of childhood nostalgia. “But…as luck would have it, I was never any good. It just wasn’t meant to be,” he finished, taking a sip of his lemonade.
“And the good luck?” Matthew offered.
“That would be my wife.”
“Julie,” Matthew said quickly, deeply interested in what his driver had to say.
“That’s the one,” Charles nodded. “Julie Chambers,” he smiled, speaking his wife’s maiden name.
“The owner,” Matthew said with a nod of recognition. “Mark Chambers, he owns the Limo firm, right? You married, who, his daughter?”
Charles nodded. “Have you met Mr. Chambers before?”
“Once, at a party with my girlfriend. He was there, spent the majority of his time at the buffet table.” Matthew nodded in recollection. “Fat fucker, isn’t he?” he said bluntly.
Charles smiled. “I wouldn’t like to say.”
“What’s it like working for your father-in-law?”
“In all honesty?” he asked, a smile on his lips.
“Go ahead. I won’t tell a soul.”
“I hate it,” Charles admitted. “Mark is ...” he paused, the words lingering on his lips. “He’s a proud man.”
“He’s an arrogant twat?” Jester offered.
“Working for your father-in-law doesn’t make you feel very independent either,” Charles said, shaking off Matthew’s comment. “But, we had a family to raise, I didn’t have a job, and ... well, I’m sure you can guess the rest.”
“Well, at least you get to drive famous people around,” Matthew offered.
“Famous or not,” Charles stated, “people are still people. It makes no difference to me. With no intended offence on your part.”
Matthew nodded. “None taken. I’m not famous. Or at least, I’m not famous for the right reasons.”
“Hey,” the waitress who had backed away from the couple had returned. Her voice was soft, almost whispered, “You're on the tele.” She pointed to the large screen in the pub, which had been tuned in to CNN.
Matthew nodded and arched his neck to glance at the screen.
“I’m whispering because I didn’t want –” the waitress began, her words cut short.
“Yes, I get it,” Jester said sharply.
The news channel was displaying scenes from the trial, the camera slowly mapping out the view of the courthouse. The volume control on the set was activated and a green bar, already three quarters full, was filling further. Jester shot a glance behind the bar. The waitress, a smile on her face and the remote control in her hand, smiled back broadly. Jester slowly shook his head.
The camera floated over the stairs leading to the courthouse, and after several minutes, the screen changed, scenes of Matthew Jester walking proudly out of the courthouse filling the screen. He smiled at the sight of himself. A few heads turned his way, people only just matching the two faces to create a person prominent in the public eye.
Matthew’s on-screen words had suddenly been limited to “I am invincible.” Those words were followed by an overlapping sound bite from the news reporter, “Is Matthew Jester invincible?”
The reporter narrated the next line: “Mr. Jester, shockingly claimed he was more important than Jesus Christ, words that will certainly astonish millions.”
Matthew opened his mouth, closed it slowly, and shook his head.
The screen returned to the courthouse. The American woman was asking Matthew a question, as she had done. “Do you consider yourself a biblical figure? The Beatles claimed they were bigger than Jesus Christ. After all of your astonishing luck, fame and fortune, do you feel a greater importance over the most prominent religious figure in the western world?”
Matthew listened to his on-screen answer.
“Of course! Without a doubt.” The screen changed back to the newsroom; Matthew’s image paused, his smile stalled, and his deep eyes were reduced to a thumbnail.
“When asked how his words might affect the religious community, Mr Jester responded by saying...” The screen opened up to expose Jester once more, and he spoke the words, “fuck them all,” with his coarse language bleeped out. “Mr Jester, a man who, without a doubt, will quickly become a martyr in the public eye, was asked if he would share his new found wealth with the public and his adoring fans. He responded with the following harsh words...” Again, Jester appeared on the screen, and he unfroze and said, “I don’t need the public. I don’t give a flying fuck about the public.”
“Strange indeed,” the reporter said calmly, shaking his head. “Are these words the words of a madman? Or, is he really – like he claims – a strong biblical figure; a man who can rival the affections of Jesus Christ himself. More to come later.” He finished with a tap of his papers. He continued to speak, but Jester lost track of his words as he fell into his own thoughts.
He turned on his stool, his head held low, his mind deep in thought. “I didn’t …” he paused, slowly turning to Charles Edinburgh. “I didn’t say that.”
“The camera doesn’t lie, Mr Jester,” Charles accused, his voice still calm.
All eyes in the pub were on Matthew Jester, and none of them were interested in his celebrity status. He looked at their faces and saw anger in their eyes. “I can’t remember …” Jester said, trailing off. “Did I?” he stroked his chin. “I think I said all that, but she wasn’t asking me those questions when I said it. Or was she?” he begged to know, his use of valium throughout the day having blurred his mind.
Charles merely shrugged his shoulders.
“They’ve cut it. Edited it. Whatever they fucking do, that’s what they’ve done. They’ve made me out to be the bad guy …” he paused again, deep in thought. “But why?” he asked no one in particular. “Or maybe …” he shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I, but ...” Charles was looking worriedly around the pub. “Either way, I think we should be leaving now, sir.” He calmly rose from his stool.
“What?” Matthew watched Charles stand.
“I think it would be for the best,” he said, nodding towards a group of individuals near the door.
Matthew saw that everyone was still looking, at him and a lot of them were very angry, some looking ready to pounce. “Hmm,” he thought placidly. He turned his attention to the waitress. She wasn’t smiling anymore.
“I think you should leave,” she said, catching Matthew’s eyes. “Quickly,” she added.
Matthew shrugged his shoulders, stood, and drained his drink. He joined Charles in walking to the door, their footsteps hurried, their eyes darting around the room.
A man in his mid-thirties with strong arms and a thick chest walked in front of the pair and blocked the entrance. “We don’t like your sort around here,” he declared.
Charles and Matthew stopped in their tracks. “I know,” Matthew said placidly. “That’s why we’re leaving.” He frowned at the man. “What part of that don’t you get?”
Charles offered his help. “Look, we don’t want –” he stepped forward, but was pushed back by the man.
“Are you trying to be funny?” he asked, his eyes on Matthew.
Matthew stared at the man in front of him, his features set like a bulldog. “Clearly not,” he said. “Or maybe you’re just not the smiling type?” he offered.
“A lot of people around here are very religious, you know.”
“What, in London?” Matthew with a grin. “Pull the other one, mate.”
The man opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it. He stared at Matthew for a moment, his anger increasing. When Matthew was least expecting it, he threw a right hook his way. His chubby hand flashed across Matthew’s vision and he braced for impact.
The fist clattered flesh ... the hand of Charles Edinburgh. The driver had, unlike Matthew, anticipated the punch and acted upon it.
“Holy shit,” Matthew said, backing away, his face only inches from the fist in Charles’s hand.
Charles gripped the man’s fist and squeezed tightly. He twisted it like a knob and the muscular man yelped in pain. He swung with his free hand, but the feeble movement was easily dodged by the driver.
“Sir,” Charles said calmly to Jester. “Please go to the car. I will be with you shortly.”
Matthew looked around him. People were climbing from their seats, slowly edging their way towards him, all of them unsure what to do about the man – someone Matthew guessed they knew – at the feet of Charles Edinburgh.
“Probably for the best,” Matthew said. He slipped past the defeated man – now pleading with the driver – and quickly exited into the cool evening air.
When Charles left the pub, he did so brashly, brushing his jacket down and striding briskly towards the car. He never looked back, despite the shouts of anger spilling from the pub.
Matthew Jester was leaning against the Limo, grinning. “Quick reflexes you have there,” he noted.
Edinburgh smiled and straightened out the sleeve on his right arm. He walked to the passenger seat, opened the door, and ushered Matthew inside before clambering into the front seat himself. Within seconds, he had started the engine and made a fast getaway from the pub.
7
“What now?” Matthew asked, sounding defeated. “That wasn’t just any news channel, that was CNN. What I said in that interview....” He paused and reflected. “Or at least what they made me say....” He paused again. “Well, they didn’t actually make me say it…you know what I mean anyway.”
In the front seat, Charles gave a nod of recognition. The car was now on the motorway, a steady distance from the pub and its hostile occupants.
“It goes out worldwide. All over the world, people will be sharpening their pitchforks,” Matthew said.
“There are a lot of god-fearing individuals in this world, Mr Jester,” Charles said in his usual calm tone. “And your words would have angered many. But no one should be judged on one mistake.”
“But it wasn’t a mistake. I didn’t say that.”
“Everyone has a slip of the tongue now and again.”
“Yes, I know,” Matthew said exasperatedly, leaning forward in his seat. “But I didn’t slip up. I didn’t say those things.”
“It looked a lot like –”
“No, it was me, but the answer I gave was to another question. I wouldn’t say something like that. The consequences would be too high.” He slumped back into the soft leather. “Are too high,” he corrected solemnly. “These are the consequences, because as far as everyone is concerned, that’s what I said.”
Matthew fell silent, deep in thought.
Seeing the stern, thought-filled features of Jester in his rear-view mirror, Charles decided to turn on the radio, drowning out the need for awkward conversation. He played with the radio dial, flicked past classical music stations, rock music stations, rap, blues, and pop; he stopped searching when Matthew called to him.
“Stop!” he said. “Go back.”
Charles did as instructed. He turned the dial anticlockwise and stopped when he heard Jennifer Wilkinson. It was one of her heart-filled ballads, currently number two in the singles charts.
“Not that,” Matthew said. “I get enough of that shit at home, the one before.”
Charles turned the dial again. It was a talk show, a man in his late forties with a brazen voice that was devoid of an accent. He was speaking to his listeners.
“A mere ten minutes after the CNN broadcast, the phone lines rang off the hook. Angry callers worldwide have been expressing their deep hatred for a man once considered to be the luckiest person in the world.” His voice changed; it became deeper, conclusive. “Matthew Jester – the smiling idiot – is a man with no hope and limited fame. His days in the spotlight are surely numbered. The tables
have finally turned for the Jammy Jester.” His voice changed again. “We’ll have more on that story as we get it; now, here’s Tom with the weather.”
“Fuck,” Jester snapped bluntly.
The Limousine rolled over a long gravel driveway and pulled to a stop in front of large white garage doors. Matthew Jester, slumped into his seat throughout the journey, slowly rose, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Thanks, Charlie,” he said tiredly. “Sorry about all the hassle … it’s been a fucking terrible day.”
“That’s perfectly okay, sir,” Charles said, his voice as calm as ever. “And the day hasn’t been that bad, if you don’t mind me saying, sir. You did win the court case after all.”
Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) Page 4