Jester moved as quickly as he could. He managed to wrangle his way to the front seat, being careful not to touch the haemorrhaging police officer on his way. He crunched into the passenger seat, sitting on a thousand shards of glass. With great difficulty, he took the handcuff keys from the driver and dropped them into his back pocket.
He didn’t need to think about what to do. Everyone wanted him dead and the police wanted to lock him up. The situation he now found himself in wouldn’t help matters, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they blamed him for the death of the two officers like they had blamed him for Jennifer’s death.
He steadied himself in the seat and prepared for a world of pain that was about to come his way. Luckily for him, he had taken gymnastics at school. Unluckily for him, that was over a decade ago. He was sure he still had the flexibility needed, but wasn’t sure where it had been hiding all these years. He twisted his body and brought his arms underneath his legs. He tried to lift his legs and shift his body, but he couldn’t bring the handcuffs over his legs, and his first attempt caused his shoulder to twist awkwardly.
He paused for breath, tried to ignore the pain in his shoulder, and tried again. He put his arms at full stretch, feeling a strain in both of his shoulders as his muscles threatened to tear. He managed to slip his hands over his legs, bringing his handcuffed wrists out in front of him. He groaned in painful pleasure, and gave himself a nod of appreciation.
He looked to the side door – his escape route – but the door had been fixed shut, indented and wedged under the impact of the crash.
Grimacing, waiting for agony, he rammed his shoulder into the door, making sure to angle his aim to the front of the door. The impact slipped a disc and the white-hot pain it brought caused him to scream in agony. His face instantly brightened to a beetroot colour as blue stars flashed across his vision.
The door didn’t budge. His face was red, beads of sweat running down his forehead.
He rested, taking in large gulps of air. After he regained control of the burning pain, he fiddled with the handcuff key, taking several minutes to open the handcuffs with the very end of his forefinger and thumb. Free from his restraints, pain still spiking through his body, Jester looked to the driver’s side door. It was ajar. The crash had crushed the lock and crumpled the door. He could get out through that door, no mistake, but the mangled corpse next to it put him off.
With his face a picture of disgust, Jester shuffled onto the seat, leaned backwards slightly, and then kicked out like a ram. The soles of his feet crashed hard into the side door and it sprang open with a grateful groan.
Before leaving the scene and heading for the fields beyond, Jester contemplated using the dispatch radio to warn of the accident. He could make it away in time and he didn’t want to leave the officers to die, but he knew that there was little to no life left in either of the two men. He didn’t need to check their pulse or their breath to know that they had already passed on.
He gave them a sympathetic look and then turned and ran, heading for the fields and the cover of trees.
9
He stopped by the side of a lake and instantly slumped to his knees. He ripped off his jacket like a man possessed and lowered his face to the still blue water, staring at his own blood-covered reflection on the smooth silvery surface.
He grabbed handfuls of water and splashed the cold liquid onto his face, the blood that had poured from the police officer’s wounds colouring the water with a marbled-red. He used his jacket to wipe the excess water and blood from his face before discarding the jacket – tossing it to one side like an unwanted crisp packet.
“What a fucking day,” he mumbled, lazily slumping to the floor. He curled up, his head resting sideways on a bed of grass, his eyes looking at the world through a sideways perspective.
He was drawn, tired, out of breath and in pain. After winning one hundred million pounds, he’d managed to become the bane of the religious community, the murderer of one of the country’s best loved music stars. and now, after the arrest and car crash, he was a fugitive. Just when he was wishing his day couldn’t get any worse, Jester saw the ominous sight of a double barrel shotgun pointed straight at his head.
Matthew didn’t move. He wasn’t so sure he could, and he was certainly sure that he didn’t want to. Even the sight of a loaded shotgun didn’t wake his senses. Seeing his girlfriend slaughtered, being arrested, being in a car accident, and nearly dislocating his shoulder had taken the majority of the energy out of him. He didn’t care anymore. Nothing inside him stood to attention when he saw the twin-barrels; nothing jumped, his hairs didn’t stand on end, and his life didn’t flash before his eyes. He just stared.
“Hello. Down there,” the gun spoke. Judging by its accent, it was a posh gun.
Matthew Jester mumbled.
“Are you okay?”
“Possibly made from Rolls Royce parts,” Matthew mumbled.
“Excuse me?” the gun moved away and a man appeared. He held the weapon in his right hand, where it dangled near his leg. Jester studied his appearance briefly. He wore a red and black tweed shirt and worn jeans.
“Nothing,” Jester said, his words slow and leisurely. He pushed himself up from the ground.
“Are you okay?” the man asked.
Jester looked his way and sighed. He’d had a hard day, and now a lumberjack was impersonating Hugh Grant and pointing guns at him. “I’m fine,” he said with a soft laugh.
The man put his gun down and held out his hand. “Let’s get you up,” he said merrily.
Jester nodded and reached for the man’s hand, but as soon as pressure was applied, he recoiled in pain.
“What’s wrong?” the gunman wanted to know
“Dislocated my shoulder,” Jester said, contemplating and sighing. “I think.”
“That’s nasty.”
“No shit.”
“Well, we’ll have to get you up. We can’t have you sitting around here all day, can we?”
Matthew Jester looked up at the gunman. “Fair enough,” he agreed. He allowed the man to help him to his feet, something which required great effort for both of them.
“There you go,” the gunman said when Matthew was back on his feet. “My name is James,” he held out his hand, but quickly retracted it.
“Matthew,” Jester said, smiling.
“Okay, Matthew,” the gunman said in his cheery tone. “Let’s get you back to the house. My wife knows a thing or two about medicine, and I’m sure she can just pop that shoulder back in for you,” he said, stressing the word pop.
“Lovely,” Jester said unenthusiastically.
“We just live past this farm here,” the man explained.
They continued in silence for a while until Matthew spoke. “Why the hell did you point a gun at me?” he asked.
“Well, we get a lot of poachers around here. A lot of people come to cause trouble. A nice derelict place like this, I don’t need to explain. It brings in all sorts.”
“And you point guns at them?”
“Some of them. I wouldn’t shoot, though.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“I would never kill a man. Perhaps if I was fighting for my country, or my life,” James pondered, “or my family’s life, or in self-defence, of course,” he finished. Matthew opened his mouth to speak, but then James continued. “Or in defence of others,” he added.
“Okay,” Matthew said, raising his eyebrows. He looked across at James, who was smiling broadly. “Are you a farmer then?” he asked.
“Yes,” James said. “I inherited this land from my family. I inherited a lot more than this, too,” he said in a moment of contemplation. “But I was never one for the high life. A simple farmer’s life suits me just fine.”
“So you’re rich…and farming.”
“Exactly,” he said with a nod. “But life isn’t about money. There’s so much more.”
“Yeah, and it all costs money.”
James laug
hed boorishly. His laugh subsided into a thoughtful smile and he continued onwards, pondering. Matthew Jester and his new found farming friend reached their destination five minutes later. The main building was a converted barn with Victorian décor. Five windows decorated the front of the hose – two down, three up – as well as a small attic window poking out from the roof. To the left of the house was a chicken pen, and several hens wandered around the perimeter, all nodding for food. To the right of the house – set further back – was a stable.
When Matthew entered the house, he was immediately greeted by a middle-aged woman in a blue and white striped apron. There was margarine grease on her hands and flecks of flour in her hair. She introduced herself as Mary, and when Matthew reached forward to shake her hand, he could smell the delights of freshly baked bread and pastries.
“I found this lad out on the fields,” James explained to his wife. “He’s got himself into a bit of bother by the looks of it.” He looked at Matthew. “Isn’t that right?”
Matthew stood, frozen to the spot. “Sorry?”
“Your shoulder, lad.”
“Ah,” Matthew said, relieved. “It’s no problem, really.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” the woman spoke, her smile as warm as a loving grandmothers, her voice soft and delicate. “I’ll get it sorted for you in no time.”
Matthew smiled. “Okay.”
“If you’d like to come along with me,” the woman said, walking away from the entrance, “I’ll get your shoulder looked at. I’m sorry you caught me at a bad time.” She untied the apron from around her back, folded it, and rested it on a coffee table she passed. “I was just making tea.”
“The lad can stay,” James said broadly. “We’ll pull up another chair.” He turned to Matthew, who had started to follow Mary. “You look pale and thin, lad,” he explained. “A good hot, home-cooked meal will do you wonders.”
“Are you sure?” Matthew asked. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding, dear,” Mary explained. “We’d be more than happy to have you at dinner. We don’t get many opportunities to entertain.”
“Well, if it’s okay,” Matthew began, and he touched his stomach instinctively. “I am rather hungry.”
Mary walked into the living room and Matthew followed. Instant warmth greeted him when he stepped into the room; a strong lavender fragrance hung in the air. A log fire slowly burned on the centre wall, giving off a soothing heat and a relaxing mood. The décor reminded Matthew of a typical grandmother’s house, but he loved it.
Mary instructed Matthew to sit down before sitting next to him. “If I can just have your arm,” she said.
Matthew smiled and let his injured arm fall her way. He looked around the room. The walls were painted with pictures of lakes, forests, and mountains. Across the fireplace and on top of an outdated television set were numerous family portraits. Children, nieces, nephews, mothers, fathers, grandchildren. Matthew stopped admiring the photos when Mary popped his shoulder back into place.
For a fleeting moment, a matter of seconds, an extreme agony burned through Matthew’s blood. His forehead instantly spawned sweat, the hairs on his neck and arms stood to attention, and his mouth muttered an incoherent and obscene gurgle.
“There you go,” Mary said, removing her hands from his shoulder. “As good as new.”
Matthew looked across at the smiling woman, the pain in his arm decreasing to a numb throb. “As quick as that?”
“It’s just a dislocated shoulder, darling.”
“I know … but couldn’t you have warned me first?”
“Believe me, if you know the pain is coming, it’s a lot harder to handle,” she said warmly.
Matthew nodded. “I guess so.”
“How did you get into this mess, then?”
Matthew studied the woman’s features for a moment. If she or her husband knew who he was, they would have said something by now.
“I fell.”
“What were you doing out in those fields?”
Matthew paused, pondered, and then spoke, “Collecting apples.”
“Apples?”
“From the trees. Then I fell.”
The woman smiled and stood. “Whatever you were doing is none of my business, my darling,” she said warmly. “You seem like a nice man. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thanks,” Matthew said bleakly.
“Let’s get you some food then,” Mary exclaimed happily. “I have some freshly baked bread, some lovely stew, and a cherry pie for afterwards.”
“That sounds delicious,” Matthew said with a gleeful nod.
Mary stood and started out of the room. Matthew’s eyes crossed to the television set. “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he said, catching her attention. “But do you …” he paused, struggling to find an innocent question to receive a serious answer. “Do you watch the television much?”
“No, dear,” Mary said instantly. “The twins, my nieces, they watch it when they come over to visit. My nephew, Carl, too, he likes television, but other than that, no. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering,” Matthew said distantly. “This seems like such a beautiful place, and it’s a nice distance away from the big cities. How do you keep up with current events, news, sports and what not?”
“What goes on behind those walls doesn’t interest me,” Mary said placidly. “James, on the other hand …” she allowed her sentence to trail off.
“James?” Matthew snapped, worry in his tone. “What does he watch? He watches the television, does he? Reads newspapers?” He realised he sounded desperate and strange, but he couldn’t help himself. He needed to know if they were likely to know who he was and what he had -- supposedly -- done.
“Nothing like that. He watches the odd England game, that’s all. He can’t stand sports, but he’s a very patriotic man. Whenever England is playing, be it cricket, football, or field hockey, he’ll be there watching it.”
Matthew nodded, content.
“Follow me, love,” Mary ushered. “Dinner will be ready soon. In the meantime, you and James can pass the time.” She paused in the doorway. “Do you know how to play chess?”
“No.”
“Backgammon?”
“No.”
“Drafts?”
“No.”
“Hmm,” Mary pondered. “What about cards?”
“Poker,” Matthew said. “I know poker.”
“That’ll do,” Mary said with a smile. “James likes to play a few games and have a couple of drinks before dinner.” She paused and pondered. “James likes his games,” she finished with a smile.
Matthew nodded and followed Mary into another room.
10
Matthew spread his hand of cards in front of his face: nine of hearts, seven of diamonds, two kings – club and spade – and the ace of hearts.
“Two for me,” he said, laying the nine and the seven flat on the table and receiving another two cards from the dealer.
“I’ll take just the one,” James said.
They both studied their hands and then they started making their bets. A mound of one and two pence pieces sat in the middle of the table. James had supplied the money, purely for practical purposes. As James had explained thoroughly to Matthew, ‘gambling is a fool’s game and I am no fool.’
James had won seven of the eight games played so far, putting James in an ironic position and leaving Matthew thankful that his host wasn’t a fool.
“I’ll see you,” James said, nodding to Jester.
Matthew smiled and spread his cards on the table, exposing all four Kings. James did the same, showing a full house of three aces and two Queens. He smiled at Matthew as he scooped the copper coins over to his side of the table.
“People say I’m lucky,” Matthew said. “You’re just taking the piss.”
James laughed boorishly. Over the last thirty minutes, Matthew had realised that no matter how simple, patriotic, hardworkin
g, and middle class James was, he didn’t object to Matthew’s profanities.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Matthew began as James racked up the cards. “But … well.” he paused, the words on the tip of his tongue, unwilling to leave and form.
“You’re wondering how a middle-class man, raised through public schools and universities, ends up as a simple farmer?” He spoke without lifting his head, his eyes on the shuffling cards in his hands.
Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) Page 6