Running Stupid: (Mystery Series)

by James Kipling

  Matthew moved his hand to the dog’s collar, took hold of a dangling tag, and read it aloud. “Mister Tooty.” He paused to stare at the dog. “Mr Tooty?”

  The dog looked Matthew straight in the eye. He could feel the hot, smelly breath of the bloodhound on his face. “They named you Mr Tooty?” Matthew asked, a hand behind each of the dog’s ears. “You poor sod.”

  A loud, echoing explosion sounded in the distance. The dog juddered and then fell over, its decapitated head still in Matthew’s hands as its body crashed lifelessly to the floor.

  Matthew released his grip and looked down at the canine. A chunk had been taken out of its back. Blood gushed from several buckshot wounds, including a gushing geezer of crimson coming from underneath the dog, where one of its legs had been blown clean off.

  Past the canine carnage, out in the open field, Matthew saw the figure of James Whittall, a shotgun in his hands, a smile on his face. He quickly scuttled out of the way just as another explosion blasted through the forest. The buck shots missed him, taking a large chunk out of a tree.

  “Fucking hell!” Matthew spat, spinning his way through the forest.

  Another shot sounded. This time it hit the ground metres ahead of Matthew’s feet, tearing up globs of mud and stone and throwing them at his fleeing feet. He continued to run as a third shot barked into the morning air. With each shot, Jester waited for his demise. He waited for one of the bullets to pierce his body, but again the shot missed.

  He continued deep into the forest. James stopped firing when Jester was out of sight. James sighed heavily and allowed his shotgun to fall down by his side, cradling it loosely in his right hand. An explosion of static erupted from his overall pockets. He dug his hand inside and pulled out a walkie talkie.

  “I heard shots,” a voice broke through the static. “Did you get him?”

  “No,” James confirmed. “I missed.” His eyes were fixed on the forest, waiting for any glimpse of his target. “I hit a dog.”

  He dropped the radio back into his pocket and headed for the woodlands. Beyond, past the hill, the country road was getting busier and busier, but James was confident he would get the job done without any witnesses.

  ***

  Matthew Jester spun on his heels, twirling around a tree with great agility. He hopped over a broken mass of branches and sprinted straight ahead. He was in the clear, the shade of the over-hanging trees disappearing as he exited the forest. He quickly noted his surroundings, turned to his left, and set off on a sprint again. He was in a field, smaller than the previous one but still roughly the size of a football pitch. Ahead, in the direction he faced, was a grass hill leading up to a quiet country road.

  Skipping over a mound of manure, Jester briefly lost his footing, the heel of his left foot sliding out beneath him. He stumbled forward at breakneck speed and then managed to right himself, avoiding a collision with the floor.

  His heart battered a techno beat against his ribcage, and his mind – clogged with fear, confusion, and pain – worked overtime. On the outside he ached like he had never ached in his life, but he continued to pump his legs, drowning out the pain with sheer determination.

  He reached the end of the field and slowed his pace as his tired legs began to climb the grassy hill. On the road at the top, he could hear a car, the noise of its engine getting closer and closer.

  He fell to his feet and scrambled furiously up the hill on his hands and knees. When he made it to the top, he breathlessly tossed himself onto the middle of the road. The engine roar increased until the car was less than twenty metres ahead of him, and then it slowed. The driver had spotted the defeated man lying in the middle of the road.

  Matthew Jester rolled over onto his back and stared at the grey sky, trying to calm his breathing and ignore the blue stars that flashed in the corners of his eyes.

  He heard the sound of a car door opening and then closing.

  He smiled a smile of relief and listened to the footsteps of the encroaching driver.

  “You shouldn’t be lying in the middle of the road like that,” the driver stopped clear of Jester’s vision.

  “I know,” Jester began; he opened his mouth to explain further, but quickly snapped it shut.

  “You could get yourself killed,” the driver said.

  Jester cursed under his breath and propped himself up, using his elbows. The driver was now in his sights. “Uh-huh,” he muttered, his eyes on the sadistic, sickly eyes of Darren Whittall. He had recognised the voice. It rang with the same tone of middle-class psychosis that plagued the voice of James Whittall. It was deeper and harsher around the edges, toned with a touch of working class subtlety.

  Darren Whittall walked over to the slumped form of Matthew Jester and held out a hand. Jester stared at it for a moment, confused.

  “Come on, boy,” Darren insisted. “We can’t have you lying in the middle of the road now, can we?” he moved his hand closer to Jester.

  Matthew studied the features of Darren Whittall, hoping to catch a hint of what was going on behind his stern exterior and inside his murderous mind. But, like his brother, Darren’s face didn’t give anything away.

  Jester reached out and accepted Darren’s hand, allowing him to help him to his feet.

  “What were you doing down there anyway?” Darren wondered, noting Jester’s appearance. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve been through the wars.”

  Jester paused. It took him a moment of contemplation before he remembered that he had never been introduced to Darren Whittall. There was no doubt that his appearance had been described to him, no doubt that Darren knew who was standing in front of him, but what Darren didn’t know was that Matthew knew what he looked like.

  Jester paused in thought. He was giving himself a headache. “I slipped,” he explained. “I kind of fell up the hill,” he looked down at his dirt-riddled clothes and then back to the embankment. “I stumbled onto the road.”

  “Were you running?” Darren quizzed.

  Jester nodded bleakly, saying the first thing that came to his head. “I was jogging.”

  Darren Whittall nodded slowly, his gaze unflinching. “Why don’t you come back to the car with me,” he offered. “I’ll drive you home. You look like you need a good wash and some sleep,” he paused. “Do you live around here?”

  “No,” Jester said bluntly. “But,” he was quick to add, “I could do with a lift to the bus station.”

  Darren Whittall nodded and gestured for Jester to follow him as he made his way back to his car. “Going anywhere special?” Darren asked, his back to Jester, who was unable to see the smile of anticipation and excitement on his lips.

  “Not really,” Jester muttered.

  “Do you work around these parts?”

  “No,” Jester said bluntly.

  “What were you doing then?” Darren asked, metres away from the car now. “This is all farming land. You don’t look like a farmer to me,” he chuckled oddly. “What brought you to these parts?”

  “Apples.”

  “What?” Darren Whittall turned. “What do you mean–” something flashed across his vision at blinding speed. He could only react with an instinctive moan and an attempt to pull his hands closer to his face, but Jester’s fist slammed into his jaw before he could guard himself.

  The impact splintered an incisor, ripping the tooth from its root and exploding enamel shrapnel inside his mouth. A large slice of the tooth pierced through his bottom lip as blood quickly spilled as the wound opened.

  Matthew Jester stepped forward and swung again. He caught Darren Whittall in the stomach, a sucker punch that sucked all the air from his body. He curled up, moaned loudly, and took his hands from his face, moving the blood-covered shields to his abdomen.

  He fell back, stumbling against the front bumper of his Jeep. Jester lunged and punched again, swinging with all of his might. Whittall anticipated the attack and allowed himself to slump down. The fist flew over his head and Jester nearly lo
st his balance, struggling to regain it before throwing another punch.

  This time, Darren reached out and grabbed the fist from the air, gripping it tight in his hand. With his free arm, Whittall whipped his knuckles across Jester’s face.

  Jester stumbled back, trying to break free; Darren – still holding Jester’s fist – pulled him closer. He swung again with his left, opening up a wound on Matthew’s lips. Another four punches followed, two landing against his stomach, one falling just below the bottom of his ribs, one slamming hard against his head. The final punch was crude and sly, aimed at Jester’s genitals.

  Matthew screamed in agony when the contact was made and Darren released him from his grip. Matthew fell to his knees, his hands cupping his genital area. He curled up on the floor.

  Darren Whittall grinned sadistically and spat a glob of blood at him. It missed him by inches, decorating the floor next to his face. “James said you weren’t like the rest,” Darren explained. “I guess he was right.”

  “You sick fucking bastard,” Jester spat. “What do you want with me?”

  Darren didn’t answer. Instead, he tilted his head to one side and then the other, cracking his neck. “Get in the car,” he said after a moment’s silence.

  Matthew, practically rolling around on the floor in agony, shouted, “Fuck off!”

  “Get in the car.”

  “No.”

  “Get. In. The. Car.” Darren said slowly, stressing every word.

  “Go. Fuck. Yourself.”

  “You’re not making this very easy for yourself,” Darren explained.

  “Well, excuse me!” Matthew bellowed. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you stick an apple in my mouth and I’ll go start the fire and get the spit? Hell, I’ll even turn it for you.” He paused to wince out a sudden stab of pain. “How does that sound?”

  “I think you’re being sarcastic.”

  Matthew sighed. “You catch on quick, don’t you?”

  Darren grinned. He stared at Matthew for a moment and then made his way to the side of his car. He opened the front door and reached towards a rifle on the passenger seat.

  Seeing this, Matthew Jester acted as quickly as his body would allow. He ignored the fresh agony in his groin, as well as the many stale pains over his body, quickly clambered to his feet, and stumbled over to Darren Whittall at the side of the car with his fist raised. The psychotic man quickly emerged from the car and whipped the butt of a rifle at Jester’s face.

  It smacked his nose, crushing it easily. Matthew stumbled, trying to stay on his feet before collapsing onto the front of the car, his nose rapidly bleeding fresh crimson.

  Darren loomed over him. “Please don’t try to fight it,” he said. “You’ll only make it harder for yourself.”

  Matthew, his hands cupped over his face, moaned loudly.

  “We should get you looked at, that looks painful,” Darren Whittall said, noting the broken nose.

  “Fine,” Matthew muttered through his hands. “I’ll go with you, just put the gun away.” He looked over the top of his hands, past the crimson horizon. Darren Whittall was smiling broadly. He walked back to the car and threw the gun inside.

  Matthew Jester removed his hands from his face and looked at the ominous figure in front of him. He was standing a foot away, his legs apart, his arms brought up to torso height; ready and waiting for anything that Matthew might try.

  “You win,” Matthew said solemnly. “Just let me go in peace. I won’t struggle.”

  Darren nodded.

  “Although there is just one thing I need,” Jester said.

  “What’s that?” Darren asked.

  Jester smiled and then aimed a kick between the legs of his attacker, kicking as hard as he could, expending as much energy as he could.

  Darren Whittall’s eyes bulged. His look of intimidation quickly changed, his face burning to a bright beetroot colour. He dropped to his knees, clutching his groin.

  Matthew swung his leg back again, and when he kicked this time, he aimed for Darren’s head. His foot wrapped around his skull like a football. A loud crack sounded, a thick echo in the early morning air, and then Darren Whittall slumped to the ground.

  Matthew flopped against the bumper of the car, breathing heavily, blood still dripping from his broken nose and his split lip. “You fucker.” He swirled the blood in his mouth and then spat a glob of it at the figure on the ground. It hit Darren Whittall on the cheek, smudging a mark of crimson over his skin.

  Turning, Matthew slowly made his way around to the side of the car, stopping for a breath when he reached the front door.

  “That wasn’t very nice, was it?”

  Matthew turned to see Darren Whittall climbing to his feet, his face flustered. “What the fuck?” Matthew pleaded.

  “You can never keep a good man down, right?” Darren said with a light chuckle.

  Matthew, standing at the open car door, just laughed.

  “You find me amusing?”

  “You?” Matthew quizzed. “I find you fucking pathetic.”

  “Then, why are you laughing?”

  Matthew, whose hands had disappeared into the car, whipped out the rifle once cradled by Darren Whittall. “I guess I just enjoy irony.” He pulled back on the trigger.

  The shot echoed through the fields and forests, brushing scared birds from their nests, ushering animals from their habitats and bringing a cluster of noise from beaks, mouths, and fluttering wings.

  Darren Whittall, a smile no longer on his face, slumped to his knees with short and empty breaths. His hands fiddled around his chest where blood gushed from a large wound. He looked at Matthew Jester; the emptiness and sadism in his eyes had been replaced by fear. His pupils whitened, his eyes rolled back into his skull, and he fell backwards, his body hitting the ground as his soul departed.

  Matthew Jester tossed the rifle into the backseat of the Jeep and clambered behind the steering wheel. The keys had been left in the ignition.

  15

  Matthew watched the dashboard as his speed trickled past seventy. He relaxed slightly and slumped back in his seat, making sure to check the rear-view mirror -- paranoid that the man he had just killed, or his psychotic brother, would be chasing after him.

  After manoeuvring around a succession of long country roads, he found his way onto a residential road. He eased his foot off the accelerator, brought the speed to a cruising thirty, and flicked on the radio, glancing out of the side windows as lights popped on inside the houses and people woke up to a day that Matthew had already had enough of.

  He slowed the car even more when he heard his name on the radio. He raised the volume and tuned his ears into the broadcast.

  “…Hours after winning the most illustrious court case in history. Matthew Jester is wanted for the murder of soul sensation Jennifer Wilkinson. After sharing an intense, short-lived relationship, Jester, a man they say is likely to be on the brink of insanity, killed his girlfriend in his seven million pound mansion–”

  “Nine,” Jester corrected the reporter.

  “Matthew Jester was quickly brought to justice soon after the murder. Police officers at the scene claim he reacted poorly to the arrest, assaulting them both physically and verbally. He was placed under heavy restraint, ushered into a police car and sent to the station.” The reporter paused, clearing his throat. “The police car was involved in an accident shortly after. Early evidence rules out foul play, although this has not been confirmed and we have been told that police are pursuing all possible angles. The accident claimed the lives of both attending police officers. Matthew Jester fled the scene. The police will issue a full statement later this afternoon. We will have more on this story as we get it; stay tuned for--” Matthew reached over and turned the volume down.

  He cursed under his breath and smacked the steering wheel in anger.

  The radio station broke into an advertisement. After hearing about car repair, life insurance, and shaving gel, Matthew turned the vo
lume back up. They had opened up a debate about him. Three people offered their views, opinions, and arguments.

  “This morning we’ll be discussing Matthew Jester.” Pleasantries were exchanged between the host and his two guests. He introduced them to his listeners, welcoming both of them and inviting them to talk.

  “I think he’s an idiot, or completely psychotic,” one of them offered. “How can he kill someone on the day he wins a hundred million? It baffles me.”

  “What if he didn’t kill her?” the other guest offered.

  “Everything points to murder,” the host interjected. “Nothing is conclusive, but the police will issue a statement later on this afternoon–”