Running Stupid: (Mystery Series)

by James Kipling

  “You always were a cheeky fucking twat,” Barry said calmly. “I used to like that about you.” He took a deep draw from his cigarette and stared at Matthew for a moment. “Get off him,” he instructed. “Let’s get him inside the van.”

  Before Matthew could protest he was pulled to his feet by the two burly men; one on each shoulder.

  “You were paid,” Matthew said bleakly as he was forced to his feet.

  “What?” Barry spat.

  “You were paid,” Matthew repeated. “For all of your help, I paid you. I wrote you a cheque for twenty grand, remember?”

  Barry nodded slowly. “Well,” he said with a large intake of breath and a smile. “I guess Christmas just came early this year.”

  Matthew turned to the thugs holding onto his shoulders, looking at them each in turn, then he turned back to Barry. “What’s your cut, Baz?” he asked. “How much of this reward will you be taking?” He cleared his throat. “How much are you giving to the Flowerpot Men here,” he nodded towards the two thugs, receiving a knee to the back of the legs from one of them.

  Barry smiled. “Fuck you, Matthew,” he said softly. “Your tricks won’t work,” he spat at Matthew’s feet and ushered the men to escort him through the forest.

  Matthew was practically dragged back through the forest. He allowed his body to go limp. He wasn’t resisting or trying to break free, he was just being annoying and difficult.

  When they finally made it to the top of the hill, they all stopped. A car, a brand new, sparkling silver Mercedes, had pulled up behind the white van. Two men in their mid-thirties waited by the side of the road, their arms across their chest.

  “What’s going on here?” one of the men asked, walking closer to Matthew and his captors.

  Jester felt the grip on each of his shoulders loosen. The men had partially freed him from their grasp.

  Barry stepped forward. “It’s none of your business.”

  “What are you doing to him?” the second man asked, nodding towards Jester.

  As soon as the question was asked, Matthew felt their grip release from his shoulders. He looked down, his eyes on the thugs’ hands. Both of them, one with his left hand and the other with his right, were reaching around their backs. Jester took a step backwards. The hands that had not long since grabbed his shoulders were now edging towards semiautomatic pistols tucked into their belts.

  “We’re not doing anything to him,” Billy said. “He was hurt. We were just carrying him back, that’s all.”

  Matthew took another step back. There was a tension in the air, so thick that it clouded out the sight of his impending escape. He moved further away.

  “Can you move?” Barry asked the two men, now in his way. “We’re busy people, things to do and all of that shit. Get the fuck out of our way,” he demanded.

  The two men didn’t move. Barry looked towards his thugs and nodded, a slick movement, a quick command. The guns were whipped from behind their backs, Matthew watched the steel flash across his vision and he closed his eyes.

  He heard three shots, the first so loud and deafening that it nearly cancelled out the sound of the following two.

  He slowly opened his eyes. Billy and Ben lay dead at his feet, slumped like severed puppets. They had been shot between the eyes. Barry Brown also lay dead, his body collapsed in a heap on the floor. Blood circled his head, washing crimson through his thick hair.

  Jester looked up at the two men. They both pointed pistols at him, the barrels still smoking.

  He turned and ran, waiting for a bullet to tear him down. He sprinted through the forest, waiting for the sounds of a chase. He catapulted over a broken tree, waiting for the sound of blood thirsty predators looming over him. He waited to trip, to fall right into their path.

  But there was no bullet, there was no chase and he doubted it would matter if he fell. The men weren’t following him and they had no intention of following him. Nevertheless, Matthew Jester ran.

  The two men standing around the dead bodies of Barry Brown and his thugs lowered their guns and holstered their weapons.

  With a nod from his colleague, the second man pulled a small mobile phone from his pocket. He jabbed the digits, waited for the line to open, spoke briefly and then ended the call, dropping the phone back inside his pocket.

  “Let’s go,” he instructed.

  His companion stopped, his eyes on the dead bodies. “What about the targets?” he asked, his voice placid, calm and uncaring.

  “Leave them,” the second man answered, turning his back. “The police won’t give a fuck.”

  The first man nodded, his eyes still on the dead faces. “Do you think he’ll make it?” he asked distantly.

  His friend shrugged his shoulders and grunted callously. “To be honest,” he said. “I don’t give a shit. I have nothing to gain or lose either way.”

  The man nodded in reply. “It’s got to be hard for the lad.”

  “He’s the luckiest fucker in the world. He was fucking Jennifer Wilkinson, remember?”

  “Yes, and look how that turned out.”

  “You’re complaining now?” the second man quizzed. “You don’t have morals, why should you give a fuck? The kid got lucky, won a few million, fucked a pop-star and then sued the wrong guy, end of story.” The second suited man walked away from the scene, leaving his distant colleague near the bodies.

  “What would you do?”

  “What!” the reply was spat with frustrated venom by a man halfway back to his car. “What do you mean, what would I do?”

  “Put yourself in his situation, what would you do?”

  The second man pondered on this for a moment before answering, “Fuck all, because if I was in his situation I'd know fuck all, being framed for a murder…fair enough, that’s going to knock you off a few Christmas card lists. But the rest, all the shit Maloney is throwing down …” the man turned again. “The kid doesn’t know what’s coming to him and he doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “If you had the money, what bet would you have placed?”

  “For fuck’s sake, does it matter? I don’t have the money and I never will.”

  “For curiosity sake.”

  “The kid has guts, I’ll give him that, but if it wasn’t for us, he’d be dead by now. Those bastards.” He nodded towards the dead bodies of Barry and his fallen friends. “Would have ripped him apart.”

  The first man nodded thoughtfully and slowly walked back to the car.

  21

  Matthew Jester stopped running, his legs wanted to continue, his mind urged him to continue, but he needed to stop. He was safe now, that he was sure of. He was surrounded by lush trees as far as the eye could see with masses of foliage littering ground level.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of tablets. The bottle was clear, unlabelled and full to the brim of small white pills. Whilst under the restraint of the flowerpot men, he had managed to slip the bottle out of one of their pockets. He’d heard the thing jingling about in there whilst he was being dragged up the hill. He tapped out a dozen tablets and drew them closer to his face to inspect them.

  He grinned widely when he recognised the pills as codeine phosphate, a narcotic pain killer. He slipped three of them into his mouth and used his saliva to wash them down. They partially stuck in his dry throat, leaving a chalky, bitter taste in his mouth.

  The pain killers kicked in thirty minutes into his walk; the familiar opiate orgasm flooded his mind and body, providing relief to every aching muscle and every damaged joint.

  He stopped trudging through the forest, feeling dizzy. He rested his back against a tree trunk, closed his eyes and allowed the drugs to fill his body. The pains of the last two days melted and fused to create one blob of discomfort. It was still pain, but it was a different kind of pain.

  He steadied himself and then continued to walk. His legs clumsily sent his body into involuntary slalom. His mind, striving to block out the mental pain and the emotiona
l anguish, struggled with ideas, thoughts and messages; trying to unveil the crippling scenario that he found himself in.

  He knew the court case had something to do with his troubles. It was too much of a coincidence for it not to be. Matthew Jester, the luckiest man in the world, further takes the piss by suing a bank. His actions were sure to bring some animosity his way but never in his wildest nightmares did he think it could escalate to what it was now. He’d figured at worst he’d get some hate mail, be abused and ridiculed by tabloid newspapers, judged by the press and hated by the public. What he actually received was a lot more menacing.

  He had his fair share of haters, but if it was just pure hate, why go to the trouble of framing him? Why didn’t they just kill him?

  He walked over to a mossy rock and sat down.

  Maybe he wasn’t the one they wanted, maybe they wanted Jennifer. After all, she was the one with fame, fans and adoration. Maybe he was just a pawn in someone else’s game.

  He struggled to delve deeper into his thoughts, to bring something to the forefront of his mind that might help unravel the situation, but he couldn’t think anymore. His mind was tired and medicated. He wanted sleep but he knew he couldn’t rest, and needed to keep on going.

  Half of him wanted to give in; the other half was just getting over the surprise that he hadn’t given in. He needed to rest, he needed to think. But he couldn’t do either. He was a fugitive, a wanted man.

  He stood up, straightened himself out and steadied his footing.

  This wasn’t a movie, he didn’t have time to find the route of the problem and solve the mystery single handedly. He had an entire nation seeing pound signs and reaching for their weapons. To survive, he needed to keep going.

  ***

  Jester marched on through the forest. He had no idea how long he’d been walking but the world around him had changed, the skies had darkened. With a medicated smile stitched permanently to his face, he lazily slalomed his way through the many trees and foliage, with no real sense of direction. He wanted to move, he felt that he needed to move. Staying in one place wasn’t a safe option.

  With his eyes on the skies he let out a long sigh. The clouds were blackening by the minute, and soon the heavens would open and rain would fall. He stopped and frowned curiously. His travels had taken him deep into an unknown forest and now he was standing looking at a small log cabin.

  Through an oak tree archway, enclosed in its own private semicircle, stood a beautiful, picturesque cabin. It was on the small side; one floor, two windows, one door, but the small space provided a comfort of its own. Beside the cabin and alongside the trees – which had been cleared from around the cabin, leaving its exterior free of fallen leaves and overhanging branches – was a small lake.

  Jester walked towards the cabin, his eyes scanning the windows. He encircled the building, making his way around the back and checking the sides. There was a small entrance at the back by the way of a very small, locked window. At the side was a door, less solid than the one at the front of the house. Around the other side there was a window leading into a bathroom. Matthew’s eyes couldn’t see past the smeared glass.

  He walked up to each of the windows, pushing his face close to the glass. Inside he could see all the comforts that a cabin by the lake should provide: leather seats, cosy décor, a large marbled fireplace. He checked the other window. His eyes fell upon a kitchen; dark wood benches, tiled floors and walls.

  He removed his face from the glass – leaving a steamed imprint – and made his way to the front door. The cabin looked empty. From his perspective he could see ninety percent of the interior, it was a small, open cabin. If there was someone inside, they were either hiding by the windows, lying down on the floor or nestled in a cupboard.

  He reached for a bronzed door handle and then paused, thinking that they could be in the bathroom, or asleep in the bedroom, if there was one. He hesitated and swallowed thickly.

  The heavens opened. An uncontrollable loud crack sounded, the roar of thunder ripping open the skies.

  Jester jumped in shock, involuntarily looking up. “Shit,” he said, just as the rain started.

  The rain fell down hard and fast. A grey mist hung in the air, darkening the sky and the lush forest. The sound of heavy droplets meeting with the masses of leaves and foliage was like an epileptic drum roll. Squirrels scattered, birds hid. Forest animals found their homes and their shelters. A twinkle of bird song, high pitched and erratic, echoed through the forest, first one voice and then two, three, four, then a dozen, all chirping.

  A flash of lightening split the sky open, emblazoning a fork of light across the clouded heavens.

  Inside the cabin, all was silent and peaceful. No one was at home, no one was there to enjoy the warmth, the leather chairs, the dark, cosy décor. No one was there to light the log burning fire, or sit at the grand piano in the corner of the room, playing sunny melodies. The cabin was at peace, separate from the dark, damp world outside.

  As another crack of lightening threatened to open up the sky, the cabin door thudded, shuddering on its hinges. The bang was followed by a moan of discontent. The rain fell harder and faster than before, seemingly taking its lead from the sudden flashes of lightening.

  The door thumped again, violently shaking in its frame, threatening to rip from its hinges. As the rain continued to fall, the cabin remained at peace with the world, offering a tender warmth and solitude, but receiving no takers.

  A third slash of lightening coincided with the sound of shattering glass. At the side of the cabin, in the bathroom, a heavy rock lay on the tiled floor; broken glass fragments were dotted around it.

  Matthew Jester appeared through the smashed bathroom window, his hair soaked through, his face and clothes dripping. “Finally,” he muttered, relieved to see the window break after failing to barge his way through the locked front door.

  He removed his jacket and quickly spread it out on the window frame where splinters of glass still protruded with ominous intent. He used the window frame for leverage as he dragged himself up and crawled through, wincing in pain as the tip of a glass shard poked through the material on his coat and sunk into his hand.

  After dropping into the bathroom, he inspected his hand. The glass had pricked his palm Fresh blood rolled from the wound down to the base of his palm before the crimson droplets slowly dripped to the tiled floor.

  He wiped the bleeding hand on his trousers, put his jacket back on and then exited the small bathroom, making sure to close the door behind him, keeping the ferocious wind, whipping rain and bitter cold away from the rest of the cabin. He collapsed onto a large sofa, his aching body indenting the plush leather.

  On the wall next to the front door, in between the two windows, were various hunting trophies. Jester cringed at the sight of a deer’s head pinned to a placard and stuck to the wall. To the left of the deer was the head of a large fox. It too was glued to an oak background before being drilled into the wall. On top of these was a large set of antlers, protruding through the wall. It looked like a deer had tried to run through the cabin and failed. Next to the antlers was a tusk, elephant or rhino. Jester didn’t know and he didn’t care to know.

  Underneath these, just below the fox and deer head, was a collection of large birds. All of them had been stuffed, glued onto wooden bases and placed on the floor, their job seemingly to guard the stuffed heads and unknown tusks.

  Jester shook off the images of the taxidermy showroom and continued to scan the cabin interior. He had seen most of it whilst standing outside but there were plenty of blind spots, and most of them, it seemed, had something hideous to hide.

  There was a large sheet hanging from the door, filling the width of the frame and draping down past the bottom of the door and onto the floor. A crucifix had been drawn at the top in thick red letters, covering half of the door. Below the ominous scarlet cross was what appeared – at first glance – to be the Ten Commandments, written in a state of fury or exci
tement.

  Matthew ran his eyes over the list that had been methodically, yet violently, written in thick red letters.

  Thou shalt have no other gods than me.

  Thou shalt not make for thyself an idol.

  Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy.

  Thou shalt not commit adultery.

  Thou shalt not bear false witness.

  Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house.

  Matthew Jester stopped reading. The only visible and readable commandments were those six; four were missing.

  He dropped his eyes to the bottom of the list and noticed another one.

  Thou shalt not steal.

  The words had been crossed out with black pen, a straight line through the middle. Further down the sheet were more crossed-out commandments, each one more frantically erased than the last.