Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) (2 page)

“How do you do it?” she said, almost pleading. “You started out as a nobody, and when you hit your mid-teens you won the lottery!” she exhaled a thick cloud of smoke and stubbed her cigarette out in a silver ashtray on the windowsill. “Twice!” she added.

“I’m just lucky, that’s all,” Matthew said.

“Too lucky. Take this court case for instance.” Jennifer crossed the room and took a newspaper from a bookcase in the corner. This morning’s paper, still crisp, fresh. “Front page news,” she leafed through the paper. “In fact, you’ve covered nearly
all
the pages. It’s all
you
.” She flicked over the pages again. “Your court case.” Another turn. “
‘The Loves and Hates of the Jammy Jester.’
” Another page flipped over. “Back to the court case again.” She continued to flip through the pages. “
‘I had Wild Sex With Matthew Jester.’
”

“Who is that?” Matthew asked.

“Some hooker,” Jennifer said, her eyes scanning the pages. “Candy Cain.”

Matthew laughed. “Can’t say I’ve ever been with her. With a name like that…I’d remember.”

“What you did in your past is none of my business anyway.”

Matthew’s mind began to work. “What if I contracted syphilis from a goat I shagged on a backpacking holiday in Cyprus?”

Jennifer twisted her face. “That’s fucking sick,” she pondered for a moment. “Is that possible?” she asked.

“God knows,” Matthew said, taking the newspaper from her hands. He read the article beginning on the front page; it was printed below the headline, “
‘Luckiest Man in Impossible Court Case.’
”

Today, self-made millionaire Matthew Jester enters the third day of his illustrious court case. News stations, newspapers and magazines all over the world will be covering the event.

Jester, a man regarded as the luckiest person in the world, is drawing closer to winning the most elaborate and complex court case this paper has ever witnessed.

It all started three months ago when the defendant, Matthew Jester, made a phone call to his bank to enquire about his balance. After speaking to a call centre clerk – who Jester later exclaimed to be “discourteous and unprofessional” – for over half an hour, Jester ended the conversation, devoid of details and fuelled with rage.

Three months down the line, the world now bears witness to an impossibly ludicrous court case as Matthew Jester tries to sue the Fadel Bank – owned by oil tycoon Ahmad Fadel. It is a gesture that should have been laughed out of court, but, by some great – albeit absurd – miracle, the court case was never thrown away, it was never overlooked; instead, it was swiftly moved to Crown Court and passed onto a team of dedicated jury members and the country’s most respected magistrate.

The article stopped briefly; the headline
“Court Jester”
was printed in bold letters, separating the article into two pieces. He continued to read.

Jester, an orphan pushed into care as a child and forced out as a teenager, stumbled upon his first million when he bought a lottery ticket at a local petrol station. He was on the dole, sleeping rough and living on a diet of lager and crisps. Six months later, days after his eighteenth birthday, he bought his first Rolls Royce. He crashed it within a week and bought another the same day.

Before he turned twenty, he had won the National Lottery twice, the Irish Lottery a few dozen times, the Ladbrokes Pools, lottery scratch cards, magazine and phone-in contests, and a Blue Peter badge.

Lucky and docile in every way, Matthew Jester has won both the admiration and the animosity of the general public. You either love him or you hate him, but however you feel about him, you have to admire his luck. And, taking the current court case into mind, you have to admire his courage. Millions of people are watching; if he fails, he’ll be the laughing stock of Britain. If he wins, the reign of the Jester will continue.

“The reign of the Jester,” Matthew said, allowing the paper to fall from his hands, landing clumsily at the foot of the bed. “They’re mocking me, you know,” he said placidly.

“No shit,” Jennifer snarled back. “You’re the luckiest bastard alive. You’ve escaped more dodgy situations than Roger Rabbit.” She stuck another cigarette in her mouth and took a light from a disposable lighter. “Anyway,” she said, expelling a cloud of smoke, “you have a car coming to pick you up in an hour. You’d better start getting ready.” She looked at her watch. “Make that an hour and twenty minutes,” she corrected herself.

Matthew nodded unresponsively. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Can’t you work it out?”

He shrugged impassively.

“It’s ten past eight.”

He nodded his head sleepily. “Ah,” he acknowledged, heading towards his bedside cabinet. He picked a bottle of pills from his top drawer. He popped the cap and knocked three of the small tablets onto his palm before throwing them into his mouth, followed by a small swig of water.

“And another thing,” Jennifer said, her voice bellowing out behind him. “Those pills you take
–
”

“Antibiotics,” Matthew interjected.

“Bullshit,” Jennifer was quick to her words. “We’ve been together for three months now. Every time I ask, you tell me the same shit.”

“It’s true.”

“I went to see my doctor the other day,” Jennifer began.

“Oh, really,” Matthew quickly jumped in. “Are you okay?”

“That’s not the point,” Jennifer snapped. “I just happened to mention you and these antibiotics.”

“Coz if there’s something wrong, you really should tell me.”

“What?” Jennifer asked, confused.

“Nothing,” Matthew said. “Forget about it.” He stood and stretched. “I’m going to make breakfast. You want any?”

Jennifer shook her head, calmly took a drag from her cigarette, and then coughed out the smoke in anger. “Hey!” she said. “Stop trying to change the subject.”

“I wasn’t,” Matthew conceded. “If you want to talk about your problem, we will.”

“Nice try.” She took a drag from her cigarette and looked at him sternly. “As I was saying, the doctor says you shouldn’t be on antibiotics that long. Then I started thinking.”

“That happens to me a lot, as well.”

“Shut up! You never actually told me anything was wrong with you. There
isn’t
anything wrong with you!”

“Minor infection.”

“Bollocks,” she spat. “I checked the pills.”

“Just a little valium every now and then,” he said calmly.

“I found the dope.”

“Not mine.” He held up his hands. “Friend of mine, he smokes it all–”

“Cut the shit. I found your growing room. I don’t think your friend, no matter
how
fucking dumb, would leave something like that behind.”

“You haven’t met my friends.”

“I hardly know you,” Jennifer said, gesticulating in frustration. “I can live with the limited time we spend together: the majority of that is because of
my
work, because of what
I
do, it’s nothing to do with you. But don’t you think I should have the right to know if my boyfriend is high all the time?”

“Not all the time.”

“Stop lying!” Jennifer bellowed. “I found the other stuff as well. Sedatives, pain killers, anti-anxiety drugs, cannabis,” she paused. “Now I know why you’re so fucking merry, and well…crazy all the time.”

“To be fair,” Matthew argued. “A lot of the craziness is down to me.”

“Don’t you want to do something serious with your life?”

“Like what?”

“Something creative, something memorable, something outstanding, just
something
! You can’t just get rich and then spend the rest of your life sitting on your arse getting fucking wasted.”

“I disagree,” Matthew said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”

“I’m making the most out of my youth,” he argued.

“Thirty-one,” she said. “You’re thirty one. You can’t make the most out of your youth forever. What happens when you run out of money?”

“Not going to happen. After today, I’ll have more money than I could ever spend.”

Jennifer could only look at him and shake her head softly in a gesture to herself. She watched as he disappeared out of the room.

“You know what?” he shouted from the staircase. “I might buy a statue of me. A solid gold one…or maybe an island.” He pondered, his feet slowly descending the entwining staircase. “Or both,” he blabbered. “I could put the solid gold statue
on
the island. Then I’ll build a civilisation…somehow. I’ll need civilians. Maybe I could advertise.”

Back in the bedroom, Jennifer Wilkinson shook her head, quietly muttering to herself. “
Unbelievable
.”

As soon as Matthew stepped into the kitchen, the phone rang. He stood by the fridge – its door wide open – and stared at the phone as he chewed casually on some leftover chicken pizza.

“Are you going to answer that?” Jennifer shouted from upstairs, interrupting Matthew’s silent chewing.

He looked in the direction of the stairs, licked his lips, and continued chewing, his jaw moving slowly and deliberately.  On the seventh ring, with his mouth dry, Matthew Jester answered the telephone.

“Hello,” he said clearly.

“Hello, is that Mr. Jester?” The voice sounded distant, foreign. Sounds of dialling phones and gibbering people could be heard in the background.

“Yes.”

“Good Morning, Mr Jester, how are you today?” the voice said in a practised, bored tone.

“I’m fine,” Jester said with faked enthusiasm. “Thanks.” He hung up the phone and returned to the fridge.

“Who was that?” Jennifer shouted.

“Call-centre,” Jester shouted back. “Nice man.”

“What are you eating?” the voice from upstairs questioned again.

Matthew looked down at the stale, cold pizza. “Salad,” he shouted upstairs, casually taking another bite of pizza and wandering around the kitchen. “You want some?”

“No.”

He found a salt cellar in one of the cupboards and held it over the slice of pizza. The salt fell faster than he had expected, and soon a small mound of white salt crystals decorated the slice. He used his fingers to spread the white powder around as much as he could and then took a large bite. Back in the fridge, he found a jar of pickled onions, took out three with the aid of a teaspoon, and layered them out on top of his pizza. Then, finding a jar of relish, he added a small dose of that to the slice. Still not happy, he added a dollop of coleslaw and a few slices of cold salami. He paused to appreciate his creation, and then took a large bite.

His face twisted as the mass of taste slammed his taste buds. He spat the vile concoction into a sheet of kitchen roll, which he then disposed of. Picking up the slice of pizza, he balanced it in one hand and rummaged around in the fridge for a while.

Upstairs, Jennifer Wilkinson was finishing another cigarette. Her eyes fixed on the view outside, her mind elsewhere. Downstairs she heard a splat sound from the kitchen. The room was directly beneath her; despite the size of the house, she could hear every sound in the deathly silence of the bedroom. The splat was quickly followed by a clumsy curse.

Standing away from the windowsill, Jennifer retired to the bed, taking her mobile phone with her. She flicked through her messages and reread the last few. Matthew called to her when she began to compose a new message.

“Jennifer,” he shouted. “Where the hell are the dogs?”

“I woke up early,” Jennifer called back, “so I took them to my mother’s early.”

“Oh,” Jester muttered.

Moments later, he shouted again. “D’you know where the mop is?”

“What the hell are you doing?” she shouted to him. “Just get dressed. You have an important court case soon; stop fucking around.”

“Okay, I tell you what. You clean the mess up, I’ll go get ready.”

“What kind of bargain is that? What’s in it for me?” she paused, placing her phone to one side. “
What mess
?”

“Why aren’t you getting ready anyway?” he shouted up, changing the subject.

“I told you. I’m not going. This whole case is silly. I want nothing to do with it.”

“If I win,” Matthew shouted, pausing to gather a mass of kitchen roll, “you’ll want something to do with it. One hundred million more to add to my fortune. Plus all the money I can make from interviews and endorsements.”

“I have my own money,” Jennifer shouted back gamely.

“Are you even going to watch me on TV?” Matthew asked.

Jennifer shrugged her shoulders and lied, “No.”

“Fair enough,” Matthew said with a smile, knowing she would.

Matthew heard the roar from the engine of the stretch limousine as it rolled its way onto his driveway, crushing gravel chips and pebbles underneath its smooth tyres. He turned off the television and glanced out of the window. The driver, dressed in a smart black suit, had pressed the horn and now waited outside the vehicle, his hands clasped in front of his body, his posture straight and purposeful.