Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) (18 page)

His relief didn’t last long. A horrendous sound blasted through the entire cabin, a scream of pure agony, a blood curdling, heart-breaking screech. Matthew stood rooted to the spot, listening. The sound, although very close to Matthew’s position, seemed to be coming from outside the cabin.

He recognised the agonising noise as male, masculine, once strong and defiant, now weak and helpless. It continued for over ten-seconds, each second seeming like an hour to Matthew’s ears.

***

The cabin owner walked back inside his warm, welcoming home with a smile on his face and a whistle on his lips. He merrily danced over to the kitchen bench, stuck the kettle under the water facet and waited for it to fill, singing to himself all the while.

When the water level reached the top, he popped the kettle back down on its spot, plugged it back into the electrical socket and flicked on the switch. Outside he could hear yelps of agony but he paid them no heed. When the water finished boiling he exited the cabin again, striding out into the freezing cold, night air.

Turning, he looked down. There, slumped up against the wall of the cabin was the defeated, badly burnt figure of James Whittall. The skin on his face, arms and legs had been singed. A putrid stench of burning flesh hovered around him like a sickly aura.

“Wh–wh–wh–wh–wh,” James tried his best to speak but his lips refused to do what he told them to.

The cabin owner looked down at him and smiled. “Wh–wh–wh–wh–wh,?” he repeated, releasing a giant gasp of laughter. “Having problems speaking?” he asked sarcastically.

James Whittall didn’t answer, and instead he looked straight into the eyes of his attacker.

The cabin owner merely grinned back and then held up the brimming kettle – water splashed around, some spilt over the edge and scolded his hand, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. “Look,” he said. “I’ve brought a fresh batch.” He smiled and tilted his head to the skies. The rain was coming down harder now.

“You should be thanking me,” he said. “I’m doing you a favour.” He walked towards James Whittall, the kettle held above his head. “I saw what you did to that man on the road.”

“Br–bro–” James spat, trying to explain.

“Your brother, yes, you told me that before. Like Cain and Abel before you, you have murdered your own brother, your own flesh and blood. Therefore, you need to be cleansed before you enter the kingdom of heaven, or burnt to prepare you for the flames of hell.”

James Whittall looked at the man in sheer confusion. People had told him he was a psychopath; in fact,
everyone
told him he was a psychopath, normally just before he killed them. But compared to the man in front of him, James Whittall was a six year old girl with flowers in her hair.

The cabin owner raised the kettle over the head of James Whittall and tilted it slightly. A few droplets fell from the container and splashed onto James’s face, instantly burning flesh. He didn’t react to the pain.

“I will cleanse you of your flesh, ridding you of your sins,” the psychopathic man said calmly. “The rain will wash away your misdeeds; the earth will soak them. Only then will you be forgiven.”

James Whittall opened his mouth to speak but decided against it. The man in front of him wasn’t a man of words; he was a man of evil. James had been tending to his dead brother when the madman had driven by. Seeing the gun in James’s hands, he had put two and two together and come up with six. James didn’t kill his brother and he was pretty sure the man knew that, but something inside him had refused to believe the truth, finding his own truth much more exhilarating.

The cabin owner tipped a cupful of water onto James’s head. It scolded his scalp and dripped down his blotching skin.

“Are you ready?” he asked slowly.

James Whittall looked at him with as much aggression and hatred as he could muster, but his face was too distorted and badly burnt. The aggression and hatred didn’t show through the red marks and the blemishes that dribbled a sickening yellow ooze down his face and neck.

***

Jester listened to more screams, less prominent than the previous ones but still as sickly. He cringed as the sounds vibrated through the wooden walls.

He dug his hand inside his pocket and pulled out the bottle of pills he had swiped from one of Barry’s thugs. He tapped the bottle onto his palm and seven tablets fell out.

He tried to pick a few up with his right hand, but it was trembling too much to grasp the small tablets. Using the end of the bottle, he placed it back on his palm and tilted it slightly; two tablets fell back into the plastic bottle. He swallowed the other five.

They stuck in his throat, other than the cotton-mouth effect that the tablets had given him. He also had to deal with the fact that he hadn’t had any fluids for a while, making the pills bitter to swallow.

He searched around the basement using his hands. He could find nothing but boxes and bags in various sizes, including a man-size one in the corner which had initially been used to store a wardrobe. He paused when he heard the front door to the cabin open, bringing with it a strong gust of wind and another stab of worry to Jester’s crippled nerves.

The cabin owner slowly made his way to the kitchen, refilling the kettle before replacing it on its spot. He flicked it on, pulled out a mug from one of the many – mostly empty – cupboards, dropped a teabag into it and then made his way back to the living room. He left James Whittall outside. The rain would cleanse his soul just like the current storm would cleanse the world. After the rain he would return to the body. He liked to collect things, mementos; something he could remember them by.

He took off his coat and hung it just underneath his hat. He yawned noisily, rolled up his sleeves, inspected the dirt on his arms and then made his way to the bathroom to clean up. When he pushed on the bathroom door, he was surprised to feel resistance. Charging into the room he immediately noticed the broken window, gussets of wind exploding through it, swinging the bathroom door open and closed as the cabin owner stood, in awe, staring.

He walked closer to the window and peeked outside, looking left and right. He couldn’t see anyone or anything. Humming to himself, his face lost in thought, he took a step back. The heel of his shoe crushed against a large shaving of glass, splintering it into thousands of needlepoint shards. 

He looked down, almost in shock, at the mass of glass around his feet. His eyes then flickered from the broken window to the glass below. A spark twinkled in his eye when he saw the fresh drop of blood on the floor. He bent down to examine it, a smile on his face.

When he left the bathroom, he did so with haste and excitement. After a quick check of the cabin, the owner yanked open the cupboard door, flicked on the light and then slowly began to descend the stairs. In his right hand he held a large combat knife – a rubber grip handle and a seventeen inch serrated blade – poised in the attack position, ready to thrust at anyone who might cross his line of sight. A gun would be better, easier and safer. With a gun he could mow down fleeing targets or shoot them down from a distance, but he preferred the knife.

Someone had broken into his house, someone had committed an offence not only punishable by the law but punishable by god. They deserved to fill his vengeance up close and personal.

He had also broken the written laws, laws he strived to live his life by, but for each broken commandant he bore a deep, self-inflicted scar. He had served his punishment, whilst millions lived on without retribution.

Descending the stairs, his footfalls quiet on the concrete, he immediately snapped on the light to the basement and readied the knife, his eyes wide open.

There was no one there. The basement, like the rest of the cabin, was empty. He lowered the knife and searched around, looking for clues – evidence of disturbance, blood spots, wet foot prints -- but finding none.

Standing in front of the many boxes he slumped, “Damn,” he said. “I cou–”

He finished the sentence with a noise rather than a word. Matthew Jester burst out of the wardrobe box and jumped straight onto the man’s back, wrapping his arms around the neck of the six foot-five figure.

The man squirmed, dropping the knife in the process. He reached up, trying to pry Matthew’s hands and arms away, but he couldn’t. He stumbled forward and nearly lost his balance before swinging around. Matthew, tied to the back of the man, his feet not touching the floor, was swung into the wall. He hit it with a thud and a moan, but he didn’t release his grip.

The man swung again, harder this time.

Matthew felt the full force of concrete on his right shoulder and his back, but still he retained his position.

The cabin owner gurgled something incoherent and then swung around again, slamming Jester’s body into the wall, throwing him around like a rag doll. But Matthew had seen his fair share of pain and his survival instinct wasn’t failing him yet, not after all he had been through. He tightened his grip on the giant’s neck and held it until his face began to turn purple.

He swung Matthew at the wall one final time but his attempts were meagre, his body had already given in. After bouncing back off the wall, the man fell to the floor, frantically clutching at Matthew’s hands.

Seconds later he stopped moving. His body went limp.

Matthew released his grip and quickly rushed to his feet, a look of shock on his face. “Shit,” he said, looking down at the dead giant. “I didn’t mean…shit!” he reached down and with a great deal of effort, he managed to flip the man over.

He searched the giant’s right wrist to search for a pulse but he didn’t find one. He tried the left wrist, but he still couldn’t find a pulse. Normally that would be a sure fire indication of death, but in Matthew’s case, he didn’t actually know where to find someone’s pulse, he only knew it was on the wrist and neck from watching too many daytime soap operas. He searched the neck using both hands, but he still failed to find a pulse. He lowered his ear to the man’s chest, checking for any sign of breath. There was none.

Jester stood up, took his eyes away from the dead body and brushed himself down. “Un–be–fucking–lievable,” he muttered in distaste. “I’m officially a fucking serial killer.” He kicked the floor in disgust and then made his way up the basement stairs.

Holding his nose as he passed through the converted cupboard, Jester made his way to the lounge and threw himself down onto the cool, leather sofa. He lay on his stomach, his face dug deep into the leather, his mouth mumbling curses that lost their audio inside the thick upholstery. He urged his body to sleep, but a bitter smell interrupted him and he sat up with a jolt. The stench was sickening. He traced it to the front door, the disgusting odour getting stronger and stronger as he closed in on the door.

He took a hat from the coat stand, sat it on top of his head and opened the door, ready to embrace the pouring rain.

He didn’t know why he was driven to investigate the smell. He didn’t particularly want to rush into the freezing winds and pouring showers, but something inside him dictated otherwise and he opened the front door to embrace the storm.

The smell forced itself into the cabin, riding on the back of a gust of wind. Jester instantly turned left and looked down. What he saw was barely human but it was alive. Its clothes were soaked from the rain and covered in blood and rotten flesh. What was once a face was now a collage of yellow mucus and blood, bits of flesh hung down like steamed wallpaper, draping over the face in flaps.

His jaw was fully exposed. All of his teeth, from the root to the tip, were in full view, as was his bleeding gums. Matthew stood still, staring at the human carnage in silence. It turned its head, seemingly aware of a newcomer. When it saw Matthew, something inside its hollow eyes twinkled.

“Fucking hell,” Matthew said methodically, his mouth opening wide to stress each syllable.

The dripping jaws, attached to the human skull, opened partially and Matthew was sure he heard something; it was disjointed, incoherent, but still something.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” Matthew said, suddenly looking worried. He began to run back into the cabin to frantically search for a phone, but he stopped near the front door and slowly turned back towards the broken man.

His eyes moved away from his badly burnt, heavily deformed face towards his body, his clothes. He remembered the attire. The shirt.

Jester turned back to the skull. “Technically,” he said leisurely, “I shouldn’t help you, after all, you
did
try to kill me. And that wasn’t very nice, was it?” He raised his eyebrows at the skull.

The skull of James Whittall slowly moved, a gentle sway, from left to right.

“But I’m a nice guy, a forgiving guy.” He stepped forward, moving until James Whittall was directly under him. “So I
will
help you.” Jester looked to the skies, the rain falling on his face. Bringing his gaze back to James Whittall, he took off his hat and placed it on the skull. “There you go,” he said, backing off. “It’s pissing down,” he headed back to the doorway, stepped inside and then tilted his head out of the door to stare at James Whittall one more time. “And we wouldn’t want you getting a cold, would we?” he slammed the door and retired to the couch.

The thundering wind crashed against the bathroom door inside the quiet cabin. Wind rushed in through the broken window and tried to knock the door off its hinges. Every now and then it slammed in its frame, jolting the cabin and frustrating Matthew Jester who was trying to rest.