Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) (3 page)

Matthew rushed to a walk-in closet cum-porch, and emerged holding a suede jacket. “The driver is here,” he shouted upstairs.

Jennifer had remained on the windowsill. She looked towards the stairs, nodded a faint acknowledgement, and returned to her cigarettes and her view.

“Aren’t you going to wish me good luck?” he asked.

She cursed in his general direction. “I don’t think you need it.”

Matthew shrugged, slipped on his coat, and headed for the door. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“You won’t,” Jennifer shouted back.

“Why not?”

“I have a recording session this afternoon. I won’t be home till late.”

“Oh,” Jester muttered. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Jennifer opened her mouth to speak but the sound of the front door slamming on its hinges stopped her.

Outside, the sun was shining with a great deal of ferocity. The heat was intense and yet pleasant. The past week had been the hottest on record for over fifty years. “Even the sun comes out to watch you and your bloody idiocy,” Jennifer had told Matthew yesterday afternoon. He could only agree, adding salt to his girlfriend’s wounds by claiming that the sun was probably a big fan of his.

The chauffeur sidestepped as Matthew approached, ushering him into the back seat. He wasn’t a man of formalities. Instead of sitting, he held out a hand. “Matthew Jester,” he said.

At first, the driver looked bemused. Slowly but surely, he held out his own hand, shaking the hand of Matthew Jester timidly.

“Edinburgh,” the driver said. “Charles Edinburgh. You may call me Charles.”

“Is that really your name?” Matthew asked.

“Yes, sir,” the driver replied without fault.

“You know any Limo drivers called Fred?”

“I can’t say I do, sir. No.”

“What about Steve…or Colin? That’s a big man’s name.”

“No, sir.”

“But I bet you know a few Georges.”

“As a matter of fact, yes, yes, I do.” There was a twinkle of mischief in the driver’s eye.

“Yeah,” Jester said, smiling and nodding. “I bet. Come on then, Charlie,” he called, climbing into the backseat of the Limo. “Let’s get moving.”

Moments later, they had pulled out of Matthew Jester’s estate and were cruising towards the court house. The journey would take them over an hour. The court case was due to start in two and a half hours’ time.

“So what d’you think of all this business, then,” Matthew said to the back of the driver’s head.

“The court case?” he asked, his eyes briefly meeting Jester’s stare through the rear-view mirror.

“Of course.”

“In all honesty?”

“All honesty,” Matthew agreed, catching the driver’s eyes every now and then as they flicked from the road to the mirror. “Don’t throw any punches.” Jester opened his arms to express his openness.

“Well,” the driver began. “I think it’s slightly absurd, but,” he was quick to add, “absurd cases pass through court all the time. Ridiculous lawsuits are common practice these days.”

“Not
this
ridiculous, but true. Continue.”

“I want you to win,” the driver said after a moment’s deliberation. “But probably not for the right reasons.”

“What do you mean?”

“I hate banks. I despise them through and through. I had a few problems with them in my youth. I took out a lot of loans to pay for my education, to pay for life in general, really.” He looked at Jester through the rear-view. “Know what I mean?”

Matthew nodded.

“I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, being so young…but to cut a long story short,” the driver sighed. “I was charged a rip-off interest rate and spent the majority of my twenties – the eve of my working life – paying it back.”

“So,” Matthew contemplated. “You want the banks to suffer…a lot, but you think it’s absurd that they’re suffering because of something as trivial as this.”

The driver nodded slowly. “I hope you don’t take any offence.”

“Offence? Don’t worry about me, I’m fucking loaded.”

The driver raised his eyebrows.

“And I agree with you. It
is
absurd,” Matthew said solemnly. “But,” he paused for a moment of reflection, “what if you can’t die? What if you are immortal, or at least you suspect you are immortal?” Matthew leaned forward in his chair, close enough to the driver for his breath to tickle the back of his neck. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I’m immortal, but, take a look at that scenario for a moment. Wouldn’t you want to find out if you really
were
immortal?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you suspect you are; hell, you’re 99% positive you are, but you have no
real
proof. If you know you have immortality, then you can plan your life accordingly. Maybe join a few more wars, take sky diving lessons, whatever. If you know you’re immortal, you’ll certainly make a few drastic life changes. If you
suspect
you’re immortal, on the other hand, you’re in limbo. Why plan your life on something that’s not a certainty? Do you follow me?”

“I think so,” Charles answered. “Immortality is only really worthwhile if you know you have it,” he explained, catching on.

Matthew fell back into his seat. “Exactly!” he snapped his fingers at the same time. “And how does the luckiest man in the world test his luck?”

“By suing the Fadel Bank.” The driver nodded his head in recognition.

Matthew smiled to himself, took a pair of earphones from a small compartment in front of him, and plugged them into a nearby jack. Soon a collection of MP3’s was filling his senses. He closed his eyes, allowing every lyric, every tune, and every emotion to sink in.

The driver looked through the rear-view mirror, his eyes on Matthew Jester, who was swaying tranquilly to the music.
Crazy
, the driver thought to himself,
but
, he considered,
it’s the crazy ones who change the world
. Turning the mirror so Jester’s reflected image no longer appeared, he flicked on the radio, tuned into a news station, and lowered the volume.

***

Matthew Jester opened his eyes as the Limo stalled near a set of traffic lights. He didn’t know how long he had been out, how long he had been in a trance, listening to the music as the valium slowly caressed his mind.

He’d fallen asleep somewhere in between Johnny Cash and The Beatles, but he wasn’t sure where. The music and pills had taken him to a world of his own. Now, the sound of
Let It Be
and the sights of the traffic lights and the queuing cars brought him back to reality.

He plucked the earphone out from his left ear and leaned forward in his chair. “Hey, Charlie,” he hissed. “Where are we?” he asked.

Charles Edinburgh turned to look at Matthew Jester, removing his tapping fingers from the idle steering wheel. “Just around the corner,” he replied, before adding, “more or less.”

Jester sat back and removed the earphone from his other ear, allowing the device to fall onto the leather seats. “That was good timing,” he muttered.

“Fifty-five minutes, sir,” Charles said, commenting on his driving, failing to realise that Matthew was talking about his prompt, opportune wake-up call. “Very good time indeed, sir.”

Matthew Jester watched, with his head sunken into the plush leather, as the lights turned green and the Limo set off again. It accelerated past a street corner where a number of young children gathered. They all shot admiring glances towards the flashy vehicle. Ahead, approximately two hundred metres down the road, a gathering of vans, cars, people, and cameras had blocked the entrance to the court house.

“It looks like the party’s started without you, sir,” Charles said dryly.

“Bloody press,” Matthew cursed.

“I’m surprised you refused bodyguards. Anyone else in your position would have snapped up the idea. Especially when they have to walk through that mob,” he indicated the court house.

“I don’t need bodyguards,” Matthew said. “What harm can a few guys with cameras do, eh?”

Charles Edinburgh shrugged his shoulders. “Do you want me to drop you off around the back?”

“No,” Matthew said confidently. “Let them see me coming. Give the buggers a picture to print on their front pages. Right above the article that says ...” Jester opened his palm and waved it in front of him, indicating a headline.
“Jester Wins in Record Court Case.
” He pondered. “Tonight, I could be dining on champagne and truffles at the bank’s expense.”

The Limousine stopped near the court house, just behind a large news van from an obscure cable channel. Out of the tinted windows, Matthew could see rows of civilians loitering anywhere they could, hoping to catch sight of Matthew, or any other famous face (lies published by a newspaper had stated that Jennifer would be at the court house).

Teams of reporters gathered on the steps of the building, holding dictaphones, notepads, and cameras. Next to them, at least half a dozen cameras streamed live footage back home for millions of viewers.

It was a female reporter who first noticed the Limo. It had drifted in unannounced; the people were too busy and the streets were too cluttered, making it easy for the Limousine to ghost in. The reporter, holding a microphone whilst speaking to her viewers through a camera pointed at her, quickly changed her stance. Within minutes, she and her cameraman were descending the stairs, their eyes on the Limo.

Inside the car, Charles Edinburgh turned to the back seat. Matthew Jester was sitting in silence, staring out of the tinted windows. “It’s time, sir,” Charles said.

Matthew nodded, opened the back door of the car, and casually stepped out. He struggled to regain his composure as his valium-infused body felt the air on his skin, and he briefly lost his footing.

“Mr Jester!” the hassle began. The shout from the female reporter turned everyone’s heads. Now everyone’s attention turned to the Limousine.

Charles Edinburgh started up the engine of the vehicle and pulled it away from the curb. Within seconds, it had disappeared out of view and Matthew Jester was left by himself, standing on the pavement, awaiting the rush of reporters. The scene in front of him had been extracted from a zombie film. Only these zombies carried cameras and twinkles in their eyes.

They were on him in no time. Their questions left their lips at high speed, one after another, at least six voices, all hyped up, all speaking at the same time, all asking random questions in an erratic order. They all tried to usher him to their own positions, hoping he would single them out to do a few brief sound bites.

Calls of “
over here
” and “
Matthew, Matthew!
” echoed annoyingly in his ears as he waded through the crowd, his eyes set straight ahead, his arms swimming through the bodies.

A man in his late thirties stepped out from the crowd, blocking Matthew’s path. He was nearly a foot taller than Matthew, and a good deal heavier. Matthew decided to stop his wading. He looked the man up and down, from the tips of his Caterpillar boots to his square head and dishevelled hair.

“Mr Jester,” the man said, his voice surprisingly tame for a man of his stature. “Would you mind doing a few quick words for the camera?”

Matthew looked to the side of the heavy-set man and saw a cameraman, noticeably smaller than his colleague. The cameraman nudged his way past his colleague and pointed the camera directly at Matthew Jester.

The tall reporter was standing behind the cameraman, waiting and offering hand signals to indicate that Matthew could start speaking. Looking straight through the lens of the camera – pressed three feet from his face – Matthew Jester opened his mouth to speak, but then quickly shut it again.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked the reporter in the background.

“Tell us about your feelings. Share your emotions. This is the most coveted court case in history. How are you feeling at this moment?”

Jester nodded in acknowledgement. He looked deep into the camera lens.

“Slightly tired,” he explained to the camera.

The reporter raised his eyebrows. “Anything else?” he said, throwing Jester a bone, but Jester refused to catch it.

“I have a bit of a headache,” he offered, his attention on the reporter.

The reporter, clearly oblivious to Matthew’s games, decided to change his approach. “How do you feel about the impending case?” he asked.

Dictaphones and microphones were now being brought into play by other reporters. The devices were thrust as close to Matthew as possible, hoping to catch any and every word that left his lips.

“The case?” he made a humming sound and pondered on the question for a few moments. “Fine, I guess.”

“Do you think you have a chance of being the successor today?”

Matthew laughed crudely. “A chance?” he said, pushing his face closer to the camera. “I have more than a chance. I’ll win today.”

“Mr Jester,” someone called from behind him; another reporter, her Dictaphone held just over Matthew’s left shoulder. “What makes you so confident?” she wanted to know.