Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) (4 page)

Jester looked at the tall reporter behind the camera. He seemed happy with the woman’s question and ushered Jester to answer it into the camera.

“What makes me so confident? Confidence comes from experience, and I’m experienced enough to know my confidence will take me to a victory in this case.” He rolled that sentence around in his head, checking that it made sense. Happy with his words, he continued, “And without meaning to sound like a bastard, I really need to get inside the court house. So, do you guys want to just …” He made a wafting gesture with his hands.

The reporters paid him no heed and continued to question him.

“Enough is enough,” Matthew affirmed. “I told you more than you were hoping for, so if you can please just–”

The reporters shunned his pleas and continued to bombard him with questions.

“Look!” Matthew shouted above the noise. “Can you all please get the fuck out of my way? I need a piss and my bladder waits for no man, so either fuck off or get pissed on.”

Slowly but surely, the reporters, the cameras, and the many handheld devices disappeared from view. Gradually, the path cleared and Matthew Jester made his way up the remaining stairs and through the doors.

Jester emerged from the court house six hours later. The sun was setting, the clouds coated in an eerie orange glow, and the wind was fresh, or at least it was for Matthew’s lungs. Being cooped up in the court room for the extended time had dried his mind. The sedative qualities of the valium hadn’t helped him either. He’d spent the last twenty minutes of the case trying to stay awake.

Now, he was awake. The excitement inside the court remained, following him outside. When the judge had declared the final verdict, Matthew had quickly woken up.

There were more journalists, cameramen, and reporters outside the court house than before, and unlike before, Matthew didn’t mind speaking to them. Three bodyguards had followed him outside, ready to assist with the sport of press-pushing, but Matthew didn’t want their help. He spoke to the first person that greeted him, a young female reporter in a formal suit, her face caked in make-up.

“Mr Jester,” she said, repeating herself so she could be heard over the rowdy voices. “May I have a word?”

“Sure, why not?” Matthew said simply.

The reporter was ready whether Matthew wanted to be asked the question or not. “You have done the impossible,” she exclaimed with an American accent. “You’ve successfully sued the Fadel Bank. How does that make you feel?”

Matthew was smiling broadly. The majority of the reporters had now gathered around the young woman and were pointing their microphones Matthew’s way. He looked at the microphone held by the young reporter, the letters ‘CNN’ boldly printed around it.

“I feel …” Matthew paused. “What’s the word?
Invincible
,” he declared. “I feel invincible. Hell, fuck it, I
am
invincible.” He looked over his shoulder, back to the court house, a laugh on his lips. “What I did,” he said, “that shit back there…it
proves
something.”

“What does it prove?” the reporter quizzed.

“It proves I am here for a reason. Being lucky is one thing, a
good
thing, but luck to this extent is just biblical.”

“Do you consider yourself a biblical figure? The Beatles claimed they were bigger than Jesus Christ. After all of your astonishing luck, fame, and fortune, do you feel a greater importance over the most prominent religious figure in the western world?” the reporter pushed.

“I wouldn’t go as far as that. I’m lucky, that’s all,” Matthew said, taken aback by the comment.

“Do you feel you deserve all of this luck, after your troubled childhood and difficult upbringing?”

Matthew shrugged at the comment. “Of course!” he said. “Without a doubt.”

“A lot of people are against what you did today,” she began, quickly cycling through her list of questions.

“Why?”

“Everyone has quarrels with banks, Mr Jester. Most have suffered considerably more harassment than you and have received nothing in return. What do you have to say to these people?”

Matthew stroked his chin and looked into the lens of the camera. “Fuck them all,” he declared. “I’m not a public figure. I’m not a politician, pop star, or fucking footballer, I don’t need the public behind me for my life to work; I don’t need a clean record for my career to progress; I don’t need to kiss babies, do charity shows, or hide myself away on an island to make money. I don’t need the public. I don’t give a flying fuck about the public. What I do is my business.” He winked at the camera. “And business has been good lately.”

He felt a gentle push from behind. It was one of the bodyguards, a small but heavy-framed man with a shaven head. The court house was emptying, people were trying to leave. And unlike Matthew, they didn’t want to speak to the press.

They pushed their way through the crowd aggressively. A reporter shouted a question at the defence lawyer, but he shrugged it off with his practiced verbal diarrhoea and continued down the stairs. Matthew began to slowly descend the stairs, allowing everyone behind him to clear the courthouse.

A car was waiting for him, the same Limo that had taken him there now waiting to pick him up. He climbed into the backseat, ignored the pleas of the reporters, and slammed the door, smiling at them through the tinted glass as the car rolled away.

“I heard the news on the radio.” He recognised the voice as that of Charles Edinburgh. “Congratulations are in order. Well done, sir.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” Jester nodded. “I’m glad it’s over. It’s not exactly the most exciting place to spend your afternoon.” The smile was still on his face, and bubbles of delight rose inside him. “So why did the firm send you again?” he wanted to know. “How many hours a day have they got you working?”

“Not many,” Charles said placidly. “I’m doing some overtime, covering for a friend.”

Jester nodded. “Well, Charlie,” he stated. “I’m shattered. I’m going to catch forty winks. Wake me up if anything exciting happens, will you?” he said unenthusiastically.

Charles Edinburgh nodded with a smile. He watched Jester shut his eyes and seemingly drift off to sleep instantaneously.

Jester woke with a start.

He had dreamed of falling, waking before he hit the ground. He always woke just before he hit the ground. Reality had a tendency to destroy his dreams, whether he liked it or not. His eyes fell upon the sights outside of the window. The vehicle was cruising along at a handsome speed, the landscape now a cosmic blur.

He shifted uneasily. He had managed to slide down the plush leather during his sleep, and his lower back rested painfully on the edge of the seat. He corrected his posture with a grimace and continued to stare.

They were on a dual-carriage way. Out of his window, the fields, farms, and houses forged the colourful blur. Out of the opposing window, cars raced the opposite way, making their speed seem dizzyingly fast.

“Charlie,” he croaked, his voice dry.

“Yes?” the driver answered, alert and professional.

“How long was I out?”

“Twenty minutes.” He paused, his eyes flickering to a digital clock past the steering wheel. “Exactly,” he added.

“I need a drink,” Jester said. “D’you want to do me a favour, Charlie?”

“Anything you wish, sir.”

“Take me to a pub. Just for twenty minutes or so. Call it a celebration. You can be the first person to share a drink with me after my record breaking win. How about that?”

The driver smiled. “I’m only supposed to take you home.”

Matthew grinned and slapped the seat with his palm. “Ah,” he spat merrily. “There’s a ‘
but
’ there, isn’t there? I can see that cheeky fucking smile of yours.”

“
But
,” the driver said with a nod of his head, “you’re the last pick-up for the night. So, yes, let’s go celebrate,” he agreed. “Not for long, though, and I can only toast to your victory with lemonade.”

“Fair enough,” Matthew agreed, his voice smooth again. “Fair enough,” he repeated. He lifted himself from the seat and squinted out of the front window. “Take a left at the next exit. I think,” he added unsurely, “there’s a nice little pub around here somewhere. The King and Spade, know about it?”

“Yes, sir,” Charles said in recognition. “It’s the exit after next.”

Matthew nodded loosely, his mind elsewhere. “How would you spend a hundred million quid, Charlie?” he asked.

The question took the driver by surprise. “Well,” he said after much deliberation, “that’s a tough question.”

“Don’t be uncomfortable about answering it, just do it. You make up questions like that all the time when you’re a kid. There are plenty of
what-ifs
in the world; even the people who have it all are plagued with them. The only difference here is that this
what-if
happens to be sitting in the back of your car and smiling at you.”

Charles Edinburgh smiled. “Fair enough,” he said. “If I had one hundred million. Well, first I’d make sure my family was sorted out.”

“None of that shit,” Matthew interjected. “In this
what-if,
you have no family. I have no family, so neither do you.” Matthew explained. “Sorry to break it to you like that,” he added with a smile. “No family; no fucking houses and cars for them, and certainly no trust funds. It’s just you.”

“Well…I guess I would buy myself a new house first,” the driver said. “I’ve always wanted a big country estate; a big nineteenth century manor house surrounded by a massive garden. I’d love a nice big, meadow green, flower-filled garden. The sort they open up to the public and charge them to enter. It’s always been a dream of mine.”

Jester smiled. “That lot will set you back twenty million, max. You still have eighty-million left.”

“Well,” the driver took a few moments to mull it over. “I guess I would buy a new car for my wife and I.”

“What’s her name?” Matthew was quick to interrupt.

“Julie.”

“Excellent,” Matthew said with a nod. “Continue,” he instructed.

“I would probably set up a business,” Charles said. “I’ve worked all my life. It would be nice to be on the other end for once. I want to be the man giving orders. I don’t have power issues, don’t get me wrong, I just want that experience as a …” he lingered on the sentence, struggling to finish it.

“Payback,” Jester offered.

“I suppose. Payback seems a harsh word. I mean no harm.”

“That’s the way the world works, Charlie. You eat shit all your life just to get to the top. When you make it up there, right to the end of the line, you want revenge, so you start feeding shit down the line,” he explained in a leisurely tone.

The driver nodded.

“Two cars, half a million at the most. Fluffy dice included. You still have a lot of money to spend, Charlie. What else do you want?” Matthew asked as the car turned off at the second exit.

The driver pondered for a moment and then answered the question as best he could. “I honestly don’t know. I mean if I had time, I’m sure I could make a list a hundred foot long, but right now ...” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Matthew shrugged his shoulders. “An hour ago,” he explained, his voice relaxed, “I didn’t have this money.” He paused, contemplated. “Do you know what I intend to do with it?”

The driver looked at Matthew’s reflection in the rear-view mirror, eager to hear the answer.

Matthew continued, “I have absolutely no idea. One hundred million, no idea.” He thought. “One hundred million, no idea,” he repeated with a smile. “I guess that’s what they call having more money than sense.”

Matthew Jester and Charles Edinburgh walked through the doors to The King and Spade pub. Outside, the sun had slipped away and the world had turned an eerie grey. The pub was half-full. Three bartenders served around twenty-five customers, consisting of a middle-aged majority and a teenage and elderly minority.

A large bar stretched through the middle of the building, with stools placed at intervals along one side. Matthew Jester and Charles Edinburgh, receiving recognition and judgemental stares from every eye that fell their way, sat down next to each other at the bar.

Charles looked around the bar with a curious expression. Matthew stared at a young female bartender currently serving another customer. Half a dozen customers were drinking at the bar, hunched over on the stools. Behind Matthew, sitting amongst the half dozen oak tables that dotted the area, were another handful of customers.

In the corner furthest away from Charles, a jukebox played. Melodies of rock eras gone-by floated through the pub, but were crowded out by the brash sound of a television set, the large plasma television tuned into a sporting news channel and mounted on the far wall.

Content with his surroundings, Charles returned his eyes to the bar. The young waitress had finished serving her customer and made her way over.

“Hello,” she said, her face reddening by the second, her voice filled with a nervousness. “What can I get you?”

“Jack Daniels,” Matthew said with a smile, staring into her shy eyes. “Double, with ice. And a lemonade, please.”