Running Stupid

By James Kipling

An intense, slick mystery thriller with a dose of comedy and an injection of suspense.

 

Matthew Jester is a lucky man, but his world is about to unravel.

 

He is named as the chief suspect in a high-profile murder case and discovers that he is public enemy number one.

 

The country hates him, they want him dead, and no matter how far he runs, no matter which direction he takes, he keeps finding himself in the clutches of the darkest and most depraved elements of society.

 

He thinks his luck has finally run out, that his life has hit rock bottom, but what he does not know is that things are a lot worse than they seem.

 

"A roller coaster of emotions, taking the reader on a high-octane journey as the hapless, apathetic protagonist encounters serial killers, sociopaths, liars, and fraudsters before finding himself face to face with the ultimate test of fortitude."

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Kipling Publication House
• Release date: Mar 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393343707

James Kipling

James Kipling is a mystery, thriller, and suspense writer. He writes for fun, excitement, and to find out why people do what they do.

Book preview

1

Matthew Jester stirred in his sleep. A light breeze floated in through the curtains and fell upon him, tickling the small patch of hair below his bottom lip. He brushed his troubles away with a swipe of his hand and continued to dream.

A small fairy flew past his ear, its wings flapping erratically. Hey, it shouted, pulling to a hovering stop just in front of his face. What the hell are you?

Matthew studied the fairy for a moment. Something about it wasn’t right. He knew real fairies didn’t smoke Cuban cigars and wear NYC baseball caps, but there was something else.

"What am I? Matthew repeated the fairy’s question. What kind of question is that?"

A puff of smoke popped out of the fairy’s lungs and whirled around Matthew’s face. The smell of tobacco was prominent inside his distressed nostrils.

Are you going to answer it?

I’m not sure how.

Why are you so big?

Why are you so small?

They spoke almost simultaneously. Just as the question marks rolled onto their tongues, they realised they were speaking in tune. They shut up and decided to stare at each other instead.

You’re a fairy, aren’t you? Matthew said after much deliberation.

The small winged man stopped chewing on his cigar and swapped his intimidating stare for a lighter one. Collecting all the saliva from the back of his throat, he concocted a glob of black mucus and spat onto the floor, inches in front of Matthew and his Dennis the Menace slippers. What makes you think that? he asked.

Just a hunch, Matthew replied.

A fairy, I am, he confessed. So, what are you then?

I’m human, of course.

The cigar smoking fiend flew around the human’s oval face, inspecting every detail with the finesse of a detective. Are you sure? I’ve seen a few humans in my time...they were smaller, wetter around the nose. The fairy made humming and haring sounds, seemingly deep in thought. Are you the next model up?

Excuse me?

You know, the upgrade.

No, I’m not. There are no upgrades.

The fairy pondered further. So, how did you get so big? You been drinking a lot of milk? Eating your crusts and what not?

Listen, Colombo. I’m an adult. I’m not an upgrade.

Oh.

What do you do? Jester asked.

"Do?"

Work, do you work?

I used to help out at the tooth factory. They sacked me, said I was useless and incompetent.

Matthew looked in awe at the fairy, a smile on his lips. I see, he said, nodding his head.

What are you doing in this part of town? the fairy quizzed.

I don’t– Matthew stopped. He’d been so busy speaking to the bastard child of Tinkerbelle that he hadn’t taken note of his surroundings. He was in a field, littered with red and white rose petals, and surrounded by lush green trees and fields of tulips gently swaying in the wind. Where am I? he asked.

He received no reply.

The fairy had disappeared, literally in a cloud of smoke. Cigar fumes still swirled around Matthew’s senses. Where the hell... In the distance, Matthew saw Mila Banks, his high school sweetheart. She was as beautiful now as she’d been the day he dumped her for her best friend.

She was running towards him, her orange and white summer dress flicking the tops of the tulips. Matthew probably didn’t react the way he should have. Instead of opening his arms and running to meet her, he stood, rooted, and shouted, I thought you moved to Australia!

Mila Banks stopped running. Her silk dress stopped stirring in the gentle summer breeze and, in the blink of an eye, she disappeared, sinking into the tulips around her until the flowers had fully engulfed her.

Matthew stood with his hands on his hips. Would you believe it, he said, shaking his head. She didn’t even stay for a coffee. Finishing the sentence, Matthew’s eyebrows dipped. His face twisted into a look of confusion. He knew something about what he had just said wasn’t right, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Beyond the tulip field that had swallowed his ex-girlfriend, inside the glittering forest, a line of beautiful women marched, running towards him like Mila Banks had, but, unlike Mila Banks, these girls were wearing bikinis, not dresses.

Oh, wow. Matthew took a few steps forward. Things just got a hell of a lot more interesting, he declared, his eyes riveted by the sea of naked flesh.

He stopped in the middle of the field. Something struck him as odd. He couldn’t feel the breeze that was so elegantly affecting his surroundings. Shrugging it off, he carried on regardless, only to stop seconds later. He looked at the line of bikini-clad girls with wonder and not lust in his eyes.

"Baywatch, he muttered. Fucking Baywatch. The girls stopped running, they too disappearing into the tulips. No, not now! he pleaded as the flowers began to fade away. Why do I always have to miss the fucking good bits?" The fields and forests disappeared, and the next thing Matthew saw was the digital clock on top of his bedside cabinet.

You sleep like a baby.

The words filtered through to him through the fog of sleep. He opened his eyes slowly, letting a soft yawn escape his mouth.

The voice, female and smoky, spoke again, I’ve been watching you for twenty minutes or so. It had a soft, caring quality to it, a tone of nostalgia, like a grandmother speaking to her growing child.

You’ve been watching me? Matthew asked, his voice dry. Is something wrong with the TV? He reached over and took a glass of water from his bedside cabinet, and taking three swigs, he spoke to the woman again, still not looking her way. I could find that both disturbing and complimentary. He pushed his way to the edge of the bed. On the one hand, he said leisurely, you could find me invigorating, beautiful to the eye, appeasing enough to stare at for twenty minutes. I mean that’s a long time ... that’s longer than I’ve ever stared at the Mona Lisa, longer than I’ve ever devoted to one single work of genius. Hell, I went to Egypt and spent less time looking at the pyramids.

Matthew rolled his legs off the edge of the bed and slipped his feet into his Dennis the Menace slippers. On the other hand, he said, his words still deliberate and calm, "you could be a stalker. I may have spent less than twenty minutes staring at a work of art, but I’ll bet my left testicle that Dahmer spent hours staring at his victims." Matthew rose, his back still to the female, and stretched.

Walking over to the windowsill, he came into contact with the smoky voice. Jennifer Wilkinson was a soul singing sensation; her voice sold millions of albums, the soft caring innocence fused with a harsh, smoky texture made her the love of a generation. Her looks: dark eyes, encapsulated by thick and wavy jet black hair, gave her the adoration of the opposite sex. For the last four years, since the beginning of her career, she’d been declared the sexiest woman in music twice, had appeared on dozens of magazine layouts, and even featured in an ad campaign for lingerie.

Matthew walked up to her and planted a kiss on her cheek. She was sitting on the windowsill, smoking a cigarette out the open window. Her eyes were set on the beautiful landscape outside the window.

So, which one does that make you, then? Matthew asked, following her line of sight and admiring the view. A stalker or a lover?

Jennifer took her eyes away from the window and locked stares with Matthew. She blew a stream of smoke his way. It halted just before his face before being ushered out of the window by a gentle breeze. You talk too much, Jennifer said, preferring not to answer the question.

Why were you staring at me, then? Matthew asked placidly as he walked around the room, picking up his clothes and slipping them on.

Jennifer was silent at first, her eyes still lost in the world outside; when she spoke, her words avoided Matthew’s question again. I don’t know how you do it, she said, shaking her head.

Do what?

This! Jennifer gestured all around her. You live in a seven bedroom, seven million pound mansion–

"Nine," Matthew quickly corrected.

Whatever! Jennifer bellowed, shaking it off. You have a constant flow of money. Sticking the cigarette in her mouth, she brought her hands together and began counting out numbers on each finger. "Royalties from your bloody autobiographies, the plural being important there, because you’re only thirty-one!"

Matthew smiled as Jennifer pushed one finger up. In her world, it indicated one: one problem, one issue that needed to be addressed; in Matthew’s world, someone was taking a piggy to market.

Money from all your bloody houses. A second finger went up and a piggy was forced to stay home. "I mean, who in God’s name needs sixty houses? You’re not even a property developer. And every one, every bloody house you buy, you sell on for a profit. A profit that shouldn’t even be! You buy shit for a penny and sell shit wrapped in ribbon for a quid; it’s unbelievable. Only you could find the sixty dumbest people alive, and then sell them all a house, consecutively!" she paused to inhale, and when her words left her lips, so did trickles of wispy grey smoke.

Thirdly. Another piggy was brought into the action, this time eating roast beef. All your stocks and shares, everything you’ve ever invested in, all went through the roof! You even bought shares in an ice cream shop, near bankrupt and stuck on a desolate pier on the South coast, and what happens the next week?

I wasn’t the one who decided they should build a new pier there, Matthew said softly.

A pier? They built a whole fucking city. They turned the slums into the fucking Ritz. She inhaled another lungful of smoke. Overnight, may I add, she continued. I mean how did you even think to– she paused, her face a mix of wonder and building frustration. Why are you smiling? she asked sternly.

Nothing, Matthew said, refusing to admit he had been thinking of children’s rhymes all the way through her speech. It’s nothing, he bent down to slide a sock on, hiding his smile in his lap. I just thought of a joke I heard, that’s all. He coughed awkwardly and returned his eyes to his frustrated lover.

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."

2

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.

3

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.

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