Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) Read online

  “You nearly woke him,” Jester heard James complain.

  “He’s drugged,” Mary said in her ever-pleasant voice. “Nothing can wake him.” He heard her groan as she stood – taking the rope away from Matthew’s ankles and tossing it to one side – and then pass the knife to her husband.

  “Did you bring the equipment?” Matthew felt his heart skip a beat as he heard James’s words.

  “I’ll go get them now,” Mary said.

  Matthew listened as Mary ascended the stairs and left the basement. When he was sure she was out of the room, he opened his eyes a squint, just enough to allow for a sheet of light to enter. James stood directly in front of him. He opened his eyes further and was relieved and somewhat surprised to see that James stood with his attention aimed away from him, his muscular, broad back exposed.

  Jester immediately snapped his eyes fully open. Now he had the advantage. Luckily for him, the drug they had pumped into his arm was the same one that he had been taking for the last year. Thirty milligrams of diazepam intravenously would normally induce sleep and deep sedation very quickly, but Matthew’s tolerance refused to accept sleep. He didn’t need a survival instinct; luck was on his side again. If it had been anything else, he would have been out cold. That, along with the valium already ingested and the long, stressful, and painful day, would have been too much for him to handle.

  Matthew looked at the broad back of his captor. He was cleaning the top of a table on wheels, the sort you’d expect to see an air stewardess pushing, only this one wasn’t used for catering. Draped over the table was a large blue vinyl sheet. On its surface sat a surgical steel dish.

  Jester quickly shot a glance towards the door. It was open, but Mary was nowhere to be seen.

  There were a few feet between Matthew and his psychotic captor. He scanned the distance, closed his eyes, wished himself good luck, and then acted as quickly as he could. He sprang from his seat, instantly feeling his limbs ache, screaming at him to sit back down. He stepped forward, straight to the side of the chair, and picked it up, grasping it firmly in his hands.

  James turned to see the commotion just as Matthew Jester found his aim. He swung the chair with all his might, throwing his entire body into the action. The hard wood crashed into James’s torso but didn’t break.

  James jumped back on impact, quickly bringing his arms to his chest. Jester controlled the swinging chair and threw his might into another swing, this time aiming for James’s head.

  The older man was ready for the swing. With simplicity, he plucked the chair out of the air, took it from Jester’s grasp, and threw it onto the floor. It crumpled on impact, three legs snapped, spilling shrapnel splinters around the basement floor.

  Matthew looked down at the broken chair and then at James, who wasn’t smiling anymore. “Shit,” he muttered.

  Jester backed off as James slowly advanced on him. “I thought you were sleeping,” James said plainly, a fiery, psychotic look in his eyes.

  Jester, still backing away, quickly scanned the room around him, but couldn’t find anything useful. He was backing himself into a corner.

  “Why won’t you play nice?” James demanded to know.

  “I ...” Matthew was stuck for words.

  “You played nice when we were playing cards. Why can’t you play nice now?” the madman wanted to know.

  Jester reached the corner and slumped down against the wall. “This is a touch different to cards,” he said in a defeated tone. “And anyway,” he said, not letting death spoil his humour, “I let you win.”

  James stopped in his tracks, his eyes flooded with confusion. “What do you mean, ‘you let me win?’”

  Matthew noted that even though he was cornered, there was still a space between them. “I let you win,” he pushed, climbing to his feet. “You were shit,” he said blankly, his eyes following James’s expression as it changed from mildly confused to complete bemusement. “But you were being nice, so I let you win.”

  “Wh–wh–“James stammered. “Wh–why would you do that?” he asked, his face a portrait of confusion.

  “Like I said, I was being nice. Common courtesy and what not.”

  “But why? You can’t let me win.”

  “Why not?” Matthew asked, slowly stepping forward.

  “It’s a game. If you let me win then it’s not a game anymore.”

  Matthew opened his mouth, desperate to push James over the edge, but he silenced himself when Mary appeared. She walked up to her husband and stood by his side, a concerned look on her face.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said to him; her voice was calm, but Matthew noted a tone of uncertainty to her words.

  “He said he let me win.”

  “He’s lying.”

  “Why would he do that?” James shouted, pushing his wife away.

  “James, dear, please calm down,” Mary instructed desperately.

  “No!” James bellowed, his attention fully on his wife, hers fully on him. “Stop telling me to calm down!”

  “You’re raising your voice–”

  “You’re not my nurse anymore,” James bellowed. “Stop telling me what to do! If I want to raise my voice, I will raise my voice,” he shouted, his face turning red.

  “James, please–”

  “This is not the fucking hospital anymore, Mary,” James bellowed, spittle from his bellowing mouth hitting Mary’s face. “You can’t tell me what to do!”

  “James! Not now!” Mary’s voice was raised. No longer was she clean cut and warming.

  “You’re not the fucking boss of me!”

  During the domestic disturbance with the couple from hell, Matthew had edged closer and closer to the door. Their attentions were on each other and not on him. Noting that their verbal assaults were in full flow and that they were seconds from either fighting or storming out on each other, Jester ran. He was surprised at his own agility and guile as he made his way up the stairs, without making a sound that would alert the arguing pair.

  At the top of the stairs, he quickened his steps, rushing across the passageway and heading straight to the front door. He reached out for the handle and then stopped, his arm inches away, when he saw it turn. He looked at the knob in complete bewilderment for a moment, before diving out of the passageway and dragging himself into the living room.

  As soon as he found a safe place, hiding just behind the living room door, the front door sprang open.

  13

  Matthew quickly scanned the room, a look of apprehension on his face. He looked towards the window. It led out onto the front garden but it was shut, and he didn’t want to risk finding out whether it was locked or not. He peeked through the gap in the living room door. From this vertical strip, if he squinted really hard, he could see the front door – and a square block of the passageway.

  He watched three people enter the house. They all stopped in the passageway to remove their shoes. One of them, a small child aged no more than eleven or twelve, was tapping his feet excitedly. Matthew squinted harder to make out the child’s features.

  The boy’s hair was thick, black, and unkempt. It was long enough to hang past his shoulders but instead of growing downwards, it seemed to grow inwards. The long strands of hair were mangled together on his scalp. It wasn’t an afro and he didn’t have dreadlocks. What he fashioned was something totally unique; a collection of hair, fused into a tumbleweed with the aid of grease and dirt.

  His face was an equal picture of strangeness. It was defected, almost deformed. His nose was too wide for his face. It looked squashed like a boxer’s nose. His ears were far too big for his head, his eyes were very wide apart, and his cheeks were bloated. He also had a cleft pallet and abnormally large front teeth. His physique was weak. He looked skinny to the point of malnourishment. He spoke to one of the other two people, an adult male. “Hurry up,” he begged, jumping up and down on the spot. “Uncle James and Aunt Mary will be waiting.” Matthew noticed a stammer in the child’s
voice. “Hurry up!” he demanded again.

  “Let me take my shoes off first,” the man spoke. His posture, attire, and mannerisms were very much like those of James Whittall; and when he turned and put his face in full view of Jester’s peeping eyes, Matthew noticed that they also looked alike.

  “We’ll miss the games if you don’t hurry!” the child said, stamping his feet.

  Shock and fear surged through Matthew’s body as he heard the words. His heart skipped a beat.

  “I’m sure brother and sister will wait for us,” the man said calmly.

  Matthew raised his eyebrows, thought about what the man had said, and then twisted his face in disgust. He turned to look at the child again, who was still hopping up and down, but something about his repeated jumps didn’t look right. It took Jester a few moments to realise that his left leg was considerably shorter than his right. The shorter limb had been fitted with a medical contraption, and a piece of iron jutted out where his ankle should be.

  “Hurry!” the boy shouted again, stammering as his excitement grew.

  “Calm down,” the woman spoke for the first time, and Jester turned her way; when he rested his eyes upon her, he barely suppressed a gasp. Her appearance was frightful on first inspection. Her face bore four marks, deep scars embedded across her pale skin. Two looked fresh, still red and scabby.

  She had a lazy eye and it was trained downwards as she tried to remove a pair of black boots. She struggled to slip off the boots using only her right hand – she had no left hand, just a rounded stump at the end of her arm.

  Jester looked into her eyes as she bent down. Despite the damage to her face; the obvious domestic disturbance; the troubled child – who he took to be her son – and the lack of a hand... she seemed more than content. An eerie smile decorated her face, sending chills down Jester’s spine. He’d seen that smile before, in Mary’s eyes.

  “Hurry up, dear,” the man ordered, standing tall, refusing to help his wife.

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” the woman said, her voice teeming with the same warmth, love, and waiting hostility that plagued Mary’s voice.

  “Hurry up, mother,” the child ordered.

  Matthew watched as the woman struggled with her boots. When she eventually removed them, the three of them walked down the passageway. Matthew watched, waiting until they were far enough away from him with their backs turned. When he was satisfied, he slipped out from behind the door and quickly shuffled towards the front door. He opened it carefully, closed it with the same care, and bolted off towards the fields. In less than a minute, they would realise what had happened and would start chasing him, so he ran, forgetting about his pain and his fatigue, moving as fast as his legs would allow.

  In the house of horrors, Mary and James Whittall had stopped arguing. Their guests stood at the top of the basement steps, looking down expectantly.

  “Are you two arguing again?” the man asked before descending the stairs.

  James smiled. “Darren,” he said, “and Lucy, so nice to see you. And how’s my little nephew?”

  The boy, descending the stairs slowly and with great care, looked up. “I’m fine, Uncle James,” he said happily.

  “What were you arguing about this time?” Darren Whittall wanted to know.

  “It’s nothing,” James said. He greeted his brother with a handshake and his nephew with a kiss on the cheek. He then turned to the scarred woman. “And the beautiful Louise,” he said. “How is my darling little sister?”

  She smiled shyly.

  “Our brother is treating you okay, I see,” James said softly, stroking the scars on his sister’s face.

  Mary walked beside her husband and she too greeted her guests. She kissed Darren on his cheek, her nephew on the top of his head, and she greeted Louise with a hug.

  “You arrived just in time,” Mary said warmly. “He was squirming a bit so we had to sedate him.”

  “I hate squirmers,” Darren said with a grimace. “Did he plead for his life?” he asked hungrily.

  James shrugged his shoulders. “He asked me to stop,” he said. “But he didn’t really plea. He’s a cocky one.”

  “Can I have first go this time?” the child asked excitedly. “I want first go. I want to play first.”

  “I don’t see why not,” James said, smiling. He turned and ushered his family to follow him. He stopped in the middle of the room, his eyes on the corner where Matthew Jester had been. “Where is he?” he turned to look at Mary, who was wondering the same thing.

  “Did you cut him free?” Darren asked, his eyes on the chair and the frayed rope.

  “Yes. He was sedated,” James said.

  “You should never cut them free,” Darren warned. “Dad always told us that. The need to survive is stronger than any drug.”

  “But we gave him a lot of drugs.”

  “Well, clearly,” Darren pondered, looking around the basement, “it didn’t work.”

  James cursed under his breath. The pleasantries disappeared from his face. “He must have slipped out when we were arguing.”

  “Oh,” the child moaned. “So we don’t get to play?”

  The sly smile returned to James’s face. “My dear boy,” he said, bending down. “The game has just begun,” he stood promptly and turned to his wife. “Mary, fetch my shotgun,” he ordered. “Darren,” he looked to his brother, “are you armed?”

  “Of course not,” Darren said, shrugging off the comment. “Why would I carry a gun into my brother’s house?” he asked. “I have two rifles in the back of the car, though.”

  “Go get them,” James ordered. “Louise,” he said, turning to the scarred woman. “You stay here with Dean,” he motioned towards the boy. “I’ll check the house just to make sure he’s not still here.”

  Everyone did as instructed. Louise waited in the basement with her excitable child until James shouted to them from the kitchen. He was ready to begin the hunt.

  14

  Jester ran until he heard the distant roar of car engines, and then he stopped. He’d been running as hard as he could for the last ten minutes, passing nothing but fields and farms. He wanted to make it to safety, but he wasn’t sure where safety was. He bent over and put his hands on his knees as he struggled to regain his breath. Every movement took something out of him, and every stride had sucked energy from him, but he’d continued because he had to.

  He was in a wooded area. He had covered plenty of distance during his sprint, and he was sure he was safe now. He shuffled up to a large tree and crumpled against it, resting his back against the thick and sturdy trunk. An overwhelming tiredness enveloped him as soon as he sat; the knowledge that he was safe from his captor, coupled with his sitting position, seemed to force the valium back into action.

  The world had gone to sleep, everything was dark. Past the wooden area and up a steep hill was a small county road. Every now and then, a car roared past doing thirty miles an hour, its headlights penetrating the darkness like a bullet through flesh.

  Matthew Jester closed his eyes and allowed the silence to surround him.

  When he next opened them, the world had turned an eerie grey. The sun had begun its ascent. Soon the world would be filled with light. Jester cursed and twisted his face. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton; his shoulder, his wrists, his ankles, and his head throbbed violently.

  The effects of the drug had more or less worn off, and Jester was now forced to remember all the niggling pains he had picked up over the last twenty-four hours. Using the tree trunk to aid him, he struggled to his feet; one hand pushing against the tree, the other reaching forward. He brushed himself down and took note of his surroundings.

  The sound of a dog barking alerted his senses. He looked around, trying to pinpoint the source of the bark, but he couldn’t see past the rows of trees. He took a step forward, and slalomed his way through four trees.

  The dog barked again. It was much closer this time.

  He turned past
another two trees and found himself staring at the edge of the woodlands – past which was nothing but weed-cluttered fields. There he saw the bloodhound. It stood in the entrance to the woodlands with its tail wagging and its tongue lolling. As soon as it saw Matthew, it raced over to him.

  Matthew rested his hand on top of the dog’s head and it sat to attention straight away. He smiled, squatted down, and began stroking it. “Hello, there,” he said in a friendly tone. “Where did you come from?” he grasped the dog’s face with both hands, caressing it behind the ears.

  The bloodhound sat – breathing heavily – and allowed himself to be stroked by the stranger.