Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) (20 page)

“It’s not what it seems,” Charles said, his voice muffled.

Jester pushed the driver’s head into the floor. “All along you knew they were going to kill her, didn’t you?”

Charles mumbled.

“Didn’t you?” Jester said, forcing his head into the floor again.

“No!” Charlie said, spitting blood, a small cut opening on his top lip.

“You were with me, fucking
stalling
me, whilst those bastards killed Jennifer,” Matthew accused.

“I wasn’t, I swear, I didn’t know anything about it.”

“So why did you stall me?”

“I didn’t!” Charles shouted. “You asked to go to the pub, remember?”

Something inside Jester’s mind clicked and he released his grip.

“I wasn’t going to go through with it,” Charles continued, “until you invited me.” He felt Jester’s rough hand on the back of his neck again. He spoke as quickly as he could to avoid any further pain. “I didn’t know they were going to kill her. I didn’t even know she was involved. I didn’t know what they were going to do.”

“But you knew from the first minute you met me that I was going to become a fucking play-toy for hundreds of rich tossers with more money than time?”

“No, I didn’t know that then. I found out later.” Charles’s voice was still strong and proud, despite the fact that he was lying flat on his stomach, his face smudging a wooden floor with a ten stone, pissed-off, valium fiend sitting on him.

“What are you doing here?” Jester said, changing the subject. Talking about Jennifer made him inexplicably angry and sad, emotions that became deadly when mixed.

“I came to help you.”

Jester laughed. “How are
you
going to help me?”

“Well, I figured I would start with an explanation and then go on from there,” Charles said sarcastically.

“Okay,” Jester said, moving away from him. “Get up and sit down.” He moved back to his chair, picking the knife up from the floor. Charles slowly rose, looked at Jester with apprehension and brushed himself down, wiping the blood from his lip on the cuff of his jacket.

He continued to explain. “When I found out what had happened, what they had done.” He looked out of the corner of his eye at Jester, sympathy on his face. “I refused to help. I turned down Chambers and his offers.”

“Well done,” Jester said sarcastically. “You refused to destroy my life for money, congratulations, now there’s the door, I’m sure you know how to use it. Fuck off.” His aggression had diminished, his anger was distant.

“There is really no need to be hostile, I’m here to help. Chambers wasn’t paying me, he was threatening me. Ever since I messed up and cost him all that money I’ve been his slave. I’ve been paying him back with odd jobs for years.”

“Fuck him. Tell him to go screw himself.”

“I would,” Charles sighed heavily. “But if I do he says he will take Julie and the kids away from me.”

“He can’t do that, he’s the grandfather, you’re the father, you have rights - a lot more of them than he does.”

“That’s not the problem,” Charles explained. “Julie doesn’t think any wrong of her father and she listens to every word he says. What he says goes. He’s a powerful man. When you’re that rich, rights change. The right to fuck lies in the hands of the rich, the right to be fucked goes to the poor.” Charles cleared his throat. “Pardon my language.”

Jester dropped the knife to the floor and watched the blade bounce. When the steel stopped rebounding off the wood, he kicked it. It shot along the floor, stopping when the tip of the blade imbedded itself into the wall.

“Okay, you have your reasons,” Jester said sombrely, “and I accept that. You didn’t want to lose your family and did what you had to do.” He paused to look at Charles who was nodding in agreement. “You said they’ve been keeping tracks on me from the CCTV, right?”

“Right,” Charlie nodded. “The only problem with CCTV is, well … it’s pretty useless once you get out of the city, which you did. Chambers sent me out here to try to keep a closer eye on you.”

“Why you?”

“Because he knows that I know you because of our limo ride this morning. He sees it as an ideal opportunity for me to get near you.”

“He’s right,” Jester said, “and it worked. You’re five feet in front of me.”

“He wanted me to keep my distance, keep tabs on you and somehow get you back out into the open. Fadel may be the lead man in this operation but the elbow work is being done by Maloney and Chambers.”

Jester, with his head in his hands, struggled to grasp the situation. His head appeared from his hands when he spoke, “I was taken by an old friend … they chased me into the woods and dragged me out when we reached the clearing …” he paused. “If people are betting on my death, why would someone try to keep me alive? I was a dead man, until two guys … probably hit men,” he looked at Charles as he spoke. The driver seemed to know what he was going to say, “Popped out and shot down the fuckers trying to kill me.”

“The longer you stay alive, the longer the book runs, the longer the book runs, the more money the bookie makes.”

“So Chambers is trying to keep me alive?”

“Possibly,” Charles said. “But there are many people involved. Maybe one of the punters hired some hit men to keep you alive so they wouldn’t lose their bet. There is a lot of money at stake.”

Jester put his head back in his hands. “This is fucking unbelievable,” he muttered.

“You should get some sleep,” Charles nodded to Matthew, whose face had become the epitome of sleep deprivation: his eyes were bloodshot, his pupils dilated; the skin around his eyes was black and baggy.

“I can’t sleep,” Jester said sharply. “There’s too much going on inside here.” He rapped his skull with the knuckles on his right hand.

“You need sleep to get your strength.”

“If I’ve learnt anything out of this experience, it’s this: strength accounts for fuck all. It’s all about survival, instincts, adrenaline …” he paused. “Although I am
really
fucking shattered.”

Charles began to speak, to warn Jester about the dangers of sleep deprivation, but his words caught in his throat when someone knocked on the cabin door.

Both men looked.

“Who is that?” Charles asked.

Jester could only shrug his shoulders. He stood up and slowly walked to the door. “I don’t know,” he whispered, edging closer. He spotted something out of the corner of his eye, something through the front window. He took note of it and halted. “But I have a funny feeling they ain’t friendly,” he said with his eyes on the window.

“What makes you say–?”

“Get down!” Jester’s scream cancelled out Charles’s question. He spun around and threw himself to the floor, hitting it with a thud. His momentum caused him to slide into a corner, the view of the front door and window now blocked by a chunk of wall.

At first Charles just watched, his mind unsure how to react. It wasn’t until the gunfire started, then he decided to drop to the floor and scurry behind the arm of the sofa. Hundreds of bullets, fired from two machine guns, ripped through the front door and shattered the front windows. The bullets poured into the wall – chipping away at the hard wood – and ripped up the furniture, turning wooden stands and stools to collections of toothpicks.

Charles squirmed at the end of the couch, as the line of fire swooped across to the lounge. The leather couch was torn apart by the rapid gunfire. Scraps of black leather and clumps of white lining shot across the room and descended like snow.

“Over here,” Jester shouted, ushering Charles over to the corner, where the walls protected him from the fire.

Charles looked up just as the gunfire subsided. “They’ve stopped,” he muttered to himself. His head was ringing, throbbing from the rapid audio outburst, but the guns had stopped. He looked across at Jester in confusion.

Jester was madly waving his arms in a pulling motion, gesturing for Charles to get closer to him. He was speaking but the ringing in Charles’s ears cancelled it out.

Jester, frustrated, decided talking wasn’t going to work, so he shouted across to Charlie, “Get over here!” he screamed. “They haven’t stopped, they’re just–” his words were cut short by a stream of high powered blasts.

Jester ducked into the wall, his head in his arms, his ears covered. Charles hadn’t moved, the bullets were tearing up a wall ten feet from the couch. The fire seemingly concentrated on the kitchen area. Closing his eyes and offering a quick prayer to whoever might be listening, he sprinted forward, his body crouched.

When he reached Jester, he pushed himself up against the wall next to him. Jester acknowledged him and quickly edged his way along the side of the wall. Bullets picked away at the plaster, a stream of them carved a chunk the size of a football.

Jester paused – his eyes closed, hoping the bullets didn’t pierce the wall next to him. When the gunfire stopped, he moved again, gesturing for Charles to follow him. They made their way into the cupboard and down the flight of stairs before more gunfire spread through the cabin.

“What are we going to do?” Charles asked, landing on the basement floor with a thump.

Jester disregarded the comment and walked over to the far wall, bypassing the dead cabin owner like he wasn’t even there. When he reached the wall, he kicked it ferociously, and then allowed himself to fall against it. He slumped down and turned around. “Why me?” he asked no one in particular, his eyes distant, seemingly oblivious to the gunfire above him.

Charles looked at him, seeing his mouth form words. “
What
?” he asked.

Jester shot a look of confusion his way.

“What did you say?” Charles shouted.

Jester merely shook his head.

Charles looked down at the owner of the cabin, crumpled on the floor. “Is he a friend of yours?”

Jester looked at Charles and then at the dead body. He didn’t hear what was said but acknowledged it anyway. Standing up, he walked over to the driver, waited for the gunfire to stop for a third time and then spoke, “Did you bring a weapon?” he asked, his mouth close to Charles’s ear.

Charles hesitated before reaching inside his coat. He pulled a gleaming 9 mm Beretta from the inside of his jacket, resting it on his palm with the gentle touch of a wary man who has never used a gun. He offered the gun to Jester.

Jester took the weapon and began to inspect it.

“Chambers gave it to me. Have you ever fired one before?” Charles shouted into Jester’s ear.

“Is it loaded?” Jester asked, nodding his head in acknowledgement.

“Yes, fully. Can’t you check?”

The gunfire had ceased and the shooters had had more than enough time to reload. Jester looked to the ceiling in anxiety and then smiled at Charles. “I don’t know how,” he said. “All I know is you pull the trigger and the bad guys die.” He moved forward but Charles stopped him when he reached the first stair, grabbing hold of his arm. “Maybe we should just wait here. I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

“Fuck that,” Matthew snapped, shrugging off the older man. “The fuckers will be torching the place as we speak, in ten minutes this basement will be a fucking oven.” He began to walk up the stairs.

“What happens if they kill you?”

Jester paused on the stairs and slowly turned. “Is that a financial concern or a personal one?”

“It’s personal,” Charles said deeply. “If you die, I’ll surely burn down here, that’s if they don’t come down here to shoot me as well.”

“Well, what do you reckon we should do?” Matthew snapped.

“I don’t know ...”

Matthew nodded, turned and started to ascend the stairs again.

“What will I do if they kill you?” Charles shouted after Matthew, anxiety in his voice. He was clearly shaken by the ordeal.

“Burn,” Matthew shouted down the stairs. He crossed the cupboard and leaned next to the closed door. With the gun ready in his right hand, he reached for the door handle with his left.

Jester scoured the room with his bloodshot eyes. The once glorious cabin was now a sty, a bomb-site. The room was littered with torn materials, splinters of wood and chunks of plaster, a dusty white veil of plastered snow covering the room. He squinted to see through the swimming plaster dust in the air. The two men were standing at the front door and in the kitchen respectively. They both wore dark suits, soaked with rain. One of the men, currently hovering around the kitchen, wore a balaclava, his features disguised behind the black material.

Jester studied the man in the doorway. He looked around his age, early thirties. His hair was soaked and plastered to his face. He had big blue eyes that scanned the cabin with morbid intent. When those eyes crossed over the cupboard, Matthew held his breath.

Bringing the gun up to shoulder height, Jester moved and steadied the firearm, aiming it directly at the hit-man's chest in case he had spotted him.

The eyes of the hit-man soon left the cupboard and Matthew lowered the gun, relieved.

“I can’t see shit in here,” the hit man in the kitchen spat. “Can you see anything?” he asked his friend.

The man in the doorway quickly scanned the room again for confirmation. “No,” he said. “Want me to check the other rooms?”