Read Online Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) by James Kipling - Free Book Online
Authors: James Kipling
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marbled-red. He used his jacket to wipe the excess water and blood from his face before discarding the jacket – tossing it to one side like an unwanted crisp packet.
“What a fucking day,” he mumbled, lazily slumping to the floor. He curled up, his head resting sideways on a bed of grass, his eyes looking at the world through a sideways perspective.
He was drawn, tired, out of breath and in pain. After winning one hundred million pounds, he’d managed to become the bane of the religious community, the murderer of one of the country’s best loved music stars. and now, after the arrest and car crash, he was a fugitive. Just when he was wishing his day couldn’t get any worse, Jester saw the ominous sight of a double barrel shotgun pointed straight at his head.
Matthew didn’t move. He wasn’t so sure he could, and he was certainly sure that he didn’t want to. Even the sight of a loaded shotgun didn’t wake his senses. Seeing his girlfriend slaughtered, being arrested, being in a car accident, and nearly dislocating his shoulder had taken the majority of the energy out of him. He didn’t care anymore. Nothing inside him stood to attention when he saw the twin-barrels; nothing jumped, his hairs didn’t stand on end, and his life didn’t flash before his eyes. He just stared.
“Hello. Down there,” the gun spoke. Judging by its accent, it was a posh gun.
Matthew Jester mumbled.
“Are you okay?”
“Possibly made from Rolls Royce parts,” Matthew mumbled.
“Excuse me?” the gun moved away and a man appeared. He held the weapon in his right hand, where it dangled near his leg. Jester studied his appearance briefly. He wore a red and black tweed shirt and worn jeans.
“Nothing,” Jester said, his words slow and leisurely. He pushed himself up from the ground.
“Are you okay?” the man asked.
Jester looked his way and sighed. He’d had a hard day, and now a lumberjack was impersonating Hugh Grant and pointing guns at him. “I’m fine,” he said with a soft laugh.
The man put his gun down and held out his hand. “Let’s get you up,” he said merrily.
Jester nodded and reached for the man’s hand, but as soon as pressure was applied, he recoiled in pain.
“What’s wrong?” the gunman wanted to know
“Dislocated my shoulder,” Jester said, contemplating and sighing. “I think.”
“That’s nasty.”
“No shit.”
“Well, we’ll have to get you up. We can’t have you sitting around here all day, can we?”
Matthew Jester looked up at the gunman. “Fair enough,” he agreed. He allowed the man to help him to his feet, something which required great effort for both of them.
“There you go,” the gunman said when Matthew was back on his feet. “My name is James,” he held out his hand, but quickly retracted it.
“Matthew,” Jester said, smiling.
“Okay, Matthew,” the gunman said in his cheery tone. “Let’s get you back to the house. My wife knows a thing or two about medicine, and I’m sure she can just pop that shoulder back in for you,” he said, stressing the word pop .
“Lovely,” Jester said unenthusiastically.
“We just live past this farm here,” the man explained.
They continued in silence for a while until Matthew spoke. “Why the hell did you point a gun at me?” he asked.
“Well, we get a lot of poachers around here. A lot of people come to cause trouble. A nice derelict place like this, I don’t need to explain. It brings in all sorts.”
“And you point guns at them?”
“Some of them. I wouldn’t shoot, though.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“I would never kill a man. Perhaps if I was fighting for my country, or my life,” James pondered, “or my family’s life, or in self-defence, of course,” he finished. Matthew opened his mouth to speak, but then James continued. “Or in defence of others,” he
“What a fucking day,” he mumbled, lazily slumping to the floor. He curled up, his head resting sideways on a bed of grass, his eyes looking at the world through a sideways perspective.
He was drawn, tired, out of breath and in pain. After winning one hundred million pounds, he’d managed to become the bane of the religious community, the murderer of one of the country’s best loved music stars. and now, after the arrest and car crash, he was a fugitive. Just when he was wishing his day couldn’t get any worse, Jester saw the ominous sight of a double barrel shotgun pointed straight at his head.
Matthew didn’t move. He wasn’t so sure he could, and he was certainly sure that he didn’t want to. Even the sight of a loaded shotgun didn’t wake his senses. Seeing his girlfriend slaughtered, being arrested, being in a car accident, and nearly dislocating his shoulder had taken the majority of the energy out of him. He didn’t care anymore. Nothing inside him stood to attention when he saw the twin-barrels; nothing jumped, his hairs didn’t stand on end, and his life didn’t flash before his eyes. He just stared.
“Hello. Down there,” the gun spoke. Judging by its accent, it was a posh gun.
Matthew Jester mumbled.
“Are you okay?”
“Possibly made from Rolls Royce parts,” Matthew mumbled.
“Excuse me?” the gun moved away and a man appeared. He held the weapon in his right hand, where it dangled near his leg. Jester studied his appearance briefly. He wore a red and black tweed shirt and worn jeans.
“Nothing,” Jester said, his words slow and leisurely. He pushed himself up from the ground.
“Are you okay?” the man asked.
Jester looked his way and sighed. He’d had a hard day, and now a lumberjack was impersonating Hugh Grant and pointing guns at him. “I’m fine,” he said with a soft laugh.
The man put his gun down and held out his hand. “Let’s get you up,” he said merrily.
Jester nodded and reached for the man’s hand, but as soon as pressure was applied, he recoiled in pain.
“What’s wrong?” the gunman wanted to know
“Dislocated my shoulder,” Jester said, contemplating and sighing. “I think.”
“That’s nasty.”
“No shit.”
“Well, we’ll have to get you up. We can’t have you sitting around here all day, can we?”
Matthew Jester looked up at the gunman. “Fair enough,” he agreed. He allowed the man to help him to his feet, something which required great effort for both of them.
“There you go,” the gunman said when Matthew was back on his feet. “My name is James,” he held out his hand, but quickly retracted it.
“Matthew,” Jester said, smiling.
“Okay, Matthew,” the gunman said in his cheery tone. “Let’s get you back to the house. My wife knows a thing or two about medicine, and I’m sure she can just pop that shoulder back in for you,” he said, stressing the word pop .
“Lovely,” Jester said unenthusiastically.
“We just live past this farm here,” the man explained.
They continued in silence for a while until Matthew spoke. “Why the hell did you point a gun at me?” he asked.
“Well, we get a lot of poachers around here. A lot of people come to cause trouble. A nice derelict place like this, I don’t need to explain. It brings in all sorts.”
“And you point guns at them?”
“Some of them. I wouldn’t shoot, though.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“I would never kill a man. Perhaps if I was fighting for my country, or my life,” James pondered, “or my family’s life, or in self-defence, of course,” he finished. Matthew opened his mouth to speak, but then James continued. “Or in defence of others,” he
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