Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.”