Excerpt from Mute

Friday

1

Some people had criticised Wes’s blog for being too cynical, but the fact that a man had just tried to murder him in the office toilet validated everything he’d written in the past three years: we’re living in a madhouse.

The weirdest thing was that he didn’t feel more scared. He should be razor-edged, revved into the red. But years of martial arts training seemed to have dulled his reaction. He practised being assaulted every week, and now it had actually happened, his body was reacting like it was just another Monday evening. It was ready to settle into the familiar pattern: a curry from the Jewel of India on the way home and a night in front of the telly with Alex.

A bit more abject terror might have persuaded PC Bennett to take him seriously, instead of dumping Wes in an interview room and buggering off. He imagined Bennett at this very moment, sipping tea from a Hampshire Constabulary mug and chuckling to his colleagues from under that wispy attempt at a moustache, ‘I’ve got a right one in room four.’

The interview room’s walls were a flat grey, and a single energy-saving light bulb struggled to push the shadows back into the corners. It was designed for anonymity, for deniability. The only object of any note was the poster, showing a torso wearing a black T-shirt and leather jacket, the edges blurred to suggest motion. A fist at groin level gripped a flick knife. The caption: ‘If it’s longer than three inches, it’s illegal.’ Definitely one for the blog.

In fact, this whole episode was. In some cloistered part of Wes’s mind he was already deciding how he was going to write this up when it was all over. Like a journalist who hid his delight in disaster, he was already thinking what a terrific story this was going to make. Astonishing that he could be so flippant after a murder attempt. If Wes himself couldn’t take this seriously, why should they?

But it wasn’t like he’d had the chance to express any of this. Where the hell had PC Bennett gone? Shouldn’t he be taking his statement? Wes thought he’d made his situation – and its urgency – clear, but now the doubts began. Communication had never been his strong point. There was always room for people to misunderstand him, and the likelihood increased with those who were busy or impatient. His phone was out of his pocket and blinking to life before he remembered the bloody thing was still on the fritz. No way of texting Alex. Although, given their argument this morning, maybe speaking to him was not her top priority.

It was these two things – the argument with Alex and Bennett’s non-appearance – that stirred up the first real feelings of fear. It was the old fear, reaching back into childhood and beyond, the fear of being misunderstood, of being ignored. Many times throughout his life he had thought this a thing of the past, something he had conquered. Every time it found a way to return.

The door opened explosively. Wes’s feet jerked, and the chair screeched across the lino. A policeman stood there, framed by the door, but it wasn’t Bennett. This man was tall and grey-haired, his face sheer as a cliff. The diamonds on his epaulettes marked him as someone with clout, unlike Bennett, who had seemed hesitant and distracted.

‘Right,’ the policeman boomed. He strode across the room, two quick paces, and took the chair opposite. ‘My name is Inspector Selvidge. Let’s hear what you’ve got to say, then.’

Blunt. To the point. Maybe that wasn’t so bad. At least things were now moving. Wes fished out his notepad and a tiny mechanical pencil, and displayed the message he always wrote in thick felt-tip on the first page of any new notepad:

I’m Wes Henning.

I’m unable to speak

but I’m not deaf.

Selvidge’s mouth moved, as if he were chewing gum. He took out a notepad and pen of his own.

‘And your address?’

No, the bureaucratic niceties could come later. Wes flipped to the sheet on which he’d written his summary of events:

A man tried to kill me at work at about 18:00 today.

I’ve never seen him before.

Selvidge scanned the lines, then turned his eyes on Wes. He pursed his lips, tilted his head to one side. ‘Okay, let’s not jump the gun, Mr Henning. I need to ask you a couple of basic questions. The sooner we get past them, the sooner we can get to the nature of the incident. Is that acceptable?’

So, more delays, more faffing. It was a way, he supposed, for the police to deflect the frivolous claims, the weirdos, the nutters.

‘So, if you could give me your address, Mr Henning.’

He bit his lip and wrote on the pad:

7 Oak Rd.

‘Strathurst?’

Wes nodded. Yes, bloody Strathurst. Where else?

‘And the incident occurred at your work, you say? Which is?’

J+H Web Design, Weaver’s Down Business Park.

He paused, then added:

Strathurst.

Selvidge’s pen moved across the surface of the paper, its whisper the only sound in an otherwise silent room. He took his time, as if the formation of the letters was more important than the information they conveyed.

‘Very well. So, this man – how did he get into your office?’

It has an open reception area.

‘With no staff?’

It’s a small business.

‘We deal with a lot of scuffles and altercations here, Mr Henning, especially on a Friday night. What makes you think this was something more serious?’

He said ‘I’m going to kill you.’

‘Well, that’s very … straightforward.’ Selvidge placed the pen down on top of his pad. ‘People are usually more cagey about murder.’

End of excerpt

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