The Colour of Bee Larkham’s Murder

‘Why is she walking backwards?’ I asked. ‘Has he frightened her? Should we call the police?’

‘No, Jasper. That’s just Ollie Watkins from number eighteen. He came home last week to look after his mum. Mrs Watkins is very poorly so I doubt you’ll see much of him on the street.’

‘Are you sure the woman over there’s OK?’

‘Absolutely. Ollie doesn’t mean her any harm. He’s taken her by surprise, that’s all. She probably wasn’t expecting any visitors on her first night here.’

Again, my hands longed to rip the binoculars back. Dad gripped them hard. He didn’t want to let go, but they didn’t belong to him. They were mine. I was about to point out this Important Fact when the man’s hand lunged out. I gasped. I took a step back too, convinced he was about to grab the belt of The Woman With No Name.

‘Don’t worry, Jasper. He’s not threatening her or anything like that. He wants to shake her hand. Remember, people do that when they’re introducing themselves to each other for the first time. It’s polite.’

The woman didn’t want to shake his hand. Perhaps she didn’t know Dad’s rules about what to do in social situations. She folded her arms around her body as if she needed to tie up the parcel even tighter, with especially strong brown vinyl tape, for the long journey ahead.

‘Ha! That went well,’ Dad said.

‘I know. It means we can’t welcome her now that he’s welcomed her.’ The crushing disappointment felt like a huge weight on my shoulders, drilling into the carpet, through the wooden floorboards and plunging me into the sitting room below. The man had stolen our introduction.

‘I doubt he’s the welcoming committee,’ Dad said. ‘I mean, he probably has welcomed her to the street, to be polite. I don’t think that’s his real reason for visiting tonight.’

‘Why? What is it?’ I stared at the mysterious man, Ollie Watkins, with the mysterious motive for wanting to jump the queue and meet The Woman With No Name before us.

‘He probably wants to have a chat about the music. The noise passes right through the walls of terraced houses. He and his mum must be able to hear everything magnified in Technicolor.’

That’s when I felt another, strange emotion.

Jealousy. The word’s a wishy-washy pickled onion shade.

Ollie Watkins and his mum didn’t suffer an annoying dilution of colour. It could absorb through the walls into their front room.

‘Lucky, lucky them,’ I said.

Dad accidentally breathed in and out at the same time, making an ink-shaped blob of mustard and brown sauce.

‘Not everyone appreciates loud house music like you, Jasper. I’m sure he’s asking her to turn the volume down. It’s a residential street, not Ibiza.’

Why would Ollie Watkins and his mum want the colours to disappear? Ibiza sounded like a fun place to be.

The front door closed and the man walked back down the path again. He looked up and raised a hand at us. Dad raised his hand back, a secret gesture.

‘You have to feel for Ollie,’ Dad said. ‘He’s having a rough time with his mum. It won’t be long now. She doesn’t have much time left.’

Dad was wrong yet again. I didn’t feel anything at all for Ollie Watkins. I didn’t know who he was, where he’d come from or the colour of his voice. I’d never seen him before – at least I didn’t think I had. I didn’t recognize his clothes.

All I knew for sure was that Ollie Watkins didn’t like loud music and had stopped all the lovely colours.

That was a black mark in my book. Not pure black, but a dirty smudge of a colour with traces of grainy grey that would deliberately stain anything it touched.

I tried to focus because I could feel myself getting distracted by the shades. Dad was right about one thing – the man walked along the pavement and up the path to the next-door house, 18 Vincent Gardens. This was definitely Ollie Watkins, going back to his mum who didn’t have much time left. For something or other.

‘That’s it, Jasper.’ Dad wrapped the strap around the binoculars. ‘Time for bed. It’s school tomorrow. No more raves. No more excitement on our street tonight.’ He sounded as disappointed as me that the show was over.

I bit my lip and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to let the Martian colours go; I could forget them in my sleep. My alarm clock would go off at 6.50 a.m. as normal, but I had to paint them straightaway.

I needn’t have worried. The Martian music dramatically returned a few seconds later, a fraction quieter before it cranked up again. Louder. Louder than ever before.

My eyes flew open. The Woman With No Name was back in the sitting room, twirling, her dressing gown lifting and blowing as if the breeze had grown stronger.

I couldn’t help myself. I knew Dad hated my dancing, but I flapped my arms and leapt about, swimming in the colours. I danced in solidarity with her, a perfect blending of shades.

Defiant colours that didn’t care what anyone thought or said.

Dad didn’t tell me off or demand I stop dancing as usual. He stood at the window, staring at the Technicolor rebellion.

‘Here comes David Gilbert to complain about the noise too,’ he murmured. ‘It won’t take him long to lay down the law. She’ll regret moving in next door to him.’

That evening’s second visitor, David Gilbert, strode up the garden path. He came from the house on the other side, number 22. If I hadn’t seen this and Dad hadn’t given me his name, I’d have guessed Ollie Watkins was back. Wearing a hat.

‘I don’t think she’ll turn the music down for Ollie Watkins or David Gilbert,’ I said. ‘I don’t think she can. This music has to be played loud. The neighbours will get used to it.’

There was a rolling, darkish ochre colour as Dad chuckled to himself.

‘I wouldn’t want to take on David. I think he’s going to have his hands full with this one. Whoever she is, Jasper, she’s going to be a troublemaker.’

‘Really?’

She didn’t look like a troublemaker to me. Troublemakers covered their faces with scarves and spray-painted graffiti on walls at weekends. They hung around street corners, aiming kicks and punches at anyone who strayed too close.

Dad didn’t sound worried about The Woman With No Name or the fact she was transforming into A Troublemaker. He studied her through my binoculars even though No One Likes A Spy.

‘Mmmmmm.’ His voice was the colour of warm, buttery toast.

TUESDAY (BOTTLE GREEN)

Later That Evening

I LINE UP MY BRUSHES by the bathroom sink. I don’t want to alert Dad to the fact that I’m up at 11.47 p.m. I turn on the tap slowly, making a trickle of water.

Small circular clouds of kingfisher blue.

I love this colour. It’s happy, without a care in the world.

Shivers of excitement play trick or treat up my back, the way they do whenever I open a fresh tube of paint. I love gently squeezing the smooth tube. Too hard and the paint spurts out, wasting it; too little and it’s impossible to tell a proper story from beginning to end.

A small dot of paint is always the best place to start. I can add to the splash of colour and make it grow in size until it becomes the perfect amount. I’ve remembered enough for one night – how excited I was about seeing the mystery woman for the first time and how I longed for the right moment to meet her in person.

When the music eventually stopped that night, after a visit lasting three minutes and thirteen seconds from David Gilbert, I began planning for the day when I could meet our new neighbour. I had to memorize what she looked like (long, blonde hair, not many clothes) and come up with the perfect introduction.

Both these things were important. I didn’t want her to think I was a stupid weirdo, like everyone else.

I had hope: a tomato ketchup coloured word.

Hope she would get me. How couldn’t she? She loved loud Martian music and dancing wildly. The only difference between us was I didn’t like the cold and still don’t. I only ever dance with my clothes on.

The same scarlet-in-a-squeezy-bottle colour embraces me as I tiptoe back to my bedroom with damp paintbrushes, dabbed dry on an old hand towel. The TV in Dad’s bedroom buzzes grey, grainy lines, but tomato ketchup’s in my head.

As soon as I climb into bed, I remember it’s school tomorrow and popcorn yellow dread crawls under the duvet with me. It rudely refuses to budge, however hard I try to kick it out and replace it with tomato ketchup.

Dread’s my usual unwelcome bed guest on Sunday nights, reminding me of the break-time gauntlet – waves of anonymous faces surging towards me along the corridors.

Some could turn out to be friendly, others will not. Good and bad aren’t stamped on pupils’ foreheads to help me sift through their identical uniforms.

This time it’s different. Tomorrow’s Wednesday (toothpaste white) and dread is a far harsher colour because I have to face Lucas Drury again, for the first time since IT happened.

He was mad at me last week for my Big, Dumb Mistake. He’s going to be even madder now the police are involved.

He’ll yell shades of thorny peacock blue at me.

I jump out of bed and pull the curtains tighter together to get rid of the crack of light and the blurry purply black lines of a passing motorbike.

The windows of Bee Larkham’s house stare reproachfully at me through the duck egg blue curtain fabric.

However many times I apologize, the panes of glass will never forgive me.

Lucas Drury won’t either, if he finds out what I’ve done to Bee Larkham. I wish I could avoid him at school tomorrow, but I can’t.

It’s impossible to hide from someone you don’t recognize.

WEDNESDAY (TOOTHPASTE WHITE)

Morning

I SAY HELLO TO THE young parakeets through the crack in the curtains – our daily routine. I estimate these small birds are just over six weeks old. They usually caw playful shades of cornflower blue and buttercup yellow balloons back. Today, they preen their feathers and chatter among themselves. They’re ignoring me because I didn’t protect them. Only two in the tree and five adults – far, far fewer birds than usual. One’s pecking at the empty feeder, willing it to spew out seed. It can’t understand what’s gone wrong.

I don’t open my curtains completely in case Richard Chamberlain’s eavesdropping men are watching me. I take a quick peek. Two little girls in blue uniforms run out of number 24: Molly and Sara live at this address. A woman chases after them – probably their mum, Cindy. She always dresses the girls in similar clothing – even at the weekends – so I never know which one’s Molly and which one’s Sara from up here.

I can’t see any vans on our street. Or police cars. No detectives banging on the front door of Bee Larkham’s house.

The house looks exactly the same as last night:

Deserted.

Reproachful.

Vengeful.

I keep the curtains shut and pull on my school uniform, carefully, making the least amount of movement possible. My tummy sings prickly stars. I’m not sure if I’ve got an infection, we still haven’t seen a doctor. Dad’s looking after me instead. That’s safer.

A doctor would ask us both too many difficult questions.

I tuck one of Mum’s buttons in my trouser pocket. I cut it off her cardigan and carry it around with me, which means she’s never far away whenever I get stressed.

Next, I stick a £5 note into my blazer pocket. It’s dog-eared and torn, making my scalp itch, but I can’t replace it. I have no pocket money left.

Without looking, I stick my hand under the bed. I know the exact spot to aim for. My fingers clasp around something cold and unforgiving: a disfigured china lady. I was too ashamed to return her to Bee Larkham two months ago and now it’s far too late to own up.

I hide the broken ornament under my blazer – she’s unable to return home, but can’t stay in my bedroom either. Not any more. That wouldn’t be right.

I check the forget-me-not blue blanket hangs down properly, sealing the entrance to my den, and pull the bedroom door shut. Twice. To make sure it’s closed. Only then can I go downstairs.

Dad’s frying bacon in the kitchen. He doesn’t turn around. I use the chance to stuff the ornament into my school bag, next to the maths worksheets for Mrs Thompson. They sting my fingers reproachfully. She gave them out last Thursday and I haven’t got round to them yet.

Dad never cooks a fry-up on a school day. We only have bacon on Sunday mornings before football practice, which he makes me go to. I didn’t play football this weekend or sit on the bench in Richmond Park, which is inscribed with Mum’s name. Dad didn’t go for a run. If anyone had watched us, they’d have realized the Wishart family routine – as well as Bee Larkham’s – was off.

My legs want to bolt and not stop running until I’m covered in blankets in the corner of my bedroom.

‘Grab a plate, Jasper. It’s almost done. We both need a good breakfast today.’

Good. It’s that dumb word again.

A good night. A good breakfast. A good day. It’s not a good colour; it’s brash yellow with a slushy Ribena core.

I don’t want the bacon Dad forgot to fry on Sunday.

I pick up my favourite blue-and-white striped bowl and reach for the cereal packet.

Rustle, rustle. Crinkly dashes of iceberg lettuce.

The pieces drop into my bowl, up to the lip of the second stripe. I pour in the milk until it reaches the grey crack in the enamel. It’s a delicate operation. Above the crack, the cereal is ruined and I have to throw it away and start again.

Dad doesn’t turn around. He tuts light brown dots. ‘Have it your own way. All the more for me.’

Using tongs, he picks up the bacon from the pan and piles the pieces on to his plate. He sits in his usual seat at the table, opposite me, which he says encourages me to practise eye contact and my conversational skills.

I will his chair to magically sprout wings, soar into the air and fly out of the kitchen window.

I pick up my spoon and stare at the seven Cheerios floating like mini life rafts in the milk. My throat tightens. I drop five of the Cheerios back into the sea.

‘You’re feeling OK today, Jasper, because I’ve got meetings all day at work.’

I can’t detect a question mark in that sentence. It sounds like a statement.

‘Yes.’ It’s another lie, but it’s what he wants to hear. I can say things I don’t mean if it helps Dad. He does the same for me.

He’s going through a lot. Like me. Except he doesn’t have Mum’s cardigan to rub.

‘Good news.’ He breathes out. ‘I’ve got a late conference call. You’ll need to let yourself in with the spare key.’

I cough as a Cheerio catches in my throat. The cereal tastes wrong. Off somehow. The milk too. I check the labels in case Dad’s accidentally bought the wrong brands. They’re the same as usual. It must be me. I’m different this morning.

Will my classmates notice? Will the teachers? Has Dad?

‘You can do that, right?’ he asks. ‘It’s not a problem, Jasper? The key’s in the usual place. Under the flowerpot.’

I push my bowl away, brandishing the spoon like a weapon.

Too much. I can’t do this.

Three Cheerios are drowning. I can’t make up my mind whether to save them or not. They should have learnt to swim, but it’s wrong not to help. It’d be like failing to make a 999 call.

‘Yes. I can do that. Right. It’s not a problem.’

It is a problem. My problem. I don’t want to be alone here, watched by the windows in Bee Larkham’s house.

‘I meant what I said last night,’ he says, biting into the bacon. ‘We both need to move on. You’re to stay away from Bee’s house. You’re not to go anywhere near it.’ He chews, making his jaw click baby pink. ‘I don’t want to find out from one of the neighbours you’ve been feeding the parakeets after school. Do you understand? Her front garden’s a no-go zone, along with the alley at the back.’

The spoon drops from my hand, a red-tinged clattering. ‘Which neighbour would tell you I’ve fed the parakeets?’ My £5 note crackles as I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I’m glad he can’t see the greyish-mint colour coming from my pocket, that he can’t see any colours. He can’t see me. Not properly, anyway.

Dad laughs deep, mellow ochre.

‘I’m not going to say who my spies are on the street. That would blow their cover.’

This is news to me and not of the good variety like winning the lottery or discovering a cure for cancer. There are spies on our street, spies other than me who look out of their windows with binoculars and make notes about people. Spies other than the ones in the blacked-out van that forced Dad and me to speak in code about Bee Larkham’s body.

Is David Gilbert the treacherous spy? I bet it’s him.

I always thought David Gilbert was only observing the parakeets, waiting for the chance to kill them.

He tricked me into watching the wrong suspect all along.

‘Yes, Dad. We both need to move on.’ Like the van from last night, which will probably return later to check up on me.

‘Good boy. Now eat up. You need to build up your strength.’ He nudges the bowl towards me, spilling milk.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘I’ll make some toast. Or I could defrost a bagel?’

I push my chair back and walk into the hall. Slowly, I ease my arms into my old winter coat. That’s all I can find to wear.

‘What is it, Son?’

Dad’s followed me into the hall.

At first I think he’s got X-ray vision and plans to frisk me for the £5 note, but he ignores the blazer and peers under my shirt even though I tell him I’ve changed the dressing.

‘It’s looking better,’ he says. ‘Remember, don’t show anyone your stomach and don’t run around in the playground. It could make it a lot worse.’

‘I won’t run unless someone’s chasing me and I have to get away,’ I point out. ‘It’s the only logical thing to do. I can’t stand still and be caught. That would be madness.’

‘Jasper …’ His eyes burn into my forehead.

‘Yes?’

‘We’re going to get through this, I promise.’

Dad’s promised a lot lately. I won’t hold him to this on top of everything else. I take a deep breath and open the front door. Dad can’t take me to school this morning because he has a busy day at work. He walks to the end of the garden path. I know what he’s doing – he’s making sure I don’t cross the road and walk past Bee Larkham’s house. Worse still, I might go through the gate to refill the bird feeders. But I can’t do that because he’s hidden my bag of seed.

I check over my shoulder. Once he’s gone back into the house, I break into a run that stabs my tummy. I have to get off this street ASAP. I’m careful after Dad’s warning, making sure David Gilbert doesn’t follow me along Vincent Gardens and right into Pembroke Avenue.

When I reach Harborne Street, 100 per cent positive I’m alone, I pull out Bee Larkham’s mutilated ornament. She was the first china lady to be smashed. I tried to glue her back together, but she hates the way she looks now: the blemished face, the ruined gown and broken parasol.

Pieces are missing.

She blames me.

I chuck her in a rubbish bin and hurry towards school.

I feel guilty, but it was the kindest thing to do.

I couldn’t help her.

I couldn’t make her whole again.

WEDNESDAY (TOOTHPASTE WHITE)

Later That Morning

I’M SAFE IN MATHS first period. Lucas Drury won’t be able to find me in 312b. We don’t share any lessons; he’s in Year 11. I like this class even though it’s tough. I’m behind because I haven’t done my homework from last week. It’s only a few pages, but it feels like they’ve covered a whole new syllabus.

Mrs Thompson has promised to help me catch up. She’s my favourite teacher by far. She has a lovely, dark navy blue voice and helpfully rotates her tops to match her black trousers on a strict regime. Today’s Wednesday, which means it’s the turn of the racing green blouse.

None of the other female teachers dress like her. They have a weird aversion to colour and routine, like the male members of staff who stick to grey, blue or black suits.

Apart from her easy-to-identify appearance, the best thing about Mrs Thompson is that she insists on a seating plan. Everyone has to sit in the same place, every single lesson. No discussion, no arguments.

I always sit at the back, fourth seat from the left, which means I’ve had the chance to memorize the backs of people’s heads and place them in a grid.

It goes something like this:

Row 1, seat 3: Susie Taylor, dome-shaped skull, shoulder- length blonde hair.

Row 2, seat 4: Isaiah Hadad, acne scars on back of neck, short, black hair.

Row 3, seat 1: Gemma Coben, dandruff on blazer, greasy, mousy blonde hair.

Row 3, seat 2: Aar Chandhoke, grey turban.

Row 3, seat 3: Jeanne Boucher, black cornrows.

It’s like playing Guess Who? backwards, but unlike other games this one I actually have a chance of winning. Unless my classmates turn around, of course, or I’m asked to recognize the students in my row, further along to my right. I can’t remember what they look like. I haven’t been able to memorize their heads from this position.

‘Algebraic equations can be written in the form y equals mx plus c,’ Mrs Thompson says. ‘We can draw a straight-line graph. Everyone make a start before the bell and we’ll pick up from here next time.’

I’ve left my ruler at home and have to use the edge of my folder to draw the line. It’s wonky, the way I feel this morning.

An orange juice colour erupts from row 2, seat 5: curly red-haired Lydia Tyler is arguing with Mrs Thompson.

‘That’s God’s honest truth, I swear,’ she says loudly.

‘Make your mind up, Lydia.’ Mrs Thompson snaps like an angry turtle. ‘I’d suggest you get your story straight before you earn another detention this week.’

Straight lines.

Straight stories.

Those are the best stories, but also the hardest to tell.

Will Lucas Drury tell the truth to Richard Chamberlain about Bee Larkham? What has he told the police already? I don’t understand how they got involved. Lucas said he’d sorted everything last week.

My dad believes my story. I think I’ve got away with it, but warn Bee not to try and contact me. Got that, Jasper?

‘Are you feeling OK, Jasper? Do you want to borrow my ruler to help you draw a proper straight line?’

Mrs Thompson has finished her argument about straight stories with Lydia. I expect she won; you have to be smart to be a maths teacher. She’s standing beside my desk, staring down at my pathetic graph. It curls up in shame under her hard gaze.

Silvery yellow dancing lines ring through the air.

‘Saved by the bell,’ Mrs Thompson says.

She’s wrong. I haven’t been saved at all. It’s first break. I can’t hide in her class any longer. I have to brave the corridors.