The Color of Bee Larkham's Murder

by Sarah J. Harris

  I do as I’m told.

  The door closes and I wait twenty seconds.

  I don’t do as I’m told.

  I run.

  • • •

  I don’t know how I’ve managed to arrive here. Not at this terrible point in my life, aged thirteen years, four months, twenty-seven days, and five hours. I mean the physical journey to my house after running through the school gates—the roads crossed and people passed. I’m grateful my legs kept marching like soldiers rescuing a wounded comrade from behind enemy lines. They moved without me shouting orders.

  They carried me all the way back here, to Pembroke Avenue, where I finally stop and catch my breath. My breath is short, ragged lines of sharp blue. My hand and knee throb. A quick inspection reveals I’ve torn my trousers. There’s blood on my knee and a graze on my palm. My tummy’s on fire with pointy silver stars.

  I don’t remember tripping and falling over. Or standing up. Or running again.

  It doesn’t matter though, because I’m almost home. I’m holding my button; I didn’t drop it when I fell. I turn the corner into Vincent Gardens and spot it immediately: the police car parked outside Bee Larkham’s house.

  My legs grind to a halt, abandoning the rescue mission. They can’t go any further. It’s too much to ask of any soldier, even a Royal Marine.

  Surrender.

  That’s what my legs silently scream at me.

  Give yourself up without a fight.

  Dad once shouted that order at an enemy soldier.

  I lean against a lamppost to help gather my strength and set off again on my fateful expedition. It’s going to end a few meters away, with the blond ponytail policewoman standing next to the car. I stagger towards her.

  She doesn’t realize it yet, but she’s going to solve the mystery of why no one can find Bee Larkham.

  Blond Ponytail Policewoman doesn’t see me approach; she’s talking into her radio, probably checking in with Richard Chamberlain. Giving him a rundown on the situation. Another police officer strides up the path to Bee Larkham’s front door and knocks loudly.

  “Miss Larkham. It’s the police. Are you there? Open up, please. We urgently need to talk to you.”

  Behind the front door is a hallway, painted cornflower blue, with overflowing coat pegs; a black suitcase, which Bee said she’d packed full of sparkly clothes especially for the hens; and a “who invited you?” mat.

  “Erm. Hi, Jasper.” A man appears in front of me, blocking my path with his custard yellow words. He drops a cigarette, stubbing it out with a black suede shoe. “I’ve seen you out and about with your dad. Do you know who I am?”

  My throat constricts. I gag. This man’s in serious danger of becoming collateral vomit damage if he doesn’t get out of my way. I try to skirt around him, but he moves again.

  “Are you feeling all right? You’re as white as a sheet.”

  That’s not remotely possible. I can’t look like stretched cotton material.

  His hand reaches out. I don’t know what he’s going to do with it. I shrink away. He could be planning to attack me.

  I glance at him again. He’s probably a plainclothes detective, working with the two police officers in uniform. They’ve come for me while Dad’s at work, which is sneaky. I wonder if a lawyer from one of Dad’s TV shows would shout: Inadmissible!

  “Did Richard Chamberlain send you?” I ask.

  “Who?”

  “Did he send you here to arrest me?”

  “What? No. Don’t you recognize me?”

  I move my head from side to side to signal no because I don’t know anyone with a custard yellow voice who wears black suede shoes and distinctive red and black spotty socks.

  “Sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Ollie Watkins. I’m staying over the road while I sort through my mum’s stuff and sell her house.”

  He points to the house with a large, ornate knocker in the shape of an owl on the door.

  “I saw you and your dad on the street a few months ago when David complained to Bee about the noise of the parakeets,” he says. “You probably won’t remember—I haven’t got to know many of the neighbors. I’ve been a bit out of it.”

  I do remember. This is Ollie Watkins who doesn’t like loud music or Ibiza and doesn’t get out much because he’s been nursing his terminally ill mum, Lily Watkins. She lived at number 18 and was friends with Bee Larkham’s mum, Pauline, at number 20.

  I haven’t seen anyone go in or out of number 18 for ages, but I know someone’s still there because the lights go on and off. Mrs. Watkins is dead now so maybe that’s why Ollie Watkins has been allowed out again.

  I saw the hearse parked outside 18 Vincent Gardens eleven days ago, filled with white and delicate pink flowers. Not my favorite colors. I didn’t pay too much attention because that was the day I saw the baby parakeets up close for the first time.

  “My mum died of cancer,” I tell him. “She was cobalt blue. At least I think she was. That’s what Dad says I remember. I’m not sure he’s telling the absolute truth about that.”

  About anything.

  “I’m sorry,” Ollie Watkins says. “Your dad told me.”

  “About my mum’s color? That it was cobalt blue? Is that what he said? For definite?”

  “No, I don’t know anything about that. I meant we were talking about your mum’s death. He was kind when my mum passed away. It’s tough when you lose your mum, whatever age you are.”

  “Kind?”

  “He was helpful, too, you know, with the logistics of death: arranging the paperwork and the funeral notice in the local paper. He’d done it before, of course, whereas I didn’t have a clue where to start.”

  The logistics of death.

  I’ve never heard it explained that way.

  “I’m not allowed to go to funerals. I might upset people and that would be bad. For them.”

  He coughs. “Excuse me.”

  “Smoking makes you cough.”

  “Actually, I had a chest infection a few months ago. Hopefully, it’s not coming back. But you’re right, Jasper. I should give up smoking. I started again when I came over to look after Mum. Stress and all that.”

  “Smoking causes cancer,” I point out. “That killed your mum. Cancer will probably kill you too.”

  The man doesn’t say anything.

  I walk away. His silence means the conversation is over and I don’t need to act normal anymore.

  Blond Ponytail Policewoman no longer stands on the pavement, waiting to arrest me. She’s back inside the car, sitting in the driver’s seat. The policeman climbs in next to her and shuts the door.

  Bang. A dark brown oval with layers of gray.

  The engine revs orange and yellow spears.

  I walk faster. I have to stop them. Dad’s wrong about this. He’s wrong about everything. I can’t forget. I can’t pretend it hasn’t happened. I have to confess. I have to tell the police what I’ve done.

  It’s the only way. I can’t carry on like this.

  “Jasper.”

  I turn around. This man is wearing black suede shoes, red and black spotty socks and has a custard yellow voice. It’s Ollie Watkins from number 18. I’ll make a note of those details in my notebook to help me remember him.

  “Is something wrong?” he asks. “Should I call your dad? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

  “No!”

  The police car pulls away. I’ve missed my chance, but there has to be another opportunity to confess. Rusty Chrome Orange will send the car back. Today. Or maybe tomorrow. He’ll figure out what I’ve done, won’t he? Eventually.

  “You’re friendly with Bee, aren’t you?” Ollie Watkins asks.

  That’s an impossible question to answer. I don’t open my mouth. I rub the button between my fingers instead.

  One, two, three, four, five times.

  “Do you know what the police want with her? It’s the fourth time they’ve called at her house since the weekend.�
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  I step away again because his clothes need washing. The stale tobacco smell makes my tummy hurt.

  “I wonder what she’s done this time,” he says.

  My head’s shaking hard. I may take off like Dumbo and soar over the houses. I’ll fly far away from here, leading the pandemonium of parakeets. I’m sure they’ll follow me. They won’t want to be left here, where it’s hard to know which people to trust.

  “The police knocked on my door this morning while I was clearing out Mum’s loft and asked if I knew where she was.”

  He likes to talk. A lot. He’s stopping me from reaching my den. I can’t be rude. I can’t draw attention to myself. I have to act normal for a few more minutes.

  “They’ve knocked on the doors of several houses along this street. David’s too.” Why won’t he stop talking? Maybe he’s lonely after his mum died. Like me.

  “The policewoman wouldn’t tell him what she wanted with Bee either, but we both think it’s about the loud music. I told her I thought Bee must have gone away. The house was quiet all weekend. I reckon she’ll be slapped with that noise abatement order David’s been threatening when she gets back.”

  Slapped. I don’t like the way the fizzy lemon sherbet word rolls around his tongue. I change the subject.

  “Hens are female chickens. Did you know chickens have as good memories as elephants? They can distinguish a face from more than one hundred other chickens. Except I’m not sure it’s technically correct to say a chicken has a face. Do you know?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Custard Yellow admits. “I hear you’ve got a good memory for facts and recognizing voices, not so much for faces. Is that right?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “David. He was talking to your dad at the party Bee threw to get to know the neighbors. Do you remember? I left early to look after Mum, but it was quite a raucous night. David was a tad worse for wear afterwards. So were a lot of people, I hear.”

  I shudder. That’s when Dad . . .

  I force the horrible picture out of my head. The party’s high up on the list of things I don’t want to paint, after Friday night. It’s not in order anyway. There are other pictures to re-create before that. My fingers itch at the thought of my paints, impatiently waiting for me in my bedroom. Maybe I’ll be brave and use them instead of crawling inside my den.

  “The Martian music vanished and Bee Larkham never fed the parakeets.”

  “At the party?” he asks.

  “Over the weekend. No Martian music. All the bird feeders are empty. No peanuts or plates of apple and suet.”

  “Martian music? You’re right. It actually sounds like aliens are rattling the plates on Mum’s dresser when she turns up the volume to full blast. Mum would beg me to do something about it because she couldn’t get out of bed to ask Bee herself.”

  I suck in my breath as he swears a norovirus vomit color about the music.

  “Sorry. I’m not used to being around kids. I don’t have any of my own. No nieces or nephews either.”

  My tummy spits silver stars. “I have to go.”

  “Wait a minute, Jasper. You’re right about the parakeets. I hadn’t noticed. Bee hasn’t refilled the bird feeders. She’s definitely away. I’ll tell the police if they come back again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  It’s my fault the parakeets have no food and a dozen died. It’s my fault a baby’s dead. I have no idea how to start making amends for everything I’ve done.

  “You feel sorry for the birds?” Custard Yellow asks. “Of course, I forgot. You’re a bird lover, like me. I’ve seen you help Bee top up the feeders. Quite the young ornithologist, aren’t you? I was the same at your age.”

  I don’t want to think about Bee Larkham, the parakeets, and me. I don’t like that triangle. I block her out of the picture and focus on the parakeets and me instead.

  “I have half a bag of seed left, but Dad says I must stay away from Bee Larkham’s house,” I say. “She’s a troublemaker and a silly little tart and a basket case. I’m not allowed to touch the feeders. He has spies on the street. They’ll tell him if I refill them.”

  “Ha, let me guess. David? Right?”

  “His favorite hobby is shooting pheasants and partridges. Bang, bang, bang.”

  “Well, he’s out walking his dog. I chatted to him after the police came around. He’s knocked on Bee’s door too today. She’s in demand this morning.”

  I bite my lip and stare at the pavement.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Custard Yellow asks.

  “Why can’t bird-killer David Gilbert leave Bee Larkham alone?”

  She hated his visits. I heard her tell him to go away and never come back on February 13. He’d turned up the day before Valentine’s Day with a bunch of flowers while I studied the parakeets from her bedroom window. She didn’t want the flowers.

  I should have called the police that day. Before it was too late.

  I watch the starlings arguing in a tree further down the street, attempting to get my attention with their coral pink trills. Their colors can never compete with the parakeets. They should give up. I’m not going to paint them.

  “I meant your dad didn’t ban me from feeding the parakeets, did he? Bird lovers like us have to stick together,” he says.

  I wonder what he means. Sticking together sounds permanent, like using superstrength glue, yet I don’t know anything about this man apart from the fact we’re both bird lovers and lonely and our mums died of cancer.

  I don’t want to argue with him. My tummy, knee, and hand hurt. I want to go home.

  “Why don’t you give the bag of seed to me and I’ll feed them for you? That way you won’t be doing anything wrong. You won’t get into trouble with your dad.”

  I think about this for seventeen seconds. “What about the men in the van? Will they tell my dad?”

  “What van?” Custard Yellow looks up and down the street.

  “I’ll find the seed,” I say, ignoring the question. The men in the van are only interested in me, but it’s best he doesn’t draw attention to himself. “Do you promise you won’t tell Dad? Or David Gilbert?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  He doesn’t mean that. No one ever does.

  I want to tell him enough people have died on our street.

  I don’t.

  I say nothing at all. It’s far safer that way.

  We cross the road in silence and walk over to my house. Custard Yellow stays on the pavement, by the gate, as I tip up the large marble flowerpot and retrieve my key. I let go before it smashes down and crushes my fingers.

  After letting myself in, I concentrate on looking for the bird seed before I get distracted and forget what I’m supposed to do.

  I find the bag in the kitchen cupboard, behind the cereal packets. Dad’s never any good at hiding things. Maybe they didn’t teach that skill in the Royal Marines. I run out the door and down the path. I thrust the bag into the man’s hands and dash back into the house, slamming the door.

  From the sitting room window, I watch Custard Yellow cross the road, bag swinging in his right hand. He pushes open the gate to Bee Larkham’s house and stops, looking over his shoulder. A man walks towards him. His dog barks. There’s only one man on this street with cherry cords, a brown flat cap, and a dog that barks yellow French fries.

  My hand dives into my pocket and finds Mum’s button.

  Rub, rub, rub.

  This must be bird-killer David Gilbert—out walking his dog and back sooner than expected. He’s outside 20 Vincent Gardens again. He’s caught a fellow bird lover red-handed. He has a shotgun and he’s threatened to use it before. He threatened Bee Larkham.

  Run away from bird-killer David Gilbert!

  Custard Yellow doesn’t move. He can’t. He’s being kidnapped. He must know about the gun and doesn’t want to risk making a run for it. He manages to hide the bag of bird seed behind his back before he’s frog-march
ed away, like I was by X and Y at school. They walk up the path of the house next door.

  It’s 22 Vincent Gardens, David Gilbert’s house. I was right about the man with the dog. His hand’s on Custard Yellow’s shoulder as they enter the house. He’s forcing him inside, whether he wants to go or not, the way I was pushed into the science lab.

  No one helped me.

  No one’s here to help Custard Yellow. The street’s empty.

  No eyewitnesses, except me.

  David Gilbert will punish him for trying to feed my parakeets. I’m afraid, extremely afraid. I need to act. Someone’s in danger, the type of terrible danger you can’t ignore.

  I don’t listen to Dad’s voice in my head, ordering me not to draw attention to myself, to what we’ve both done.

  I ignore Rusty Chrome Orange’s voice in my head, which tells me to stop making unnecessary emergency calls.

  I ignore the call of my den, my paints, and the pain in my tummy, which is getting louder and louder and brighter and brighter like a silvery hot spiky star.

  I grab my phone and dial 999. I tell the operator I need the police, not the fire service, because I haven’t seen flames. Not yet, anyway.

  “Last week a horrible murder happened on our street and now a man’s been kidnapped,” I tell the woman in the control center. “He’s been taken against his will into a house. He’s in great danger.”

  I give her David Gilbert’s address. She asks a lot of irrelevant details about me: Why am I ringing from home? Why aren’t I at school? Have I rung 999 before? Where are my parents? Do they know I’m at home alone?

  She should question me about the kidnapping. She should demand info about David Gilbert. He’s the true villain in this painting.

  “Richard Chamberlain, like the actor, knows me,” I say. “He told me to stop ringing 999, but he can’t expect me to ignore another person in terrible danger on this street. This is an absolute emergency.” I repeat myself, in case she didn’t hear the first time. “There’s been a kidnapping, which shouldn’t be confused with a murder.”

  I hang up the phone and wait by the window for the police. They need to hurry. The parakeets are shrieking green and peacock blue cut glass in Bee Larkham’s oak tree.