My hands grip the banister tightly.
“What was the purpose of your visit?”
Dad shifts in his seat again, making the colors dance noisily. “I wanted to talk to her about Jasper.”
“So you did have some concerns about Miss Larkham’s behavior towards your son?”
“No, not anything like that. She’d upset Jasper. They’d had a falling-out over something. I wanted to discuss it with her. Patch up any misunderstandings that might have happened.”
I bite my lip, hard.
“Was anyone else with her?”
“No. I think she was alone, but I can’t be sure. Like I said, I didn’t go inside.”
“And how did she seem to you?”
“Distressed, maybe? Agitated about the tiff with Jasper, but we straightened things out. We didn’t talk for more than a couple of minutes, if that. I thought everything was sorted. Back to normal. She had her music on full blast for hours after that, probably until about one A.M.”
“Was the—” The policewoman’s voice stops. There’s a bubble-gum pink crackle from her radio. “Copy that.” The radio crackles again. “I have to go, Mr. Wishart. Perhaps we can pick this up again? And if you see Miss Larkham in the meantime, please let her know that we need to speak to her urgently. She should come into the station with her solicitor when she gets back.”
“Of course. I’m not sure what else I can say that will be of help, but I’m working from home all this week as my son’s not well.”
They discuss this briefly. I only manage to catch the words school and hospital and social worker.
“Thank you for your time.”
I dart back up the stairs as the footsteps clatter into the hall. The front door opens and shuts, chestnut circles.
“You can come down now,” Dad says. “She’s gone.”
I think the colors from the landing have given me away, but he can’t see them, of course.
“I know you’re there, Jasper. There’s no use pretending.”
I take forty-five seconds to walk down the stairs. “You didn’t tell the policewoman absolutely everything,” I point out.
“I told her enough. I told her all she needed to know about Friday night, without getting us both into trouble.”
I stand at the bottom of the stairs, gripping the banister. “Don’t you think she needed to know about the baby in Bee Larkham’s tummy?”
“W-what? What do you mean?”
I can’t look at him, not after all the deliberate inaccuracies in his story.
Will Dad be caught? Will the policewoman check back, the way I’m comparing my paintings and notebooks against each other for misleading paint strokes and rogue colors?
There’s no use pretending.
“We need to talk, Jasper. Before this goes any further. Before you—”
“Don’t you have to wait for an important call from work?” I interrupt.
I know the answer. I’m testing him.
“I only said that to get rid of the police officer,” he says, falling into my trap. “No one’s trying to get hold of me. Not today, anyway.”
Gotcha!
I spotted eight more lies in his story to the policewoman. There could be more, but I stopped counting.
Trying to keep track of all Dad’s falsehoods is tricky. I’m not that clever.
• • •
In my head, I’ve painted over all the lies Dad told the policewoman with a large, soft brush. I don’t want to think about them again, or the ones he told me in the kitchen after she’d left.
He refuses to believe what Lucas Drury told me in the science lab: the note Bee Larkham forced me to deliver to his house last week revealed she was pregnant. She wanted to meet up to discuss what to do.
I knew nothing, Jasper. I promise you.
Now we’re in a Western-style standoff.
Bang, bang.
You’re dead.
Likes the pheasants. And the foxes. And the parakeets.
I stare out of the window. Three bird feeders are empty already and the rest have less than a third left. The parakeets have enjoyed a feast. Will Custard Yellow remember to refill the feeders later today?
The parakeets are costing me a fortune. It doesn’t matter how many times I refill the feeders during the day, I guarantee they’ll be empty by evening. They’re always hungry.
That’s what Bee Larkham used to say. Well, at least that’s what I think I remember, but my memory could be playing tricks on me the way it did about our first meeting and the devil in the skip.
I used to be a reliable painter.
That’s not true anymore, even though I always use acrylics, which give me the shades and textures I can’t get from watercolors.
My brush frequently deceives me.
I have to stick to the facts and paint them in all their painful, embarrassing, hurtful, smarting, squirmish colors.
I must accurately record my second meeting with Bee Larkham—the day she decided to dramatically change all the colors on our street.
It was a Tuesday, the bottle green day I agreed to become her accomplice.
21
January 19, 3:18 P.M.
Award-Winning Sky Blue on paper
Our first introduction had taken place straight after school, so I figured that was the time she expected me the following day. I didn’t want to be late because second impressions are important too.
I broke into a run, but as I cleared the school gates, I bumped into someone. They stepped directly into my path.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “My fault.”
A hand grasped my wrist.
I pulled away, not looking up. In my peripheral vision, I caught a glimpse of navy, not the black blazer I expected.
It was a woman with long red hair wearing shades of blue.
“I apologize.” I bellowed loudly in case the person hadn’t heard the first time. “Please let go.”
The hand dropped. This had to be a mum picking up a Year 7.
Mum would have done that for me in the first few terms.
“You’re the boy with the binoculars,” a sky blue voice said.
I knew that color, Bee Larkham’s voice. This time I did look up. I was wrong. This woman’s voice was the exact shade of sky blue, but her hair was bright cherry red, not blond. It wasn’t my new neighbor.
She wore a dark navy coat and had forgotten to do up some buttons on her light cornflower blue top. It flapped open. I glanced away. I didn’t know who this stranger with the alien skin was or who’d told her about my binoculars, but news had traveled worryingly fast from my street to school and back.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated again. “I have to go. I’m late for an important meeting.”
“It’s John, isn’t it? No, but it’s something beginning with J. Let me see.” The woman paused. “Jasper! You’re the boy from my street who loves parakeets as much as I do.”
What?
The word formed in a cartoon-like cool blue bubble outside my body and drifted away, over the school gates.
“It’s Bee. Bee Larkham. Don’t you remember? You came over yesterday to say hello. I live opposite you. I’m your new neighbor in Vincent Gardens.”
“Of course. Sorry.” I looked down at the lumps of white chewing gum stuck on the pavement. This was Bee Larkham, but she didn’t look like Bee Larkham. This woman had bright cherry red hair, not blond. She was wearing silver acorns, not swallows, in her ears. All my markers were off.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” she asked.
I didn’t want to lie, not to Bee Larkham. Was this her? I honestly couldn’t tell. I had to trust her voice.
Sky blue.
“You look different,” I pointed out, “but sound the same.”
“It’s the hair. I dyed it this morning. I wanted a change from the past. Do you like it?”
“No. I don’t like cherry red. You looked better blond.”
“God, you’re honest, aren’t you? Tell it
like it is, why don’t you?”
I couldn’t tell if she was upset or not, so I could only repeat the truth. “You’re not yourself. You don’t have red hair. It should be blond. Blond is your real color.”
“Well, it’s not naturally blond. It’s mousy brown, but maybe you’re right. My mum always hated red hair. I thought I’d try it, although I’m not sure this is the shade I was going for.” She fiddled with the ends. “It’s not permanent. I can wash it out.”
“That’s good. You’ll look like Bee Larkham and be pretty again.”
The Bee Larkham impersonator made a dark blue hollow-tube noise, which sounded like a cross between a snort and a laugh. “I’m going to ask you a favor, Jasper, since you’ve been so mean to me and you can’t say no. Not now you’ve hurt my feelings.”
I bit my lip, hard, trying to imagine what I’d said that could have wounded her.
“I’m giving out these flyers about my music lessons,” she said. “Can you help me hand them out?”
I moved my head up and down. We were supposed to have our meeting at her house, but I didn’t mind she’d changed the venue at the last minute. This way, I wouldn’t arrive sweaty and hot.
I’d accidentally bumped into her, fortunately; otherwise I’d have turned up at her empty house. I’d have been there and she’d have been here, outside my school.
She handed me a pile of duck-egg blue paper, with words printed in big letters:
MUSIC LESSONS WITH GLOBAL AWARD-WINNING MUSICIAN
Free taster sessions in piano, guitar, and electric guitar.
All instruments tutored. Singers welcome!
“What global awards have you won?” I asked.
I didn’t look at her or anyone else as I stretched out my hand, gripping the paper. I concentrated hard to make sure I did the job correctly, to impress Bee Larkham and make her realize how helpful I could be. That way she might think of me if she needed more favors.
I can’t be sure who took my flyers. I don’t know if Lucas Drury grabbed one from her or me as he walked out of school that day. Maybe he was already drawn to Bee Larkham. Or maybe it was his brother, Lee. I guess it doesn’t matter which of us was responsible, we’re both culpable. Lee Drury began electric guitar lessons shortly afterwards.
“Oh, I got all kinds of big awards in Australia before I went into teaching,” she replied. “I was in a few bands, playing keyboards and guitar. Sometimes singing. People loved me, you know?”
“What bands?” I asked. “What were their names?”
“You wouldn’t have heard of them over here.” She stopped talking as she gave out another flyer. “I’m only giving music lessons to get some cash while I renovate the house and sort myself out. Getting back into the music industry, that’s my priority, you know? I’ll need money for rewiring and fixing the roof. Mum’s house is a wreck. I can’t put it on the market like this. I’ll lose too much money, which I need for demo tapes and videos. I have to put up with living here for the time being.”
I didn’t know anything about the music industry, but I thought she wouldn’t have any trouble getting back into it. I believed in her already, even when I hadn’t actually heard her sing a note.
“Thank you, thank you.” Bee Larkham repeated the words as she dished out each flyer. She was doing a far better job than me, so I tried to speed up, but papers kept sticking together. I didn’t want to hand out two or three at once.
In my peripheral vision, I saw a group of tall Blazers walk out of school. They took flyers from Bee Larkham’s hand, not mine. Fortunately.
“Wow,” she said, after they walked away. “Boys didn’t look like that when I was in the sixth form. Is there something in the tap water around here?”
“I’ve no idea what’s in the water.” Why didn’t I know the answer to her question? I drank tap water all the time, yet Bee Larkham had only recently arrived back in this country and already realized it was poisonous. I figured it would be safer to drink bottled water in future.
“Watch out! You’re dropping some,” she cried.
A couple of pieces of paper had slipped from my fingers and were snatched up by the wind.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I tried to snatch them back, but she caught my arm.
“No. It’s OK. Look, look!” She tossed her paper up into the air to join mine. “They’re free!”
We both laughed as they danced together in the wind, as one, as if nothing could ever separate them. Like our colors. I don’t remember ever seeing them fall to the ground.
“You got me thinking after we talked yesterday,” she said, staring up at the sky. “I’ve bought some bird feeders and seed to attract parakeets to my oak tree. The man in the pet shop says there’s a large communal roost site nearby. I want to bring some color to this street, but I’m going to need your help. Are you with me on this, Jasper?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” I cried. “I love bright colors and parakeets more than anything else in the world. I’ll do anything you want, Bee Larkham. Anything.”
22
January 22, 7:02 A.M.
Pandemonium on canvas
Three days later, the colors Bee Larkham and me had desperately wanted to bring to Vincent Gardens finally arrived.
Happy fuchsia pink and sapphire showers with golden droplets.
Cornflower and sapphire blues transformed to cobalt, into violet, and back again, with flashes of golden, glowing yellow.
I grabbed my binoculars and threw the window open. The sight made me scream bright blue clouds.
The parakeet had returned and wasn’t alone. It had brought reinforcements, a pandemonium.
The birds clung to the six feeders in Bee Larkham’s front garden. I’d helped her hang them up in the oak tree after we walked home together from school.
More and more parakeets arrived.
I counted twenty.
Hundreds of tiny golden droplets exploded in a joyous fountain from the shimmering blues, pinks, and purples.
It was like being a VIP guest at the world’s best fireworks display, except I wasn’t the only spectator.
The upstairs window of the house next to Bee Larkham’s banged open and a man appeared. I didn’t recognize his cabbage green pajamas, but I knew that David Gilbert lived alone at number 22.
“Shoo! Get out of here!” He yelled prickly tomato red words at the parakeets—brighter, more brittle tones than his usual dull grainy red.
No matter. The birds didn’t care; they didn’t fly away.
Instead, more parakeets arrived in a chorus of brilliant ultramarine with dustings of lilac and electric violet.
The window at number 22 slammed shut and curtains swished across the glass. As I jotted details in my notebook, another window in the street opened. This time it belonged to the house I liked most—number 20.
A woman with long hair, wearing a white T-shirt, waved at me. This had to be global award-winning music teacher Bee Larkham, even though her hair color wasn’t red. She must have dyed it blond again.
I waved back. “They came, Bee Larkham!” I shouted croakily. “The feeders worked!”
Because of you, I wanted to add, but my voice had cracked to a delicate eggshell blue. The parakeets had come because of Bee Larkham’s magnificent welcome, because of her bird feeders.
“We did it!” she shouted. Bright sky blue.
“Who are you speaking to?”
I didn’t turn around. I recognized the color of Dad’s voice, and no other man could have been in our house at this time. “It’s Bee. Bee Larkham.”
I hadn’t told him I’d paid a visit to her house and she’d called him handsome or that I’d helped her hand out flyers outside my school and hang up bird feeders in her front garden. He wasn’t part of our friendship. I didn’t want him to be.
“Who?” He walked across the room to the window, wearing light gray Calvin Klein boxer shorts. His chest hairs curled up in embarrassment. Mine would have too, if I had any. “Oh. The new neighbor
. I meant to tell you, David says she’s Mrs. Larkham’s wayward daughter. A total basket case, apparently, ever since she was a kid. They’d been estranged for years. She never visited her mum in the old folks’ home and didn’t even turn up to the funeral. She only came back because she inherited the house.”
Estranged was a gray gravel-chip word and not pleasant to look at for long.
“Maybe she stayed away because she knew she wasn’t loved,” I said. “She realized her mum didn’t want her and thought she got in the way.”
“If you say so. I doubt she’ll stay around long. She’ll probably get the house ready to sell and move on as soon as possible. She’s like a fish out of water on this street.”
Dad was wrong about this on many levels. Bee Larkham had never mentioned fish and she’d bought bird feeders to attract the parakeets. That meant she was setting up home. She was staying.
Bee Larkham waved again. She leaned so far out of the window, I was afraid she might fall.
Dad sucked in his tummy as he waved back. “Maybe we should get around to introducing ourselves. I think she’d like that, you know, to feel welcome on this street.”
I ignored him and watched the parakeets. Dad was wrong again; Bee Larkham already felt welcome. She didn’t need to meet him now we’d become such Great Friends.
Later that morning, 8:29 A.M.
Pandemonium in Grave Danger on canvas
“Something has to be done about this situation before it gets out of hand.” Scratchy red words bubbled angrily over the canvas of colors that erupted joyfully from Bee Larkham’s oak tree.
The feeders had been empty since 7:31 A.M., but the parakeets continued their serenade, high up in the branches. I was enjoying the preschool recital, standing next to Dad on the pavement, until a man approached with a dog barking yellow French fries. His cords were a familiar cherry color.
“Shhh,” I said, pointing up to the tree. “Don’t disturb them, David Gilbert.”
“Is he joking?” the man with the dull grainy red voice asked. “I’m the one who needs to be quiet?”
“He loves birds, particularly parakeets,” Dad replied. “I can’t drag him away.”
The Color of Bee Larkham's Murder Page 12
