The Color of Bee Larkham's Murder

by Sarah J. Harris

I have no idea who picked up the flyers. I’d left them scattered about school so I didn’t have to hand them out personally. I was about to tell her the truth—I’d prefer to find another way of being useful to her—when the doorbell rang.

  Silvery blue lines.

  “Shoot, that’s him.”

  I flinched. “David Gilbert? With his shotgun?”

  Bee snorted dark blue pebbles. “It’d better not be him again. I need a stick to beat that man off. His mate too.”

  “I don’t have any sticks.” Scanning the room for a weapon, I scooped up an ornament from the cardboard box.

  “Again, another bad joke, sorry. It’s my first music pupil. Keep it down up here, OK? More kids will arrive after him. I’ll be an hour or so, I reckon.”

  I stood on guard at the top of the landing, holding the cold china figurine in my outstretched left hand, in case she was wrong and David Gilbert had turned up.

  “Hello! Welcome!” Bee’s voice rang out from downstairs. “Come in! Come in! You’re very welcome. We’re going to have fun.”

  I didn’t see the music pupil who mumbled grayish white colors. I wasn’t interested. I walked back into the bedroom and planned to put the ornament where I’d found it, until I looked more closely.

  The china lady held out her ice blue skirts for me to admire. She didn’t want to return to the box. She longed to be looked at. Her friends squeezed their heads and shoulders out from crumpled newspaper, attempting to break free and join her.

  I placed the Dancing China Lady on the chest of drawers and pushed the box closer to the window so her friends could watch the parakeets too.

  • • •

  I lost track of time in Bee Larkham’s bedroom, sucked down a rabbit hole into a new, colorful world, and didn’t want to return to my old life, where the hues were less vibrant. Less real.

  I feverishly scribbled notes about the parakeets, their numbers, movements, and songs. I didn’t want to forget a single thing. I had to paint them later, each colored sound I remembered.

  Their choruses were accompanied with the muddled sapphire blue of the piano; the guitar’s white-silver shapes with cyan cores, and the sparkling amethyst and golden pointed shapes of the electric guitar. More parakeets arrived for the recital.

  By the time Dad texted red and yellow bubbles on my phone, I realized the musical instruments downstairs had stopped. It was dark outside, but the parakeets continued to throw out colors from the branches.

  Are you still at Bee’s? Time for tea.

  It couldn’t be. I checked my watch: 7:00 P.M., past teatime and way later than I’d been invited to stay. The music lessons had finished an hour and thirty minutes ago, according to Bee Larkham’s calculations, and she’d be wondering what had happened to me.

  Bright silver and green tubes suddenly lit up and transformed into cat’s-eye marbles—Martian music, not live musical instruments.

  I took one last look—I was close enough to the tree to see two parakeets disappear into a hole. I waited a few seconds to see if they came out again.

  My phone beeped more red and yellow bubbles.

  Come home now Jasper.

  I mouthed goodbye to the parakeets at the window and ran downstairs, excited that Bee Larkham wanted to share her Martian music while I described what I’d seen and heard over the last two and a half hours.

  The hall was slippery, and I skidded in my socks into the sitting room. A woman lay sprawled over a beanbag, her long blond hair flowing onto the bare floorboards. A boy sat next to her on a cushion, holding a guitar.

  “You certainly know how to make an entrance, Jasper!” The woman’s voice was sky blue. Bee Larkham.

  The boy on the floor giggled fir-tree green dots. “Sick!”

  Another boy propped up the wall as if he were afraid it could collapse. I hadn’t noticed him at first. I thought Bee was with one boy, not two. Above this boy’s head was the mark I’d seen on the wall in the bedroom, the imprint of a cross.

  She stretched out her hand to the boy by the wall even though I stood closer. “Give me a hand up, will you?”

  The boy slouched over and reached down. He tried to pull her up, but she lost her balance and they both fell back onto the beanbag.

  “Ooh! You’re squashing me!”

  “Sorry!” Stunning blue teal. “You’re not helping!”

  Bee Larkham didn’t sound like she was in pain. She was laughing, along with the boy—a mixture of sky blue and blue teal. I didn’t join in; the color combination had left me breathless.

  “Have you met Lucas before, Jasper?” she asked, as he tried to stand up again. “He’s come to pick up his brother, who, by the way, is an incredibly gifted natural musician.”

  The smaller boy on the floor grunted a darker fir green color, which meant I didn’t think he was particularly happy to hear this.

  “We got sidetracked listening to my music,” she continued. “It sucks you in, you know? It makes you want to live in the moment and forget about everything else.”

  I did know. That’s how I felt when I listened to Martian music. When I watched the parakeets. When I spent time with Bee Larkham.

  “I saw twenty-one parakeets in your tree,” I said. “Because you put out trays of apple, as well as the five peanut strings and six bird feeders, thank you.”

  “Not twenty or twenty-two?” she asked.

  “Definitely twenty-one. I counted them one by one. Then I counted them again to be sure.”

  I couldn’t have confirmed my news loudly enough, because she didn’t respond. The boy on the cushion giggled greenish gray circles.

  “I think they could be here to stay,” I added. “They like it here. In your tree. On our street. With you.”

  If the parakeets wanted to stay, would she?

  Bee Larkham nodded at the two other boys in the room. “They both go to the same school as you, Jasper. Did you know that? This is Lee and Lucas Drury.”

  “Twenty-one parakeets,” I repeated. “Which are here to stay.”

  I didn’t know that for certain, but I had hope, that tomato-ketchup-colored word. That’s why I didn’t answer her question—it was too trivial in comparison to my huge news.

  The boys looked the same to me. They wore my school’s uniform and must be pupils, but I didn’t recognize their names. I doubted they liked the parakeets or even the Martian music as much as me. They couldn’t possibly appreciate the colors the way I did, in all their Technicolor glory.

  “Dad wants me to go home for tea,” I said. “I don’t have to. I can tell you all about the parakeets. I’ve made lots of notes.” I held up my notebook and binoculars.

  The boy sitting on the floor sniggered dark fir-tree green again.

  I wanted her to insist I must stay and listen to the music with them, while I explained each colored sound, every movement of the parakeets. Instead, she giggled the lightest of sky blues and played with her hair, wrapping and unwrapping it around her index finger.

  “Of course, Jasper. You should go home.”

  “But I—”

  “You were so quiet upstairs I’d forgotten you were there,” she continued, talking over the color of my voice. “Can you let yourself out? I’m gasping for a glass of wine after all that teaching. It’s thirsty work. Does anyone else want a beer?”

  Bee Larkham didn’t look at me again. She was watching one of the boys, the taller one. Maybe she was afraid he would run off with a guitar.

  I moved my head again, holding my binoculars tightly as I walked out. The back of my neck tingled uncomfortably at the tinkle of greenish blue laughter as I fumbled with my shoelaces in the hallway.

  I’d done something to offend Bee Larkham, but I wasn’t sure what. I sensed a shift. The color of my voice had subtly changed and she didn’t like the tone as much. Not as much as the other boy’s blue teal anyway. My voice wasn’t beautiful enough for her.

  How could I compete with blue teal? I had to work harder to make her like cool blue.

/>   As I closed the front door behind me, I realized I’d forgotten to thank her for letting me watch the parakeets.

  I’d been rude. Unforgivably rude.

  Dad had made me promise to say thank you and I’d even rehearsed the speech in my head, but the unexpected visitors—the boys who were allowed to stay late to listen to Martian music and drink beer—had put me off.

  I vowed to make it up to Bee Larkham. I’d polish up a new, even better apology than the one I’d practiced. I’d paint her voice over and over again to reveal its full beauty to her; the color only I could see. I’d also paint the best possible pictures of the sounds of the last few hours: the piano, the acoustic and electric guitars, and the parakeets.

  I’d surprise Bee Larkham by presenting all my pictures and canvases to her. She’d accept my apology and invite me back to watch the parakeets again. We’d observe the birds together, side by side, because the other boys—particularly the one with the attractive-colored voice—would be gone.

  We’d be alone in her bedroom with the china ladies, and this time my dad wouldn’t interrupt us.

  26

  THURSDAY (APPLE GREEN)

  Still That Afternoon

  I manage to knock the chair away and jump into bed, seconds before Dad turns my door handle. My paintings—the originals from Lucas Drury’s first visit to Bee Larkham’s house and the ones I’ve painted again from that evening (the sound of the parakeets in the oak tree with the musical instruments in the background)—are spread out on the carpet. I didn’t have a chance to compare them for differences and place them in the right order before filing.

  It’s 1:43 P.M.

  Dad’s two minutes early.

  He doesn’t close the door behind him as I’d expected. Instead, he steps inside. I hear a delicate lime green rustle close to the window. He’s picked up a painting.

  What is he doing?

  This tests my powers of concentration far more than if he’d stared hard at my face for signs of life.

  I want to throw back the duvet and shout: Get your hands off my painting. You don’t own Bee Larkham. You never did! She’s not yours!

  Instead, I stay perfectly still. My eyelashes don’t even tremble as he lingers over one painting in particular. I don’t know for sure, but I suspect it’s his first meeting with Bee: Dirty Sap Circles on paper.

  What does he see when he looks at it now? Does it bring back happy memories or sad ones? I had trouble deciphering the picture. He must see it clearly, the secret language they both used, which I couldn’t decode when I stood next to them on the doorstep.

  I hear muffled brown with white flecks.

  I want to sit up and check what he’s doing, but I dig my fingernails into my skin to stop myself. I hear another, deeper-colored choking noise. I squint with one eye half-open. Tears roll down his face.

  He’s crying for Bee Larkham. He’s sorry she’s dead and doesn’t have a proper grave.

  He regrets what happened on Friday night.

  Me too!

  The words are a high-pitched aquamarine scream in my head. Nothing comes out of my mouth.

  There’s another leaf green rustle as the painting returns to the carpet. The door clicks shut. Dad’s gone.

  I remain on high alert in case he’s lingering on the landing, waiting to catch me out.

  I stay in bed for four minutes and fifteen seconds, until I see light brown woody circles. The front door opens and shuts.

  Seriously? He’s leaving me on my own?

  I jump out of bed and peek from behind the curtains. Dad’s in his usual running gear uniform: white T-shirt, navy jogging bottoms, and baseball cap. He makes it to the gate before turning around. I duck down as he looks up.

  I count to sixty before I check again. This time he’s at the end of the street. Now he’s gone.

  He fell for my deception and thinks I’m fast asleep. He has no idea how far from the truth he is. I don’t have time to sleep because I need to correct all the terrible mistakes we’ve both made.

  I’d planned to carry on painting, but this changes everything. I never expected him to leave the house.

  Before he changes his mind and comes back, I investigate his room. It’s a mess as usual; he hasn’t bothered to straighten the duvet that’s been unwashed for three and a half weeks. There’s a half-drunk cup of gray tea on his bedside table and a chipped plate with a crust of stale toast. I’d clean up, if it weren’t for the fact it’d alert Dad to the fact I’m nosing about.

  I’m looking for the clothes he wore on Friday night. He must have got blood on himself too.

  Has he washed his clothes? Or destroyed them? Or did he dump them with Bee Larkham’s body?

  I hold my breath and limit myself to twenty seconds prodding the laundry basket—it’s radioactive.

  Next I search the back of the wardrobe, behind his ex-military rucksack, the one he takes to Richmond Park. It helps him pretend he continued in the Royal Marines and eventually joined the SAS, instead of being forced to drop out of the regiment’s selection course because Mum was poorly.

  His walking boots are caked with mud. I don’t remember him using them for our bird-spotting walks in Richmond Park. He usually wears trainers. When did he last wear these boots? We haven’t been camping after the last disaster. He could have worn them on Friday night. It had rained and would have been muddy; he’d have left size-12 footprints in the alley at the back of Bee Larkham’s house.

  I want to linger, but there’s other stuff to do while he’s out. I run downstairs and find the note he’s left for me on the kitchen table. It’s written in scrawling red pen. He never expects me to find it.

  If you do come downstairs, I’ve gone for a quick run to clear my head. Back soon. Left cheese sandwich in fridge. Take painkiller in saucer for tum.

  Don’t answer the door. Don’t pick up the phone. Don’t call the police.

  I pop the pill in my mouth and wash it down with a swig of water from my Best Son mug.

  EAT ME.

  DRINK ME.

  I’m back in Alice in Wonderland, like in my horrible dream, and I’m alone again.

  Has Dad done this before? Does he often sneak out of the house when he thinks I’m asleep or hiding in my den?

  I’d always assumed he was in the study, testing apps on his laptop, or watching TV downstairs while I covered myself in blankets and clutched Mum’s cardigan, rubbing the buttons.

  What if he doesn’t stay with me all the time?

  What if he seizes the opportunity to leave the house when he thinks I’ll never find out?

  This throws out my time line yet again. Dad could have moved Bee Larkham’s body over the weekend, instead of on Friday night, when he knew I was in my den. He could have taken longer cleaning up and found the perfect burial spot much further away than I’d anticipated, somewhere muddy where he’d need to use his walking boots and camouflage clothes.

  He could have driven for hours, with Bee Larkham’s body in the boot of his car, and made it home before I crawled out of my den.

  What else has Dad done when he thinks I’m out of the picture?

  Where has he hidden the murder weapon?

  I’ll get rid of the knife and your clothes, he said. You won’t have to see them ever again.

  I knock into a chair as I cross the kitchen.

  Clumsy clots.

  I right the upturned chair and put it back in its exact place. I can’t leave any clues behind, no disturbed furniture or muddy footprints on my return. I mustn’t leave a trace that I’m attempting to track Dad’s movements, that I’m searching his number one hiding place.

  I let myself out the back door and stop, my back pressed against the wall. My heart’s pounding reddish damson beats. I watch the bluish green of a thrush call out to me, encouraging me to press on.

  I sprint across the lawn; the grass is long and unloved with dirty yellow patches. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the tiny cross marking the baby parakeet’s grave. I ca
n’t bear to look at it directly.

  I jangle the door to the shed, dark bottle green, and close it behind me. I head straight for the broken lawn mower and heave it to one side, disturbing dusty old leaves and a large, desiccated spider.

  His cigarette stash is intact, but I can’t see the knife or my jeans, sweatshirt, or anorak.

  I kick an old bucket and spade and rearrange the garden hose. After three minutes and twenty-three seconds searching, I give up.

  Nothing.

  Dad hasn’t just shifted the body; he’s removed anything that links me to the scene of the crime.

  He must have realized I was onto this hiding place and found a safer one. Maybe he figured it out during one of his secret runs when he thought I was asleep, or when I was curled up, sobbing for Mum in my den.

  What else has Dad covered up? What story is he trying to tell on my behalf?

  I stare at the back gate. I can’t stop now. Can I?

  Did he remember to shut Bee Larkham’s back door and lock it? Is her key returned to its hiding place?

  Before I talk myself out of this, I run back up the lawn. The gate swings open, petrol green. I check the street’s clear before pegging it to the alleyway. I’m out of sight within thirty seconds. Rusty Chrome Orange’s spies will have missed me if they happened to look away at the vital moment. I can’t hear the yellow French fries of David Gilbert’s dog. I’ve got away with it.

  I pick my way over junk; weeds sprout through an old washbasin and a broken watering can. I’d stumbled over them as I ran away on Friday night. It couldn’t have been easy for Dad either, carrying Bee Larkham’s body in the dark.

  I scour the ground, but I can’t see any spots of blood or fragments of torn clothing, clues that Dad or I left behind. Maybe he picked his way through here again in daylight to check we were safe.

  I hesitate after turning the corner. I’ve reached Bee Larkham’s back gate. Do I want to go further? Do I want to retrace my steps from Friday night?

  I have to. I’ve come this far. I can’t go back now. Not until I know more. I want to remember. I need to fill in the gaps in my notebooks and paintings.

  The gaps in my memory.