Saving Lucas Drury only to kill him with cancer-causing cigarettes seemed like a dumb plan to me. I went along with it because I had calculated the first baby parakeets would be born around February 27. Weeks after that, I might get my first glimpse of them, probably sometime at the end of March.
I had to paint the colors of their first chirps.
I’d stopped worrying about taking the notes and small packages due to our routine. I delivered an envelope from Bee Larkham to Lucas Drury on Monday at lunchtime and checked on Wednesday morning for anything to bring back from Lucas Drury to Bee Larkham. Nine times out of ten there wasn’t, but I liked to be thorough.
This regular schedule helped me paint better pictures because I saw the colors of the adult parakeets’ shrieks up close from Bee Larkham’s bedroom; they surpassed the more muted tones I experienced across the street.
For some reason, I haven’t recorded in my notebooks all the details about my bird-watching visits—the questions Dad asked me whenever I returned from Bee’s house, such as
How is Bee? Not ill.
What is she up to these days? Don’t understand the question.
Does she ever mention me? No.
These are the other nonparakeet things I remember now about the visits to her bedroom:
a. Sweet wrappers
Orchid purple-, silver-, and sapphire-colored ones were by the side of the bed.
b. The steel blue notebook with the white rabbit on the cover
It was always nearby—on the table, on the floor, or hiding, half-covered by a pillow.
c. Lucas Drury’s library card
I found it on the bedside table. Bee Larkham must have borrowed it because she was too busy to register for her own.
d. The china ladies
As my parakeet painting collection grew, the number of china ladies shrank. The parakeets and the ornaments couldn’t live alongside each other. They didn’t get along.
Later, I realized Bee Larkham was becoming clumsier and clumsier. She knocked the china ladies out of her bedroom window one by one. Whenever I found a broken ornament in her front garden, I didn’t attempt to mend it. I collected all the pieces and threw them away before she had to see the disfigured faces again.
I think she was glad I helped her get rid of the evidence.
Bee never asked me what I did with the headless bodies. She didn’t miss them. She didn’t miss them at all.
37
March 12, 2:23 P.M.
Parakeets Feeding Babies on canvas
The parakeets had flown back and forth from the feeders and into the hole in the tree and the eaves for weeks, but I hadn’t managed to catch a glimpse of what I knew to be true: babies must be inside the nests.
Possibly one or two per family. That meant up to six nestlings could be concealed inside Bee Larkham’s tree and eaves.
The adult parakeets had refused to be intimidated by David Gilbert and stayed to breed, the way Bee Larkham had bravely stood up to him. She said she wasn’t bothered he’d applied to the council for a noise abatement order against her. She’d sworn a mushy-tangerine-colored word at him when he called round.
Bee was watching from the window with me and took photos on her mobile of two adult parakeets peering out of the hole and one of a single parakeet preening itself and cleaning its feet.
“Lucas lost the phone I gave him, silly boy,” she said. “I’ll have to take the risk and tag these piccies to him on Facebook as he’s busy with football tournaments this weekend. He’ll love them. They’re so cute!”
“Have you almost finished saving him?” I asked.
I was afraid of the answer—scared Bee might no longer need me to deliver her messages. She could stop my bird-watching time from her bedroom window at a crucial period. I’d estimated the eldest nestlings were only two weeks old, far too young to peek out of the hole.
I needed longer.
“I honestly don’t know,” Bee said. “It’s total madness, but I can’t seem to stop myself, you know?”
Yes, I did.
A small part of me—5 percent—wished she would stop, because I didn’t like her talking about Lucas Drury. I didn’t trust him either. Why was he being distracted by football tournaments instead of concentrating on being saved by Bee Larkham? My remaining 95 percent wanted this arrangement to continue. At least until I’d seen the color of the baby parakeets’ first chirps and they’d learned to fly.
“You shouldn’t stop,” I told her. “Neither of us should stop what we’re doing. We should stick to the original plan, whatever happens.”
That evening, 8:45 P.M.
Crushed-Moth and Tangerine Circles on paper
Some people don’t think it’s important to stick to plans. They tear them up and scatter the pieces around for others to pick up like litter because they’re selfish and don’t worry about the consequences.
They also skulk about outside houses in the dark, with baseball caps pulled down low to cover their faces.
I broke off from watching the eaves with my binoculars and trained them on the person who stood by the wall outside Bee Larkham’s house. He wasn’t dressed like David Gilbert and didn’t have a dog with him, but he stared up at the oak tree. This made him suspicious and quite possibly a threat to the parakeets.
I logged the sighting in my notebook and dated it.
Bee Larkham’s house was shrouded in darkness, apart from the upstairs bedroom window. A light was on, the curtains closed. The person—a he—fiddled with something in his pocket. Was he reaching for a weapon? I grabbed my mobile and ran downstairs while Dad chatted to someone on the phone in the bath. By the time I reached the front door, the figure had already entered the alleyway.
I ran out of the house.
Was it David Gilbert in disguise? Could he have completed a reconnaissance mission to spy on the parakeets and was he now reentering his house via the alley and back garden to throw me off his scent?
As I turned the corner, I gasped cool blue spirals. Bee Larkham’s gate was open. I moved quickly through the alley, climbing over scattered junk. A figure was already bending over the flamingo statue by the back door as I stumbled through the gate. The person stood up again, holding the hidden key.
“Put that back,” I said loudly. “It doesn’t belong to you.”
My fingers had punched 999 into my mobile. I was ready to press call.
The figure in the dark blue baseball cap spun round. “Jeez. You scared the shit out of me, Jasper.”
He knew me and had a blue teal voice. I’d only met one person recently with that color voice: Lucas Drury.
But he wasn’t supposed to be here. He was at a football tournament. That’s what Bee had said earlier when we discussed his weekend plans.
“Are you spying on me, Jasper? With your binoculars?”
“No, Lucas Drury,” I replied, gripping the strap tighter.
“You didn’t see me here, right?” He unlocked the back door and put the key in his pocket.
My guess about his identity was correct because he didn’t provide another name, but it still didn’t feel right. Maybe his football tournament had been canceled at the last minute. Or he’d let the organizers down and hadn’t turned up. That struck me as the kind of thing Lucas Drury would do. He wouldn’t mind changing other people’s plans without asking permission.
I walked closer. His baseball cap was actually faded navy, with the initials NYY in deeper indigo, which almost totally blended in with the cotton.
“New York Yankees,” I said.
“What?”
“Your baseball cap. You should put it back.”
Lucas Drury pulled it down lower over his face. “It’s my dad’s. I borrowed it.”
“I meant the key,” I clarified. “It belongs beneath the flamingo statue. You should put it back.”
“Er, OK. Thanks.” He bent down and shifted the statue. “Now beat it, Jasper.”
“Do you have a meeting with Bee?” I asked.
“What? Not exactly. It’s a surprise visit, but she won’t turn me away. She said I can use her spare key any time I want.” He breathed in cloudy dark teal mist as he opened the door. “Forget I said that, Jasper. You mustn’t talk about this at school, OK? Or anywhere else. This is private stuff between me and Bee.”
I moved my head up and down. I hoped Bee Larkham would come to the door and we could talk. I’d ask her why she’d told Lucas Drury about the key’s hiding place.
I thought that was our secret, one of the things that made our friendship special. I didn’t want to share that bond with Lucas Drury, but I couldn’t get in the way of Bee Larkham’s rescue mission.
“I won’t tell anyone about your surprise visit, Lucas Drury,” I confirmed.
His left eye opened and closed as he walked inside. He didn’t call out to Bee as he shut the door and slipped away into the dark house.
I returned home and kept watch over the oak tree with my binoculars until after midnight. No one came out of 20 Vincent Gardens or the alleyway. Bee Larkham’s special operation to save Lucas Drury went on long into the night, accompanied by crushed-moth and tangerine circles from the music playing in the bedroom.
I thought those colors were bad enough, but worse was to come twelve days later.
I would see a dreadful shade and shape that obliterated most of the brushstrokes that came before and afterwards, almost destroying me.
Short lines of black with blood orange shadows.
38
March 24, 7:02 P.M.
The Death on paper
Dad had taken me into town after school to buy trainers and we’d had tea at a new pizzeria. He’d spent four days preparing me for this expedition, showing me photographs of the restaurant and the shoe shop on Google Maps to avoid any unwelcome surprises.
When we pulled up in the car outside our house, Dad’s mobile rang and he had to take the work call. He ran into the house, but I lingered behind.
Immediately, I sensed the colors were wrong, terribly wrong. The parakeets shrieked and squawked for help. I ran across the road, forgetting to check first. A car hooted deep red deformed stars. I ignored it. The birds swooped from the tree to the ground and back again, screeching and howling brighter, more painful shades.
I saw the tiny bundle of green feathers as I drew close.
“No!” I screamed sharp, acrid blue.
A cacophony of horrid, vulgar colors echoed through the street.
Garish blue greens glazed with an icy yellow mist.
I picked up the baby parakeet and cradled it in my hands.
The bird was cold, tiny droplets of blood sprinkled on its soft chest. It had fallen from its nest and died before I could help it.
Sobbing, I banged on the front door. Bee Larkham had to hear the bad news from me, not someone else. She was definitely inside. Playful ribbons of salmon and sugar-mouse pink music grew bolder in color from behind the bedroom window curtains.
The pretty, entwining ropes of color had distracted her; otherwise she’d have opened the door. I ran around the back, through the alley and into her garden, cradling the baby parakeet. The spare key was where it belonged, beneath the flamingo statue.
I unlocked the door and ran into the house, up the stairs. I could hear a rhythmic noise fighting against the musical pink ribbons, overpowering it with short lines of black with blood orange shadows.
A creaking sound like Bee was jumping on her bed, the way I do every Sunday morning before football.
“Bee!” I screamed. “Bee Larkham, come quick! It’s an emergency.”
I flung open the bedroom door, and that’s when time stood still and things changed forever.
A naked blond woman was on the bed. She was bouncing on top of a body, which was also naked. I didn’t look at the face. I saw too much alien flesh. Shiny purple sweet wrappers lay sprinkled over the duvet.
“Shit!” a blue teal voice exclaimed.
The woman fell sideways, almost toppling off the bed. “Get your clothes on, Lucas! Quick!” Sky blue.
I ran downstairs and out the back door, tossing the key into its hiding place. Luckily no cars passed by because I sprinted across the road, carrying the dead baby bird, the howls of parakeets in my ears.
I don’t remember much more about that evening, for example, how many china ladies had watched naked Bee Larkham and naked Lucas Drury. I don’t remember how Dad got me to calm down—probably by letting me rub the buttons on Mum’s cardigan in my den and spin on the chair in the kitchen.
There are three facts I do remember:
1. I buried the baby parakeet in our back garden. Nothing fancy. I didn’t feel well enough to decorate the grave or make a cross yet. Dad told me to put a stone on top because a cat or fox would try to dig it up.
2. Bee Larkham called round later that evening. She didn’t come inside our house. This time she was wearing clothes. I saw a woman in a long ice blue skirt through the banisters and heard Dad call her Bee.
I never told Dad I’d seen her naked because I thought he might be cross. I did tell him I never wanted to watch the parakeets from her bedroom window again.
They had an argument, but I only heard snatches. Bee said, You were only ever a one-night stand. Dad called her out on that lie. He thought it meant more than that. They argued again. I was glad he’d taken a stand against her. She deserved it.
I distinctly remember this third fact because I repeated it over and over to myself in bed that night:
3. I hated bouncy, alien-flesh Bee Larkham.
Dad hated her too. He called her a silly little tart when he slammed the door shut, brown rectangles with charcoal shading.
For once we agreed about something.
39
FRIDAY (INDIGO BLUE)
Afternoon
The icicles have come for me again. They’re trying to pull me down the rabbit hole towards the Mad Hatter.
He’s inside Bee Larkham’s kitchen along with white-suited spacemen. They shouldn’t have visited this street. They’ll be killed.
Twelve of them.
I need to stop the massacre. I can’t. I have to escape from the house, but the front door’s locked.
I run to the back door because I’ve found the secret key. I still can’t escape. The Mad Hatter won’t let me. He blocks my way. He’s wearing a dark blue baseball cap.
• • •
“Wake up, Jasper. This is urgent.”
A hand stretches into my den. It’s reaching towards my shoulder. I open my mouth, ready to scream clouds of aquamarine.
“It’s me. It’s Dad. I need you to come out of there. Something’s happened and we have to talk.”
He backs away from the den because he knows I don’t like to be crowded. As I crawl out, he walks over to the window and leans against the sill.
“You need to sit down, Jasper. I’ve got something distressing to tell you.”
“I’ve been lying down because I was tired after checking through my parakeet paintings,” I point out. “That means I don’t need to sit down again, thank you.”
“Fine.” Dad sighs smooth, muddy ocher circles.
I wait for him to start speaking again.
“D.C. Chamberlain rang while you were asleep. He has news, which you’re going to find disturbing.”
“Did the spacemen find spots of my blood in the kitchen and leading out the back door?” I ask. “I guess they may have found traces in the alley as well.”
Dad rubs his face, the way he does when he’s smothering himself with shaving foam. “D.C. Chamberlain didn’t mention the forensics side of things, but he said the investigation into Bee’s disappearance is moving at a fast pace. The team’s working overtime.”
“How fast is fast?” I query. “Did he specify the velocity?”
“We’re getting sidetracked when you need to focus on what I’m trying to tell you. The point is a dog walker found something unpleasant in the woodland not far from here this morning. D.C.
Chamberlain wanted us to hear it from him first, because it could be on the local news tonight.”
“What news? ITV London or Capital FM?”
“Both probably. The dog walker found a body, Jasper, early this morning. He found a woman’s body.”
“He found Bee Larkham’s body,” I confirm.
This doesn’t come as a particular shock to me since Dad must have moved it somewhere, otherwise the people in space suits across the road would have found it by now.
“D.C. Chamberlain said they don’t know that for certain. They haven’t identified it yet. It’s not one hundred percent definite, but there’s a slim chance . . . It might be . . . What I’m trying to say, Jasper, is we should prepare ourselves for the worst possible scenario—the police might have found Bee’s body.”
“Why don’t you know for sure it’s her?” I ask. “When you carried her body out of twenty Vincent Gardens, drove it to the woodland, and left it there for the dog walker to find?”
“Jasper! Stop it!”
“I found your walking boots in the bottom of your wardrobe, which means the woods were muddy. You left her body in the mud because you didn’t want me to get into trouble with the police. Now you’re involved and we’ll both go to prison.”
“Shut up!” He grabs my arms and squeezes tight. Too tight. “I need time to think before we speak to D.C. Chamberlain again. I have to decide what we’re going to tell him.”
“Get off me!” I yell.
I kick him hard in the shins. He lets go and I’m as fast as a parakeet. I swoop out of the room, onto the landing. I’m running down the stairs. He’s David Gilbert, chasing me, trying to hunt me down. I’m the baby parakeet soaring to safety. I’ve already spotted the trap: the chain across the front door that will stop me from flying the nest.
“Come back!”
I don’t. I change direction. I grab Dad’s mobile from the table in the hall and skid into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. He hammers dark brown circles. He can’t get in. I’ve locked it.
The Color of Bee Larkham's Murder Page 21
