I could feel her watching me when she’d promised she wouldn’t.
I stared at the knife. It shone brightly under the light.
Glint, glint, glint.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the utensil even though its colors clashed. The knife was flashing silver, but the word was deep purple with a red, shifting core.
Bee leaned forward. I could see her features grotesquely distorted in the blade. Even when I shifted in my seat, she was still there, reflected in the sharp edges.
“You do know about me and your dad, don’t you?”
“Dad called you a silly little tart.” He was wrong, dead wrong about that. Tarts conjured up images of succulent strawberries or sweet, cinnamon apples dusted with icing sugar, but I had a nasty, sour taste in my mouth.
“Did he? That’s the way he liked me the night of the party. The night we had sex, upstairs in my mum’s old bedroom, while you were asleep across the road.”
Sex: a bubble-gum pink word with a naughty lilac tint.
I slammed my hands on my ears and closed my eyes.
“It wasn’t the best sex, if I’m being perfectly honest. I thought it’d help get Lucas out of my head. I was wrong. I thought about Lucas the whole time. Your dad was drunk and feeling sorry for himself, sorry that you were his son. He said it was hard for him, having a son like you. He wished he could be single again.”
The words drifted through my fingertips into my ears. I tried to filter them out, but they were like fine diesel particles in the air, which penetrate people’s airways and nestle in their lungs, causing cancers.
“It meant nothing to me, but that night could change your life forever, Jasper. It could mean the difference between living with your dad here on this street and somewhere else, with strangers who don’t understand your special needs. They won’t understand how things have to be a certain way, how you need help recognizing faces. Because that’s your particular problem, isn’t it, Jasper? I get that now.”
I felt my hands being ripped from my ears.
“I can say your dad raped me, Jasper. That he was drunk and forced himself on me that night. Social Services would take you away from him. They’d take you away from your precious parakeets and put you in a new home, far, far away from the birds.”
I screamed jagged white clouds with aquamarine peaks.
“It would be my word against his,” she continued, talking over me. “No one would believe you, if you repeat what I’ve said. The police wouldn’t believe a word you said. You’re what they call an unreliable witness.”
My hands fought to come free, ripping at sky blue, grappling with something solid.
What was fighting me?
I fell to the floor, gripping something in my hand.
“Damnit. You’ve broken my necklace.”
Fingers snatched the stone from my clenched fist.
“You have to do this one thing for me, Jasper. You owe me.”
“No! No, no, no!”
I had to get my paintings. I had to save my parakeets and escape. I couldn’t leave them alone in this house. Opening my eyes, I grabbed the chair leg and pulled myself up. Bee Larkham blocked my way. I couldn’t get past her.
Instead, I lunged across the table towards the pie.
49
Interview: Saturday, April 16, 11:39 A.M.
“That was when you picked up the knife?” Rusty Chrome Orange asks. “The knife you used to stab Bee Larkham with?”
“Not yet. Too soon.”
As usual, his timing stinks. I don’t want to talk about it. My head hurts and I need to find another chair.
One that I can move around and around in.
Spin, spin, spin.
“You’re doing really well, Jasper,” Rusty Chrome Orange says. “We’re nearly there. Now relax, close your eyes. I want to take you back there again.”
I do as he instructs and I’ve returned to Bee Larkham’s kitchen. I’m stretching across her table. Freeze-framed. Unable to edge forwards or backwards until Rusty Chrome Orange gives the order.
“Take your time,” he says. “We can do this at your own pace with as many breaks as you want. There’s no need to rush.”
• • •
He’s wrong as usual. There was a desperate need to rush.
I had to rescue my paintings and notebooks. This was all down to me. Dad couldn’t save us. He wasn’t back from work yet. He didn’t know I was here.
It’s hard for him having a son like you.
He wishes he could be single again.
Sex: a bubble-gum pink word with a naughty lilac tint.
The color of Bee Larkham’s voice had seeped inside my head and I couldn’t wash it out, however hard I tried. Sky blue paralyzed me, seeping into my blood. Before long, it would take over my body. I had to stop it.
The table was too broad. I couldn’t reach over it completely to get my paintings. As I stretched, my armpit knocked the pie. The knife skidded off the dish, twirling on the table.
Round and round it spun, playing its own deadly game of Russian roulette.
Live, die, live, die, live, die.
Opposing words and colors:
Jade green, violent red, jade green, violent red.
Bee caught the knife, slamming her hand down hard. Dart-shaped grainy wood colors.
“Careful, Jasper. You could get hurt.” She walked around the table. “Is this what you’re after? Your precious parakeet paintings? Here, take them.”
She tossed the pictures at me. They landed, scattered in different directions, on the table, on a chair. Some settled on her dirty, smeared floor.
“I’ll still keep this one, though, Jasper.” She held up the smudged canvas. “I’ll hang it on my wall to remind me what a horrid, selfish little boy you are.” She slammed the picture down on the dresser behind her, next to her broken necklace. The plates shuddered with anger.
My eardrums almost burst with hatred for Bee and Bee’s hatred for me, which was far more powerful. It poured inside my ears, poisoning me. I felt it working its way deeper and deeper inside my body.
Sky blue.
Not cobalt blue.
Never cobalt blue.
I’d saved three paintings. Not enough. Not nearly enough. I had to get them all. Four, five. I reached for another. Six. I had to liberate my notebooks too.
No man left behind.
Wasn’t that the mantra of the SAS? Dad’s favorite topic.
Bee wasn’t finished with me. Or my parakeets.
“Where are my manners? You’ve given me a present, Jasper. I should give you one in return.”
I ducked down and rescued the painting that had landed under the table. I couldn’t let her claim another picture.
“Don’t. Want. Present.” I can’t be sure I said the words out loud as I stood up again, but I felt their colors nudging uncomfortably around my head. They tried their hardest to be noticed.
Bee turned and looked at her bookcase, next to the dresser. “Where is it?” She hummed under her breath. I recognized the trilling “Aviary” burnt pink sugar notes from Carnival of the Animals.
“Aha. Here.” She pulled out a dusty burgundy book—exactly the same color as the word final.
“Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management. You wouldn’t believe the unusual recipes in here, Jasper, particularly in a section on Australian cookery. I couldn’t possibly throw it away. It’s different. Like you.”
I re-counted my paintings.
Seven. I had them all, except the damaged canvas Bee wouldn’t give back, on the dresser. I couldn’t save it.
I shoved my paintings into the case as she continued to flick through the book, licking her finger as she turned each page. My pictures weren’t in the right order. No time to sort them. I stuffed my notebooks back in the bag and picked up the portfolio, hugging it to my chest. No time to fasten it.
“Take this recipe,” she continued. “It’s the pie I made today. I had to use four rashers of bacon, a fe
w slices of beef, and three hard-boiled eggs for the pie, the pie you ate, Jasper, and thought was only OK.”
Don’t. Care.
I thought I’d said the words under my breath. I hadn’t. They came out of my mouth in silvery ice blue bubbles that annoyed Bee Larkham.
“I think you will care, Jasper,” she said.
I held on to the chair to get my balance. I had to maneuver around the table, get out of the kitchen, walk into the hall, open the front door, and run.
Not far, but could I make it?
“You’ll care a lot more when I tell you what was in the pie you ate this evening. You see, I lied to you, Jasper. It wasn’t chicken pie.”
She thrust the book in front of me. “What do you think of this, Jasper? It’s your favorite topic.”
I didn’t feel the portfolio fall from my grasp or the bag of notebooks slip off my shoulder.
Soft mint green rustles.
All my paintings had scattered, landing around the plates, the pie, and the knife on the table.
I heard small, rusty red-tinged thuds as my case and bag hit the floor. I couldn’t pick them up.
My gaze was drawn back to the page again.
PARROT PIE
Ingredients: 1 dozen paraqueets, a few slices of beef (underdone cold beef is best for this purpose), 4 rashers of bacon, 3 hard-boiled eggs, minced parsley and lemon peel, pepper and salt, stock, puff paste.
Mode: Line a pie dish with the beef cut into slices, over them place 6 of the paraqueets, dredge with flour, fill up the spaces with the egg cut in slices and scatter over the seasoning. Next put the bacon, cut in small strips, then 6 paraqueets and fill up with the beef, seasoning all well. Pour in stock or water to nearly fill the dish, cover with puff paste, and bake for 1 hour.
Sufficient for 5 or 6 persons.
Seasonable at any time.
I couldn’t scream because I was throwing up.
Pale red, curdled vomit.
More and more.
“Jasper!”
I stuck my fingers down my throat again and again. I had to get the pie out. It didn’t work. The dead parakeets were trapped in my body. I had to cut them free. My paintings screamed ice-greenish yellows and freezing sapphires. I lunged across the table and grabbed the knife. I turned it towards my tummy.
“Stop it, Jasper! No!”
My voice returned. I didn’t recognize the color.
“I hate you,” I yelled. “You’re killing me!”
I closed my eyes and felt the point of the knife pierce through material and find my tummy.
Soft, buttery skin.
Slash, slash, slash.
Bee screamed ice blue crystals.
A hand made a grab for me. I swatted it away. Silvery bluish icicles attacked again and again.
“I’m sorry!” the sky blue voice screamed. “Stop it, Jasper. I’ve gone too far. I was joking. I told a bad joke to punish you. I’m sorry. It’s not true. It was chicken. Just chicken. I promise you. Forgive me.”
I don’t forgive you!
I screamed vivid turquoise and white jagged daggers back at her.
My head wanted to split in two like a juicy watermelon. I couldn’t hear her blue crystals or icicles because I’d launched a counterattack, a thunderstorm of vivid, startling aquamarine.
Hot pincers seared through my tummy, but I could only see the color of my shouts, mixing with the screeches of the parakeets.
Greenish yellow with freezing sapphires.
Their distress calls soared from my paintings, accusing me, hating me. I’d failed to protect them. I’d eaten them.
Give the knife to me.
No. I have to get them out.
Bee’s hands tried to grab the knife again.
I wouldn’t let it go. I couldn’t. Not while the parakeets were still inside me. I couldn’t stop. I had to stop her.
“Give it to me!”
“No!”
I swiped the air, and this time the knife found her skin.
Pale blue jagged crystals.
Bee grabbed her right arm. Blood seeped through her fingers.
“Please, Jasper. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. If I could take it back, I would. Forgive me!”
I slashed at my sweatshirt and discovered flesh again.
“No! You’re not cobalt blue. You never were. You tricked me!”
“Jasper! Stop, I’m begging you!”
Her hand was in the way.
“You have to put the knife down before we both get badly hurt. You’ll get us both into trouble.”
She tried to wrench the knife from my hands. One of us tripped. I don’t know whose fault that was. We both lurched; the kitchen had tilted like an unseaworthy boat. Bee Larkham stumbled backwards, holding my wrist. Her eyes were fixed on the knife.
We both fell.
The parakeets screeched at us to be careful.
Bee Larkham screamed.
Ice blue crystals with glittery edges and jagged silver icicles.
She fell first, me second, her head striking the floor with a dirty-charcoal-colored crack.
It happened in that order. I’m certain. Because that’s the only explanation I have for how I ended up on top of Bee Larkham.
Four seconds later, I rolled sideways and saw more blood spattered on the tiles.
Spot, spot, spot.
It dripped out of my tummy and down my jeans. It splashed over Bee’s cobalt-blue-that-wasn’t-cobalt-blue dress, running down her right arm and from the palm of her left hand.
The parakeets’ cries inside my head had transformed into blinding white. All-consuming. I picked up the knife again to save them.
Bee Larkham couldn’t stop me this time. She didn’t open her mouth or her eyes. She didn’t move.
The ice blue crystals and silver icicles had disappeared, taking all their glittery, jagged edges with them.
I was alone with the knife and the howling, terrified parakeets.
50
Interview: Saturday, April 16, 12:15 P.M.
Leo, my solicitor, keeps saying the words accident and manslaughter over and over again. I’ve counted the words eight times since I was told, well, advised to stop talking.
Strongly advised.
Rusty Chrome Orange and Dull Light Green agree this crucial scene—me holding the knife above Bee Larkham’s motionless body—is a natural break in the story.
We have to find out how this ties in with what his dad claims happened, at what point he became involved. We’re interested in what actions Ed Wishart took that night and what he told Jasper to do next.
My Appropriate Adult wants another break. She must be tired. Maybe she finds it hard to concentrate, like me.
There are too many things to remember all at once; too many that remain stubbornly missing. At least I can recall that small segment.
Then there’s a big gap.
That’s the part they should ask Dad: how he got Bee Larkham’s body into the suitcase in the hallway and took it to the woods. I can’t help them with that section of the story. I don’t know what he did with the hen clothes that were in the suitcase either.
“What are you going to do with Bee Larkham’s body now you’ve found it?” I ask. “Because no one’s been able to tell me that right from the start.”
The white and gray murmuring of voices melts away. Rusty chrome orange lingers, like an unwelcome smell: the aroma of burnt pastry.
Singed parakeet pie.
“You don’t have to worry about that, Jasper,” my solicitor says. “It doesn’t concern you.”
“It does. Concern me. Everyone deserves a proper burial: Mum, Nan, Mrs. Larkham, the baby parakeet, and Mrs. Watkins. Not the twelve parakeets. They didn’t get a funeral.”
I close my eyes and tick the bodies off in my head. I think I got the deaths in the right order, because that’s important.
“The honest answer is we don’t know yet,” Dull Light Green says. “We’re trying to find out if there ar
e any extended family members. Miss Larkham’s body is with the coroner while the postmortem examination is completed. Cause of death has to be established. It’s taken a little longer to run all the tests, being a Saturday.”
It’s taken us most of the day, but I thought we’d finally established I killed Bee Larkham with her knife, the knife she used to slice open Mrs. Beeton’s pie.
I don’t want to go back and explain it all over again because they’ve misunderstood or misheard.
“Can I see my dad?” I ask.
Dull Light Green says she’s sorry, but we have to be kept apart for the time being. That’s police protocol.
“Are you still scared of your dad, Jasper?” Rusty Chrome Orange asks. “Yesterday you told police officers he’d killed people before and you thought he was trying to kill you.”
I tell him I made a terrible mistake. Dad wasn’t trying to kill me. I was confused. I was upset about Bee Larkham. I shouldn’t have made up accusations about him and I’m sorry. I bet he’s sorry he pushed the police officer too. He didn’t mean it.
I’d pushed him to the breaking point as usual.
I don’t tell him the rest. Richard Chamberlain—like the actor—doesn’t get anything.
I’m scared for Dad, particularly now.
51
Interview: Saturday, April 16, 2:00 P.M.
“I know this is going to be difficult for you, Jasper. But before we move on to talk about what happened next, with your dad, we’d like to discuss Bee Larkham’s chicken pie with you.”
Wasn’t Rusty Chrome Orange listening?
“The parakeet pie,” I clarify for the record.
I’ve had another break for lunch, but avoided the sandwiches because prawns make me throw up. I’m trying to be helpful. It’s an effort. I want to see Dad. I want to say sorry for dialing 999 and getting him involved.
“The recipe said to use twelve parakeets,” I continue. “Mrs. Beeton’s cookbook called them paraqueets.”
“That was cruel of Bee,” Rusty Chrome Orange says. “To make you think you’d eaten parakeets, your favorite birds. It must have made you incredibly angry and upset.”
The Color of Bee Larkham's Murder Page 27
