The Color of Bee Larkham's Murder

by Sarah J. Harris

  I do.

  I tell him where to find Bee Larkham’s back-door key.

  I stop talking.

  I sleep.

  53

  Interview: Saturday, April 16, 3:43 P.M.

  My solicitor and Rusty Chrome Orange are extremely interested in the “cocktail of drugs” Dad gave me: the antibiotics, painkillers, and sleeping tablet, which explain some of the gaps in my memory.

  I don’t have the answers to their questions. I’m not a doctor.

  Why don’t you ask my dad? You said he’s under arrest. He’s being questioned by other detectives. Don’t you swap notes like in the movies? Don’t you talk to each other?

  I don’t remember how many tablets I took. I don’t remember swallowing them. I don’t remember Dad helping me into the shower, putting on my pajamas, pulling out the blood-smeared blankets from the den, or putting me back inside with Mum’s cardigan.

  He must have done all those things, but a gray, swirling mist descended on that scene in the bathroom. I remember it drifting in and out of my brain, snatching memories from the furthest recesses. I tried to hang on to them, something in particular I needed to tell Dad.

  Something to do with the parakeets. Something he had to do at Bee Larkham’s house.

  He had to save the parakeets.

  From what? What must he do?

  The mist ripped the thought from my mind.

  The parakeets had disappeared. Dad too.

  I was alone.

  What do you remember next, Jasper? Close your eyes. You’re not in this interview room. Imagine you’re in your bedroom den again.

  I obey Rusty Chrome Orange.

  I’m back.

  I’m sitting up and my den is spinning around me.

  I’ve forgotten my parakeet paintings. I’ve forgotten my notebooks. I’ve left them in Bee Larkham’s house.

  That’s what I needed to tell Dad. He was here. A moment or two ago. Maybe longer. I’m not sure. I don’t know what time it is.

  My paintings are alone in the kitchen. With Bee Larkham. Dad’s sorting her. Because I did a bad thing. I hurt her. With a knife. The knife she used to cut open the parakeet pie.

  “Dad?” My voice is a grayish blue croak. I crawl out of the den into the dark room. My eyes are blurry and can’t focus on the clock. My watch isn’t strapped to my wrist. I don’t know where it is.

  I’m on the landing. Dad’s door is open. His bed is empty. It hasn’t been slept in. That’s because Dad’s not asleep. He’s over the road. That’s the last thing I remember him saying.

  I’ll go over the road. I’ll sort Bee.

  I should help him. I have to get my paintings back. He won’t remember them. Or my notebooks. He won’t think they’re important. He might be distracted by all the blood and not notice them.

  I get down the stairs on my bottom. The chain’s on the front door. The sitting room door’s shut. The kitchen door’s open. That’s the one I go for. I hear a dark brown, rhythmic noise from the sitting room.

  I hold on to the furniture and get to the back door without bumping into anything. I turn the handle. The door’s unlocked. I’m outside. Rain slaps my face. Hard. It stings my skin through the pajamas.

  I go through the back gate and follow the battle line across the road. It keeps me steady and on track. It guides me towards the alleyway, over the abandoned rubbish, and to the back gate. I’m in Bee Larkham’s garden.

  At the back door.

  Something’s out of place.

  Now I’m in Bee Larkham’s kitchen. Things have swapped around in here—my painting portfolio and notebook bag.

  Other things too, but the mist’s descended again and transformed into a darkish fog. Not enough light. There’s also a strange smell, which makes stars dance on my tummy.

  Bee Larkham’s still lying on the floor.

  She’s not moving. I don’t want to look at her.

  Dad’s already here.

  He’s sorting Bee Larkham. The way he said he would.

  He’s kneeling beside her. Blue jeans, dark blue baseball cap, and a blue shirt: the usual uniform.

  “Is Bee Larkham dead?” I ask.

  He jumps, steadies his hand on the floor, and looks around. He sucks in his breath, white pasta spirals.

  “Did I kill her, Dad?” I ask again.

  He doesn’t look at me. He can’t bear to look at me. The mist is pulling me away. I must try to focus.

  “Tell me, Dad. Did I?”

  His head jerks.

  “Did I kill her?”

  “Yes, Son.” The whitishgray whisper pierces through the fog.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Help me, Dad!”

  His arm rises. He points to the table. There’s my bag of notebooks and fastened portfolio.

  Dad’s sorted everything. He’s packed my paintings inside the case.

  His arm moves again. This time it points to the door. He doesn’t need to tell me what to do. I know I have to run. I know we can’t speak about this again.

  Dad has to carry on sorting Bee Larkham.

  He said he would.

  He’s helping me.

  I grab my portfolio and notebook bag, turn, and run.

  54

  Interview: Saturday, April 16, 4:10 P.M.

  Back up! Reverse!

  How did we end up in this strange, new location? Rusty Chrome Orange has made us perform a three-point turn in our interview. We’ve screeched off in our getaway vehicle—away from the knife and my parakeet paintings and Dad sorting Bee Larkham—to a totally new location.

  It happened after he was called out of the room and came back in again seven minutes and forty-one seconds later. Now I can’t keep up even though I’ve had another break. I’m not even trying.

  My mind’s locked on the scene in Bee Larkham’s kitchen when I returned.

  My portfolio and notebook bag were definitely on the table. The parakeet pie had vanished and something else had stolen its place, something that shouldn’t have been there. It’s hard to recall. My brain cells dance about wildly, mixing up the paints.

  If only I’d looked to the right. I might have seen my parakeet picture on the wall, where Dad must have hung it after he sorted Bee Larkham.

  Bee Larkham couldn’t have put it there herself, because she was already dead. It must still be there, on her wall, calling out for help, begging to be rescued.

  Rusty Chrome Orange says I can’t have my other paintings back yet, because they’re police evidence. He’s already lost interest in my work and wants to discuss Bee Larkham’s neck instead.

  “I’m not sure I can help you,” I say. “I’m not an otolaryngologist.”

  “What’s that?” Rusty Chrome Orange asks.

  “A head and neck surgeon.”

  Dumbo.

  “We know that talking about your dad has upset you,” Dull Light Green says. “We need you to focus if you can, Jasper. We’d like to move forwards, before we take another short break.”

  “Can I see my dad?”

  “Let’s cover this first, please,” she says. “D.C. Chamberlain is asking if you ever touched Miss Larkham’s head or neck.”

  I mull over the baffling question for a full thirteen seconds, before curiosity gets the better of me. “Why?”

  “Please can you answer the question, Jasper?” Rusty Chrome Orange butts in. “You told us previously you broke Miss Larkham’s pendant. Did you accidentally grab her neck when that happened?”

  “Why can’t you answer my question?” I hit back. “I asked it first. Your colors are rude and pushy. They should get in line and wait their turn. Why would I touch Bee Larkham’s neck?”

  Leo pushes a glass towards me. I push it back, sloshing water on the table. That was a mistake. It reminds me of Bee Larkham splashing water over her kitchen table with a sponge.

  “She was messy,” I say. “She didn’t like to clean. She didn’t do the washing up because the dishwasher was broken.”

&n
bsp; “Did it make you angry that her kitchen was messy when you like order and neatness?” Rusty Chrome Orange asks. “Did it make you want to touch her neck?”

  “I don’t like your neck!”

  “You described how Miss Larkham fell after you fought over the knife,” he says. “We’re wondering if you put the knife down and squeezed her neck while she was lying on the kitchen floor. Before you went home and told your dad what had happened?”

  The ticker tape of events in my head is stubbornly jumbled. I don’t think I’m ever going to get it straight. We’ve jumped forwards and backwards so many times, it’s impossible to straighten it out and fill in the missing gaps. How could I bear to touch Bee Larkham?

  Rusty Chrome Orange speaks again. “Did you put your hands around Miss Larkham’s neck to feel for a pulse before you ran home?”

  “She was dead. I killed her.”

  “You didn’t grab Miss Larkham around her neck and squeeze tight? Maybe by accident?”

  “No!”

  “Did you see your dad put his hands around her neck at any point?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I stand up and grab the glass of water. “I hate you!”

  I hurl it across the table. Rusty Chrome Orange ducks just in time.

  55

  Interview: Saturday, April 16, 4:24 P.M.

  I’ve apologized, of course. I had to. For throwing the glass at Rusty Chrome Orange, I mean. Not the missing his head part because I’m such a rotten shot. I’m like that in all ball games at school.

  Assaulting a police officer is a serious offense, and I don’t need that added to my list of crimes.

  I’m sorry. My head was about to explode. Sometimes I lash out.

  “I accept your apology,” Rusty Chrome Orange says. “I know this is stressful for you. You’ll feel better when you’ve had a sleep and recharged your batteries.”

  I’m not a car, dummy.

  “I’ve already told you I did it. You can take me to prison now. I don’t want to answer more questions. I want to go.”

  “You’re not going to prison.”

  He hasn’t forgiven me. He’s making things more difficult for me now because I almost assaulted him with a glass of water.

  “You’re right—a juvenile detention center or a young offenders’ institution,” I clarify. “Whatever you want to call it.”

  “We’re finished with you for now,” he says. “We’re arranging with Social Services to take you back to the temporary foster carers. If we need to speak to you again tomorrow, we’ll let your social worker know and she’ll bring you back here.”

  I don’t move. I must have misheard. This can’t be right. I killed Bee Larkham and almost assaulted a police officer.

  I’m guilty.

  “You’re free to go with your solicitor, Jasper,” Rusty Chrome Orange says. “Maggie, your social worker, will look after you.”

  “And Dad?”

  “Your dad is still being interviewed. He’ll stay with us awhile longer as we wait for forensic results.”

  I’m stuck to my chair, my hands folded around my body.

  The police and my solicitor have got mixed up again. Rusty Chrome Orange probably tried to explain it to his boss while he was out of the interview room and got it all wrong.

  As usual.

  I wait for them to realize their mistake. There’s no point standing up to be forced to sit down again straightaway.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “Ice blue crystals with glittery edges and jagged silver icicles.”

  “Listen to me, Jasper.” Richard Chamberlain’s rusty chrome orange is a more muted color than before. “We’re letting you go because you’re not responsible for the murder of Bee Larkham. We don’t believe you killed her.”

  His words make no sense.

  Dad said the nightmare would be over when I woke up the day after I stabbed her, but it wasn’t. It went on and on.

  “I did it!” I shout. “I told you I did it. I killed Bee Larkham. Don’t blame Dad. He was trying to protect me.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “I confessed to killing Bee Larkham with the knife and now I must be punished,” I say firmly. “That’s what’s supposed to happen. That’s the correct sequence of events. Why can’t you see that?”

  Rusty Chrome Orange and Dull Light Green look at each other.

  “He needs to know everything,” my solicitor says. “He may understand this better if you explain the full facts to him.”

  Rusty Chrome Orange’s head moves up and down.

  “We’re letting you go, Jasper, because we’ve received the preliminary results of the postmortem examination. We already know how she died.”

  As I watch him, my hand automatically curls around an imaginary blade, the knife that Bee Larkham used to cut the parakeet pie. The knife I held. The knife I used to kill her.

  Rusty Chrome Orange leans forward in his chair. “You were right about Miss Larkham being pregnant, Jasper. She was in the early stages. We’re running a paternity test against Lucas Drury’s and your dad’s DNA to see who the father was.”

  My hand still holds the invisible knife.

  “The postmortem has revealed historic repetitive knife marks on her wrist and thighs, which we suspect she made herself. Her right arm and left hand had superficial cuts, which we think you made that night. But they weren’t life-threatening wounds. That wasn’t why she died.”

  “I killed her,” I repeat. “She was bleeding. She was dead on the floor in the kitchen. Dad told me I did it.”

  “No, Jasper,” Rusty Chrome Orange says. “She was strangled to death, not stabbed. You didn’t kill her, Jasper. We believe someone else murdered Bee Larkham.”

  56

  DAD’S STORY

  It’s funny how two people can remember the exact same thing differently, like they’ve been guests at completely separate parties. They manage to cheat the lucky dip, grabbing the best parts to remember and ignoring the uncomfortable truths that brush against their fingers.

  Pick me, photograph me, tell people about me.

  Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe we don’t actually see everything or we forget important stuff. No one’s perfect. Least of all Dad and me. He says our boys’ camping trip to Cumbria two years ago was a fantastic holiday.

  I’d say a rude word, except I wouldn’t want to see the color.

  “It’s going to be epic,” Dad had said as we rolled our clothes on his bed. “An epic adventure for both of us.”

  Rolling was important because that’s what soldiers did to make their clothes fit into rucksacks before they went off on special operations in Afghanistan and other war zones around the world.

  Roll, roll, roll.

  It felt like making pastry for an apple pie contest instead of getting ready for war. I moved T-shirts and sweatshirts up and down with my hands, but they didn’t like those shapes and squirmed free. They wanted to make their own shapes in my Star Wars rucksack.

  “You’re not doing it right,” Dad said. “Let me do it for you. It’ll be quicker.” He forced my clothes into long sausage shapes.

  “They can go in here.” He picked up the large backpack he’d bought from an Army and Navy surplus store. He’d shown it to me eight times already, checking the compartments and fiddling with the straps over and over again. He must have been worried something would fall out. That made me nervous too.

  “You don’t need to bring your Star Wars rucksack. It’s not a proper one. This is the real thing.”

  I carried on packing my rucksack with sausage-roll clothes. It had a large zip that stretched over the top, like a mouth. Nothing could fall out. Nothing could escape.

  “I know you like your rucksack, Jasper, but it’s not necessary when I’ve got this big one.”

  I put another T-shirt inside.

  “Look, yours is a toy one. It’s not sturdy enough. It could break or get dirty. You wouldn’t like that, would you? You’d get upset. I don�
�t want you to get upset this weekend.”

  A toy rucksack?

  I was outraged on behalf of the Dark Lord. There was absolutely nothing toylike about Darth Sidious.

  “I have to bring it. I take it everywhere.”

  “I know you do, but I think it’d be good if you could get used to not taking it everywhere with you.”

  Dad had the oddest ideas sometimes. “Why. Would. I. Want. To. Do. That?”

  He sat down on the bed. “Because things can’t stay the same all the time, Jasper, however much you might want them to. We can make changes, like this weekend. We can be impulsive and go with the flow. We can decide to go camping last minute. We can take one large rucksack, instead of two. Not everything has to be regimented all the time.”

  Dad wasn’t making any sense. He’d bought an ex-military rucksack because he missed that life. We were packing our clothes like soldiers. My chest tightened. I pulled out the photograph of the campsite he’d given me to help me get used to the idea. I stared at it. Dad had said we needed to spend time together to bond after Mum’s death.

  I couldn’t understand why we needed to sit silently together in a wet field when we could not talk to each other at home.

  “My rucksack’s got lots of compartments too,” I said. “I can put stones in them.”

  “You can put whatever stones you like in here. Look at all the pockets it’s got.” Dad opened his rucksack again. “It’s like the one I used to have in the Royal Marines.”

  “Hmmm.” I rubbed my hands together and sat down on the bed.

  “What is it now, Jasper?”

  I thought hard for thirty-seven seconds. “Darth Sidious died during the battle of Endor.”

  “Fine! Bring your bloody rucksack. Just stop rocking, will you?”

  I clapped my hands over my ears to dilute the color of the swearword: sticky earwax orange.

  “Let’s try to make this weekend work,” he said. “Please. I need this break. Do it as a favor for me, Jasper. Can you do that for me?”