The Color of Bee Larkham's Murder

by Sarah J. Harris

  Lucas Drury won’t either, if he finds out what I’ve done to Bee Larkham. I wish I could avoid him at school tomorrow, but I can’t.

  It’s impossible to hide from someone you don’t recognize.

  7

  WEDNESDAY (TOOTHPASTE WHITE)

  Morning

  I say hello to the young parakeets through the crack in the curtains—our daily routine. I estimate these small birds are just over six weeks old. They usually caw playful shades of cornflower blue and buttercup yellow balloons back. Today, they preen their feathers and chatter among themselves. They’re ignoring me because I didn’t protect them. Only two in the tree and five adults—far, far fewer birds than usual. One’s pecking at the empty feeder, willing it to spew out seed. It can’t understand what’s gone wrong.

  I don’t open my curtains completely in case Richard Chamberlain’s eavesdropping men are watching me. I take a quick peek. Two little girls in blue uniforms run out of number 24: Molly and Sara live at this address. A woman chases after them—probably their mum, Cindy. She always dresses the girls in similar clothing—even at the weekends—so I never know which one’s Molly and which one’s Sara from up here.

  I can’t see any vans on our street. Or police cars. No detectives banging on the front door of Bee Larkham’s house.

  The house looks exactly the same as last night:

  Deserted.

  Reproachful.

  Vengeful.

  I keep the curtains shut and pull on my school uniform, carefully, making the least amount of movement possible. My tummy sings prickly stars. I’m not sure if I’ve got an infection, we still haven’t seen a doctor. Dad’s looking after me instead. That’s safer.

  A doctor would ask us both too many difficult questions.

  I tuck one of Mum’s buttons in my trouser pocket. I cut it off her cardigan and carry it around with me, which means she’s never far away whenever I get stressed.

  Next, I stick a five-pound note into my blazer pocket. It’s dog-eared and torn, making my scalp itch, but I can’t replace it. I have no pocket money left.

  Without looking, I stick my hand under the bed. I know the exact spot to aim for. My fingers clasp around something cold and unforgiving: a disfigured china lady. I was too ashamed to return her to Bee Larkham two months ago and now it’s far too late to own up.

  I hide the broken ornament under my blazer—she’s unable to return home but can’t stay in my bedroom either. Not anymore. That wouldn’t be right.

  I check the forget-me-not blue blanket hangs down properly, sealing the entrance to my den, and pull the bedroom door shut. Twice. To make sure it’s closed. Only then can I go downstairs.

  Dad’s frying bacon in the kitchen. He doesn’t turn around. I use the chance to stuff the ornament into my school bag, next to the maths worksheets for Mrs. Thompson. They sting my fingers reproachfully. She gave them out last Thursday and I haven’t got round to them yet.

  Dad never cooks a fry-up on a school day. We only have bacon on Sunday mornings before football practice, which he makes me go to. I didn’t play football this weekend or sit on the bench in Richmond Park, which is inscribed with Mum’s name. Dad didn’t go for a run. If anyone had watched us, they’d have realized the Wishart family routine—as well as Bee Larkham’s—was off.

  My legs want to bolt and not stop running until I’m covered in blankets in the corner of my bedroom.

  “Grab a plate, Jasper. It’s almost done. We both need a good breakfast today.”

  Good. It’s that dumb word again.

  A good night. A good breakfast. A good day. It’s not a good color; it’s brash yellow with a slushy dark purple core.

  I don’t want the bacon Dad forgot to fry on Sunday.

  I pick up my favorite blue-and-white striped bowl and reach for the cereal packet.

  Rustle, rustle. Crinkly dashes of iceberg lettuce.

  The pieces drop into my bowl, up to the lip of the second stripe. I pour in the milk until it reaches the gray crack in the enamel. It’s a delicate operation. Above the crack, the cereal is ruined and I have to throw it away and start again.

  Dad doesn’t turn around. He tuts light brown dots. “Have it your own way. All the more for me.”

  Using tongs, he picks up the bacon from the pan and piles the pieces onto his plate. He sits in his usual seat at the table, opposite me, which he says encourages me to practice eye contact and my conversational skills.

  I will his chair to magically sprout wings, soar into the air, and fly out of the kitchen window.

  I pick up my spoon and stare at the seven Cheerios floating like mini life rafts in the milk. My throat tightens. I drop five of the Cheerios back into the sea.

  “You’re feeling OK today, Jasper, because I’ve got meetings all day at work.”

  I can’t detect a question mark in that sentence. It sounds like a statement.

  “Yes.” It’s another lie, but it’s what he wants to hear. I can say things I don’t mean if it helps Dad. He does the same for me.

  He’s going through a lot. Like me. Except he doesn’t have Mum’s cardigan to rub.

  “Good news.” He breathes out. “I’ve got a late conference call. You’ll need to let yourself in with the spare key.”

  I cough as a Cheerio catches in my throat. The cereal tastes wrong. Off somehow. The milk too. I check the labels in case Dad’s accidentally bought the wrong brands. They’re the same as usual. It must be me. I’m different this morning.

  Will my classmates notice? Will the teachers? Has Dad?

  “You can do that, right?” he asks. “It’s not a problem, Jasper? The key’s in the usual place. Under the flowerpot.”

  I push my bowl away, brandishing the spoon like a weapon.

  Too much. I can’t do this.

  Three Cheerios are drowning. I can’t make up my mind whether to save them or not. They should have learnt to swim, but it’s wrong not to help. It’d be like failing to make a 999 call.

  “Yes. I can do that. Right. It’s not a problem.”

  It is a problem. My problem. I don’t want to be alone here, watched by the windows in Bee Larkham’s house.

  “I meant what I said last night,” he says, biting into the bacon. “We both need to move on. You’re to stay away from Bee’s house. You’re not to go anywhere near it.” He chews, making his jaw click baby pink. “I don’t want to find out from one of the neighbors you’ve been feeding the parakeets after school. Do you understand? Her front garden’s a no-go zone, along with the alley at the back.”

  The spoon drops from my hand, a red-tinged clattering. “Which neighbor would tell you I’ve fed the parakeets?” My five-pound note crackles as I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I’m glad he can’t see the grayish mint color coming from my pocket, that he can’t see any colors. He can’t see me. Not properly, anyway.

  Dad laughs deep, mellow ocher.

  “I’m not going to say who my spies are on the street. That would blow their cover.”

  This is news to me and not of the good variety, like winning the lottery or discovering a cure for cancer. There are spies on our street, spies other than me who look out of their windows with binoculars and make notes about people. Spies other than the ones in the blacked-out van that forced Dad and me to speak in code about Bee Larkham’s body.

  Is David Gilbert the treacherous spy? I bet it’s him.

  I always thought David Gilbert was only observing the parakeets, waiting for the chance to kill them.

  He tricked me into watching the wrong suspect all along.

  “Yes, Dad. We both need to move on.” Like the van from last night, which will probably return later to check up on me.

  “Good boy. Now eat up. You need to build up your strength.” He nudges the bowl towards me, spilling milk.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I’ll make some toast. Or I could defrost a bagel?”

  I push my chair back and walk into the hall. Slowly, I ease my arms
into my old winter coat. That’s all I can find to wear.

  “What is it, Son?”

  Dad’s followed me into the hall.

  At first I think he’s got X-ray vision and plans to frisk me for the five-pound note, but he ignores the blazer and peers under my shirt even though I tell him I’ve changed the dressing.

  “It’s looking better,” he says. “Remember, don’t show anyone your stomach and don’t run around in the playground. It could make it a lot worse.”

  “I won’t run unless someone’s chasing me and I have to get away,” I point out. “It’s the only logical thing to do. I can’t stand still and be caught. That would be madness.”

  “Jasper . . .” His eyes burn into my forehead.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re going to get through this, I promise.”

  Dad’s promised a lot lately. I won’t hold him to this on top of everything else. I take a deep breath and open the front door. Dad can’t take me to school this morning because he has a busy day at work. He walks to the end of the garden path. I know what he’s doing—he’s making sure I don’t cross the road and walk past Bee Larkham’s house. Worse still, I might go through the gate to refill the bird feeders. But I can’t do that because he’s hidden my bag of seed.

  I check over my shoulder. Once he’s gone back into the house, I break into a run that stabs my tummy. I have to get off this street ASAP. I’m careful after Dad’s warning, making sure David Gilbert doesn’t follow me along Vincent Gardens and right into Pembroke Avenue.

  When I reach Harborne Street, 100 percent positive I’m alone, I pull out Bee Larkham’s mutilated ornament. She was the first china lady to be smashed. I tried to glue her back together, but she hates the way she looks now: the blemished face, the ruined gown and broken parasol.

  Pieces are missing.

  She blames me.

  I chuck her in a rubbish bin and hurry towards school.

  I feel guilty, but it was the kindest thing to do.

  I couldn’t help her.

  I couldn’t make her whole again.

  8

  WEDNESDAY (TOOTHPASTE WHITE)

  Later That Morning

  I’m safe in maths first period. Lucas Drury won’t be able to find me in 312b. We don’t share any lessons; he’s in Year 11. I like this class even though it’s tough. I’m behind because I haven’t done my homework from last week. It’s only a few pages, but it feels like they’ve covered a whole new syllabus.

  Mrs. Thompson has promised to help me catch up. She’s my favorite teacher by far. She has a lovely, dark navy blue voice and helpfully rotates her tops to match her black trousers on a strict regime. Today’s Wednesday, which means it’s the turn of the racing green blouse.

  None of the other female teachers dress like her. They have a weird aversion to color and routine, like the male members of staff, who stick to gray, blue, or black suits.

  Apart from her easy-to-identify appearance, the best thing about Mrs. Thompson is that she insists on a seating plan. Everyone has to sit in the same place, every single lesson. No discussion, no arguments.

  I always sit at the back, fourth seat from the left, which means I’ve had the chance to memorize the backs of people’s heads and place them in a grid.

  It goes something like this:

  Row 1, seat 3: Susie Taylor, dome-shaped skull, shoulder-length blond hair

  Row 2, seat 4: Isaiah Hadad, acne scars on back of neck, short, black hair

  Row 3, seat 1: Gemma Coben, dandruff on blazer, greasy, mousy blond hair

  Row 3, seat 2: Aar Chandhoke, gray turban

  Row 3, seat 3: Jeanne Boucher, black cornrows

  It’s like playing Guess Who? backwards, but unlike other games this one I actually have a chance of winning. Unless my classmates turn around, of course, or I’m asked to recognize the students in my row, further along to my right. I can’t remember what they look like. I haven’t been able to memorize their heads from this position.

  “Algebraic equations can be written in the form y equals mx plus c,” Mrs. Thompson says. “We can draw a straight-line graph. Everyone make a start before the bell and we’ll pick up from here next time.”

  I’ve left my ruler at home and have to use the edge of my folder to draw the line. It’s wonky, the way I feel this morning.

  An orange juice color erupts from row 2, seat 5: curly-red-haired Lydia Tyler is arguing with Mrs. Thompson.

  “That’s God’s honest truth, I swear,” she says loudly.

  “Make your mind up, Lydia.” Mrs Thompson snaps like an angry turtle. “I’d suggest you get your story straight before you earn another detention this week.”

  Straight lines.

  Straight stories.

  Those are the best stories, but also the hardest to tell.

  Will Lucas Drury tell the truth to Richard Chamberlain about Bee Larkham? What has he told the police already? I don’t understand how they got involved. Lucas said he’d sorted everything last week.

  My dad believes my story. I think I’ve got away with it, but warn Bee not to try and contact me. Got that, Jasper?

  “Are you feeling OK, Jasper? Do you want to borrow my ruler to help you draw a proper straight line?”

  Mrs. Thompson has finished her argument about straight stories with Lydia. I expect she won; you have to be smart to be a maths teacher. She’s standing beside my desk, staring down at my pathetic graph. It curls up in shame under her hard gaze.

  Silvery yellow dancing lines ring through the air.

  “Saved by the bell,” Mrs. Thompson says.

  She’s wrong. I haven’t been saved at all. It’s first break. I can’t hide in her class any longer. I have to brave the corridors.

  “Is everything all right, Jasper? You’re trembling.”

  Mrs. Thompson and me are always on the same wavelength. She understands patterns and the need for order. I want to tell her there’s a slit in my tummy, like a mouth. As I stand and push my chair back, it opens and closes again; the pain makes silver, pointy stars dance on my skin.

  Don’t tell anyone what you did to Bee Larkham.

  Keep your mouth shut.

  I leave the classroom without replying because I don’t want to lie. I can do it to other people, but not to Mrs. Thompson. The truth is, I don’t know how I got hurt. I can’t remember what happened to my tummy. I only recall parts of Friday night. My brain’s blocked out the rest. It’s fuzzy and no distinct color becomes clear.

  My best guess?

  I accidentally slashed myself with the knife when I murdered Bee Larkham.

  • • •

  A hand stretches out from the bundle of black trousers and black blazers traveling down the corridor. It thrusts me against the wall. To be honest, I’m surprised I’ve made it this far without being caught.

  The boy’s face is indistinguishable from the Blazers accompanying him. I concentrate on his hand instead. It has a telephone number written in blue Biro on the skin. Would Lucas Drury’s dad pick up if I rang it? Or his younger brother, Lee? Lee used to have electric guitar lessons with Bee Larkham. I enjoyed the range of his colors.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I didn’t tell the police anything about you and Bee yesterday, I promise. They only asked me about school friends and condoms.”

  “Are you having a laugh?” The boy’s face looms at me, his voice a dark nutmeg brown. “Why are you talking about bees and condoms?”

  I flinch at the spiky turmeric swearword that follows.

  “I—I, don’t know anything,” I stutter.

  The Biro hand doesn’t belong to Lucas Drury; his voice is the wrong color. I have no idea who this is. His shade is similar to lots of boys’ voices in this school. Dull brown, not interesting enough to paint.

  I look up and down the corridor, hoping to see someone who isn’t wearing a uniform. I draw a blank. I wish Mrs. Thompson would appear, but she’s probably at her desk, marking books. She’s hardworking like that and de
ad brainy and organized.

  “Damn right you don’t know anything.” The boy’s hand dives into my blazer pocket and pulls out my five-pound note. It’s as if he knew exactly where to find it. How is that possible?

  “That’s mine,” I whisper.

  “Pardon?” Biro Hand’s face looms closer. Pasty and acne-scarred.

  I hadn’t noticed those details before. I glance away, my eyes pierced by daggers. I need the money to buy seed from the pet shop for the parakeets, but I can’t find my voice. I can’t tell Biro Hand anything.

  “Think of this as a retard tax. It’s money you owe me for getting in my way.” He pats my pockets down again. “Let’s see. Nah. Thought not. As if you’d have condoms! You couldn’t even get a pity shag.”

  He pockets my money, whistling yellow-brown spiraling lines, and returns to the Blazers. The gang has swelled in size. Their giggles and taunts are thunderclouds of dark gray with streaks of cabbage green.

  I don’t try to stop him. No point. He’s twice my size and I won’t be able to wrestle my money off him. Now what am I going to do? I’ve got less than half a bag of seed hidden somewhere at home and no more cash left. I can’t borrow money from Dad; he’ll ask what I want it for.

  I can’t admit I’m planning to disobey him and feed the parakeets. I’ll head back to Bee Larkham’s house while he’s working late. Well, technically not her house. Her front garden. I’m not brave enough to go inside. I’m afraid of what I might find.

  I walk down the corridor, away from Biro Hand. Too slow. Within seconds, he’s caught up with me again. This time he puts his hand on my shoulder, making me jump. I don’t look at him. His pockmarks make me think of moon craters. If I stare at them, they’ll swallow me up and I won’t be able to climb out again.

  “I don’t have another five-pound note,” I say.

  “I don’t want your money, Jasper.” He hisses whitish, almost translucent lines. I can’t identify the true color. I look down at his right hand. It doesn’t have a phone number written on it.

  This isn’t Biro Hand.

  He whispers in my ear: “I want to know what you’ve told the police about me and Bee Larkham.”