The Color of Bee Larkham's Murder
Page 11
I had to be brave. I had to protect my new neighbor from evil forces on our street. I stumbled back to my bedroom window.
Bang, bang, bang.
Hyacinth and bluebell tubular shapes.
Before I had time to change my mind, I hammered on my window to scare away the monster. It slipped over the side of the skip and scuttled towards the alley, which drew a dividing line between Bee Larkham’s and David Gilbert’s houses.
A car drove past, and yellow beams picked out two legs—human, not goat—in jeans. Before he was gobbled up by darkness, I saw the man’s hands. They didn’t hold anything.
His left, gloved hand was clenched into a tight, tight fist.
19
WEDNESDAY (TOOTHPASTE WHITE)
Later That Evening
I jump back into bed and wrap the duvet tightly around me. I was right to call the police that morning.
Dad had warned me about dealers. The operator should have listened to me. So should Dad.
A man had searched for something in Bee Larkham’s skip, not the devil. He couldn’t find what he was looking for among her old, unwanted belongings and the broken crockery.
He could come back.
I don’t want him to look for me.
He mustn’t ever find me.
I hide my face under the pillow but can still see the hues from the skip. The colors from Bee Larkham’s kitchen.
I can’t escape from these shades.
I need to sleep.
I want to close my eyes and never see icicles again.
• • •
I’m falling down Alice in Wonderland’s rabbit hole, scrabbling about to get a footing.
Eat me.
Drink me.
Now I’m swimming through the Pool of Tears. Other animals and birds have been swept up in the tears, along with me. At least I’m not alone.
Tortoises. Elephants. Kangaroos.
Parakeets.
Twelve parakeets are in the water too, but they’re not trying to get to dry land like the others. They’re already dead.
A giant dancing china lady stands motionless on the banks, blood dripping down her immaculate, glossy white gown. She watches as four and twenty blackbirds float past. They don’t belong here. Neither does she.
My tummy mouth itches. I want to pull it open and let the birds fly out. I can’t.
I’m back in the kitchen at 20 Vincent Gardens.
Dazzling crystal whites.
I hate you!
You’re killing me!
Stop, I’m begging you!
I’m lying on top of Bee Larkham. Her eyes are shut. I stagger to my feet. She’s lying on her back on the kitchen floor. She doesn’t get up. She doesn’t open her eyes.
Blood’s spattered on the tiles and down her noncobalt-blue dress.
Blood drips down my hand. It’s all over my sweatshirt.
Glittering silver icicles stab my tummy.
I’m sorry.
Bee doesn’t try to stop me this time. She’s done fighting. She’s given up. She knows it’s all over.
Her eyes stay closed as I pick up the knife again from the floor. She doesn’t want to watch. Neither do the parakeets. They turn their heads away. The Dancing China Lady doesn’t flinch. She’s shrunk back to normal size and can’t peel her eyes away from the weapon.
Glint, glint, glint.
• • •
I wake up sweating, unable to move, unable to shake off the hues from my dream.
I open my mouth and yell silently for Mum.
Those kinds of screams never produce any colors.
20
THURSDAY (APPLE GREEN)
Morning
Crisp apple green days are usually worth getting up for, because I have double art before lunch. Today’s different. Dad’s keeping me off school. It’s 8:46 A.M. and I’m lying in bed, staring at the fifty-two stars studded on the ceiling. Dad tried to re-create my bedroom back in Plymouth, the one Mum decorated when I was little, before we kept moving in and out of grotty rented houses across the country.
You can’t hold on to the past.
I’d wanted to tell Bee Larkham that Important Fact the first day we spoke, but I couldn’t risk upsetting her with the truth. I left it far too late with Bee. I need to teach that lesson to Dad before he makes another blunder, which will get us into even more trouble.
It’s not his fault the stars are in the wrong places. I remember where they should go in the map in my head, where they were in Plymouth, but I can’t return them to their real home. Someone else lives there now. They can’t ever go back. If I attempt to chip them off, they’ll stubbornly peel off the paint and leave the ceiling pockmarked and ugly. It’d end up feeling unloved because I’d never stare up at it again.
Leave it alone. That’s the best course of action.
That’s what I think about repositioning the stars, but also about the other stuff. I was determined to do the right thing last night after I’d painted the real picture of my first meeting with Bee Larkham. Now, my resolve wobbles like green Halloween jelly.
Probably because of The Devil on paper and my latest nightmare.
Do I truly want to go back over Bee Larkham’s story? Isn’t it better to do what Dad suggested and repaint the bad stuff with fresh, uncorrupted colors?
Forget everything.
I reach for the picture of Mum from beside the bed. I count across the heads and find her in the group, clutching a small boy as if she can’t bear to let him go. Me.
Brave boy.
That’s what she used to call me, even when I wasn’t. Even when I cried because I didn’t like the colors and spiky shapes of trucks rumbling past as we walked down the street.
I don’t feel brave now. I can’t get warm however many blankets I carry from my den to the bed. I feel the touch of the icicles.
I’m scared of the man who climbed out of Bee Larkham’s skip. He didn’t find what he was looking for that night, which means he could come back. He saw my face. He knows where I live.
I’m scared of Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man, who banged on Bee Larkham’s front door. He saw me too.
I’m scared of dogs: Lucas Drury’s Reddish Orange Triangles and David Gilbert’s Yellow French Fries.
Most of all, I’m scared of letting Mum down. She’d want me to carry on, I’m sure.
When I was nine, she told me I had to be courageous, more courageous than I’d ever been before in my life.
It’s important to tell the truth, even when it scares you.
She said the doctors couldn’t make her cancer better. I had every right to be angry, but it wasn’t the doctors’ fault, or hers, or Dad’s or mine. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.
She was angry too. And frightened. That was her truth. Also this:
You won’t go through this alone, I promise.
Daddy is here for you and I will always love you.
You will always be my brave, beautiful boy.
Nothing will ever change that.
Believe me, Jasper.
That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to listen to Mum’s honest cobalt blue and ignore Dad’s misleading muddy ocher. I’m going to paint all day and night, all week, until I remember correctly, until absolutely every brushstroke is in its proper place. It could leave unsightly marks, like a ceiling without stars, but it’s the right thing to do.
Before I begin, I check behind the curtains. The police car that was parked outside Bee Larkham’s house has spawned another.
One, two, three, four.
That’s how many police officers are knocking on doors along the street. I know they’re not going to find out anything useful because the neighbors don’t know what’s gone on. Karen next door is always busy reporting on other people’s stories, Ted at number 13 is probably out job hunting, and number 25’s Magda and Izaak push a fire engine red pram around at strange times of the day and night. Dad says the only thing they ever talk about is Jakub and how badly he sleeps.r />
David Gilbert, of course, knows everything.
Then, my heart leaps. It feels like it’s trying to burst alien-like out of my chest. I tear open the curtains. Parakeets cling to all the feeders in Bee Larkham’s front garden. The man from number 18—Custard Yellow—listened to me.
He bought seed after he left me with the policewoman and filled all six feeders. He’s a good man; he doesn’t care about David Gilbert’s reaction. He wants to do the right thing. Like me.
“The police are back.”
The muddy ocher voice by the door makes me catch my breath. I spin around, almost falling over.
“I’m sorry.” The man—Dad—walks towards me, wearing blue jeans and a blue shirt. “I didn’t mean to make you jump. Are you watching them?”
I don’t want to speak to him. I force the words out. “Yes. I’m watching the parakeets. The young haven’t left yet. Maybe a few more days until they’re fledged.”
“I meant the police, but never mind. There are loads of parakeets today, right? I don’t think any could have died. Not as many as you say.”
“Twelve,” I mutter back. “Exactly twelve, not more or less.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
I don’t reply. There’s no point. Dad can’t rewind time and bring all the parakeets back from the dead. He can’t paint over these facts. I won’t let him.
“The police still haven’t heard from Bee,” he continues. “That means someone else topped up the feeders this morning. It couldn’t have been David, and I doubt it’s Ollie. He hates their racket and won’t want to get on the wrong side of David.”
That’s another lie because Ollie Watkins is a bird lover, like me. He’s lost his mum too. It could be a trick. Dad could be trying to get me to admit I have an accomplice. If I confirm Ollie Watkins is feeding the parakeets, he’ll make him stop.
“I didn’t do it,” I stress.
“I know that, Jasper.” He steps back from the window. “Careful. The police think we’re watching them.”
A woman in uniform raises her hand.
I don’t move. “We are watching them,” I point out. “We’re not using binoculars this time because that would be considered rude by other people on the street. No one likes a spy.”
“Come away from there. They’ll wonder what we’re up to.”
“It’s too late,” I say. “I think they already know what we’re up to.”
The woman in uniform crosses the road and walks towards our house. I grip the windowsill as my legs shake and my heart pounds bruised damson shapes.
“She’s coming, Dad. She’s going to arrest me for what I did to Bee Larkham. The police have figured it out. They’ve solved the crime.”
“No one’s going to arrest you, and for the last time, stop worrying about Bee.” Dad’s voice is spiky and hard. “The police still don’t know anything about Friday night. You just need to do exactly as I say. Stay up here and don’t come down. I’ll sort this out.”
He bounds down the stairs and must have reached the door before the policewoman knocked because I don’t see any dark brown shapes. I tiptoe to the top of the landing.
“Hi! Can I help you?”
“Is it OK if I come inside, Mr. Wishart?” Tinned tuna color.
“I’m waiting for an important call, to be perfectly honest. I’m working from home today.”
That’s another lie, I’m sure. Not about working from home. I mean the telephone call. His voice has darkened because the falsehood’s catching in his throat, but the policewoman won’t notice. She doesn’t realize what the colors look like when he lies, the way I do.
“It’ll only be for a few minutes.”
“Of course. Come in. Sorry. I apologize for the mess. The cleaner hasn’t been this week.”
That’s because the cleaner doesn’t exist unless you count Dad wearing bright yellow rubber gloves and halfheartedly scrubbing the toilet basin every fortnight.
I hear dark orange footsteps in the hallway. As they enter the sitting room, I creep down the stairs, careful to avoid the fifth, creaking, brownish pink step. The door is ajar and there’s a pop of maroon as someone sits in the leather armchair. Dad, probably. It’s his favorite seat. He’ll have raced the policewoman to sit there first.
“What do you do, Mr. Wishart, if you don’t mind me asking?” the policewoman asks. “Workwise?”
“You can call me Ed,” he replies. “I work for a business software company now, designing apps.”
“That sounds exciting.”
“Hardly. It’s things like data systems and survey apps, which are incredibly dull, but I work regular hours, most of the time anyway, when we’re not bidding for new contracts. I get to spend more time with Jasper. That’s important, you know, with his problems. Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to hear all about this. How can I help?”
“It’s about your neighbor Bee Larkham,” the woman says. “How well do you know her?”
Dad thinks for a few seconds. He’s learnt this technique from the Royal Marines and TV shows like Criminal Minds.
It’s important to stop and think before blurting out something by accident. Don’t give in to interrogation techniques.
“To be honest, I don’t know her all that well,” he says finally. “I mean, only as well as other people on the street. Enough to say hello and goodbye to.”
“Your son is a regular visitor to her house? Isn’t that right?” There’s a rustle of paper. The policewoman must be consulting her notebook the way I do, to make sure she hasn’t made any mistakes. “He takes music lessons with her?”
“No, it’s nothing as formal as that. He likes listening to music. They both do. He used to pop around after school to watch the parakeets from her bedroom window.” He stops. “Wow, that sounds bad when I say it out loud. Jasper said it was the best view. I didn’t think to question it. It sounded innocent. Jasper is an innocent.”
More silence.
“Obviously, I’ve put a stop to all that now, considering the allegations,” he says. “I’ve told him not to go anywhere near Bee’s house, even to feed the parakeets.”
Dad’s doing all the talking, which breaks the rules.
Don’t try to fill silences.
“I mean, you have to understand, I’d never have let him go over there, let alone up to her bedroom, if I suspected any funny business.”
The policewoman speaks finally. “Do you suspect funny business went on at Twenty Vincent Gardens now?”
“I honestly don’t know what to think. I mean the allegations from that boy’s dad are shocking. I find them hard to believe, but why would he lie about something as serious as that?”
There’s another short silence.
“Can I ask why you find what’s alleged to have happened between Bee Larkham and a minor hard to believe?”
That’s cornered Dad. He mutters something. His words come out in a jumble, so he starts again.
“I mean, she never struck me as predatory. You know, a pedophile. She seemed, well, normal. She didn’t seem interested in Jasper. Well not in that way, anyway. They were friends.”
“You didn’t think it odd that a woman in her early twenties wanted to be friends with someone your son’s age?”
The chair creaks darker maroon circles.
“Look, I’ve told you. I didn’t suspect anything. I had no idea about the notes and the presents you say Jasper delivered for her. Bee and Jasper both love music. They love the parakeets that nest in her tree. They have that in common too. That’s what drew them together.”
Also Lucas Drury.
“Is there anything else? I should be getting on. I’m expecting my work call any minute.” Color bursts from the chair again as Dad fidgets.
“Just a few more questions, Mr. Wishart, if I may? Does Miss Larkham have any family that she could be visiting?”
“I don’t think she has any family left. Her late mother lived on this street for donkey’s years, but they were e
stranged. David at number twenty-two might know more about other possible relations or Ollie at number eighteen. His mum passed away recently and she was best friends with Pauline Larkham, apparently.”
“What about her friends or boyfriends? Is there anyone else who could help us track down her current whereabouts?”
Only Dad holds the secret to Bee Larkham’s whereabouts, but he’s unlikely to give up the location of her body.
“I wouldn’t know, sorry,” Dad says. “Again, David Gilbert’s your best bet. He’s lived here for years and is always the first to know what’s happening on this street. He’s into everyone’s business, if you get my drift.”
“You have no idea where Miss Larkham could be?”
Dad doesn’t miss a single beat.
“None. Whatsoever.” He takes a breath. “I haven’t seen her for days.”
Even I can tell he’s made a mistake. He should have ended the sentence after “whatsoever.” He shouldn’t have panicked and carried on, because he’s invited another question from the policewoman.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Let me see.” Dad’s flustered. His chair’s squeaking dark brownish plum. “She’s usually around at weekends because she plays her music loudly and upsets the neighbors. I don’t think I remember hearing anything this weekend. Have you asked David or Ollie over the road?”
He’s playing for time again, but the policewoman’s noticed he hasn’t answered her question properly.
“I’ll ask them, thanks. When was the last time you saw Miss Larkham?”
I suck in my breath. It all comes down to this. Is Dad finally going to tell the truth or not?
“Me? That would probably have been last Friday. Yes, definitely Friday. Friday was the last time.”
“And where was that?”
“How do you mean?”
“Where did you see Miss Larkham? Here? Elsewhere?”
“Oh, I see. Here. On this street. Well, at her house. The front door of her house, anyway. I didn’t go inside.”
“What time was that?”
“It’d have been about nine thirty in the evening, I guess. I don’t know exactly.”