My heart’s pumping brighter electric red as my hand reaches out and pushes open the gate. It’s bust and doesn’t open or shut properly, like some of the panels in the fence.
Bee planned to fix up the back garden but never got round to it. It’s as overgrown as ours. I keep my eyes down so I don’t have to look at the accusing windows. In my peripheral vision, I can see the back door’s shut. I don’t remember opening or closing it on Friday night.
I only remember running away.
I find the small ornamental stone flamingo and flip it backwards. I shift it around, until I’m absolutely sure.
There’s nothing there either.
Bee Larkham’s spare key has vanished too. Dad forgot to put it back where it belonged after his cleanup operation. If the police search our house and find her key in a jar or pot, it’s a mistake that could land us both in jail.
I’m about to retreat when I see petrol green-black darts.
Someone’s jangling the latch at the back gate.
It’s probably the police.
They’re looking for evidence about what happened to Bee Larkham too. They’ve finally followed the trail of bread crumbs.
I mustn’t be caught here. How do I get out? I can’t escape. My arms aren’t strong enough to haul me over the fence. It’s too high anyway. I don’t want to squeeze through the hole in the paneling into next door’s garden; I might get splinters.
No choice.
I dive among the recycling bins in the lean-to. Flies buzz around the bags, which should have been put out on the street for garbage collection on Monday morning.
Bee didn’t stick to her usual start-of-the-week routine.
Another clue Rusty Chrome Orange and the other officers should have spotted, along with the empty bird feeders.
White trainers tap tap bluish black past me and stop at the back door. The legs are blue jeans. I glance up. This isn’t a police officer. A man wearing a dark blue baseball cap stands by the door, his hands on the glass. He’s staring inside the house, searching for Bee Larkham. If he glances down he’ll see me. I can’t move.
I hold my breath as he bends over and picks up a brick with his left hand.
He has seen me. He’s going to club me to death for my horrible crime. I open my mouth, about to scream, when I see greenish ice cubes with sharp edges. The man drops the brick, which makes a dull blackboard thud on the ground.
I watch as his arm disappears through the broken glass. His hand jangles the handle inside.
“Shit.”
His hand reappears and flies up to his mouth. He sucks the skin as blood drips down his arm and spatters onto the ground. A droplet lands on his white trainer.
I’m going to throw up.
The blood spattered on Bee Larkham’s kitchen floor when we fought over the knife.
Drip, drip, drip.
Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man’s arm dives into the broken glass again, and this time he steps back, swinging open the door.
He’s broken into Bee Larkham’s house.
I should stop him. I can’t breathe. I close my eyes. If Dad hasn’t moved the body, if he couldn’t get through the alleyway, the burglar will discover it. He’ll find Bee Larkham lying on her back in the kitchen, blood spattered down her noncobalt-blue dress.
That’s where I left her after she fell backwards, trying to get away from my slashing knife. Actually that fact’s wrong too. It wasn’t my knife. I used Bee Larkham’s knife, the knife she used to cut the pie she’d baked for my tea.
“Hey! You! What are you doing back here?” It’s a dull red voice with grainy scratches. David Gilbert. A dog barks yellow French fries.
I’ve been trying to cover up what I did, because those were Dad’s orders. I don’t want to follow his orders anymore. I want it all to be over.
“Are you a friend of Beatrice’s?”
I’m about to crawl out and confess to the bird killer when another male voice speaks. It’s muddy dark brown.
“Fuck off, mate, and stay out of this.” This color comes from beside me, where Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man stands.
Two men are in the garden. One, wearing cherry cords and a flat brown cap, is by the gate. A dog’s straining on the leash he’s holding.
“I think you’ll find this is my business since I’m head of the local Neighbourhood Watch,” David Gilbert says. “Did you smash that glass?”
I don’t know the identity of the man in the dark blue baseball cap. He’s offered up a few clues: the baseball cap and the color of his voice, which are both vaguely familiar.
He’s been here before. I recorded a Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man in my notebook. He shouted clouds of dirty brown with charcoal edges at Bee Larkham’s front door when we got back from the police station on Tuesday. He saw me watching him at the window and walked towards our house but never knocked.
Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man steps away from the door. He steps away from me. “You like to keep an eye on what’s going on around here, do you, mate?”
The mate—David Gilbert—also takes a step backwards as Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man approaches.
“Tell me this. Where the hell was a friggin’ busybody like you when my sons were being abused by this pedo?”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” David Gilbert’s back is pressed up against the gate. His dog barks brighter, thornier yellow colors. “I don’t know anything about Beatrice’s business.”
“Business? That’s what you call it? Clear off and let me do what the police should have done days ago.”
He stalks towards the house again.
“I wouldn’t advise you to do that. I’m calling the police. Whatever you think Beatrice’s done, you’re trespassing on private property.” David Gilbert fumbles in his pocket and drops his phone. It clatters short brown lines with purple shadows on the ground. As he reaches down to pick it up, he sees me.
“Jasper?” He stabs his finger at the phone and puts it to his ear.
Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man looks down. “Jasper Wishart? Is that you? Get the hell out of there!”
I try to burrow deeper into the bins as he clasps my shoulder. I manage to wriggle free, but he catches hold of my leg and pulls. I grab hold of the bin. It’s slippery and I lose my grip.
“Are you doing that bitch’s dirty work again?”
“Get off!” I yell. “Get off me!” I aim kicks at him, but he’s too strong. As he drags me out, I scream bigger and bigger jagged clouds of aquamarine. I hear the dull redness of David Gilbert’s voice in the background, telling him to stop.
“Not until you tell me where she is!” Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man yanks me towards his spitting face. It’s red and sweaty. His eyes bulge and his breath smells of Bee Larkham’s house party.
Beer and lies.
Up close, his baseball cap doesn’t look dark blue. It’s faded navy and has the initials NYY embroidered on the front.
I’ve seen it before.
“Tell me what she did to Lee. You know what’s been going on. Did she molest him as well? Or only Lucas? Tell me. I have to know if she touched my youngest. He just turned twelve for fuck’s sake. What else was she giving him for free, apart from the music lessons?”
I close my eyes to block out his face and the colors. This is Lucas Drury’s dad. His baseball cap is distinctive; I definitely remember it. I can’t forget it.
Bee Larkham had warned me about this man:
He’s got a bad temper. Lucas is safer with me than at home. I can protect him and his brother as long as Lee continues with his music lessons. I’ll teach him for free. That way both boys can keep coming here and stay out of their dad’s way. You will help me do that, won’t you, Jasper? Help me keep those poor boys safe from their abusive dad?
I feel like I’m falling, yet I don’t hit the ground. Faded Navy Baseball Cap Man’s hands hold me up.
“I can’t do this. I’m too young. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.”
“Stop it!” He shakes my sho
ulders hard. “I know this is a stupid act you and Lucas dreamt up to protect that pedo. It might fool the police, but it doesn’t fool me. I know you’re both trying to defend her. Why? Why would you help a perv like that? Is it because you’re getting some on the side as well?”
“Let go! You’re frightening him.” Dull grainy red.
I open my eyes. Hands appear in front of my face. They’re grappling with Faded Navy Baseball Cap Man. It must be David Gilbert because there are still only two men in Bee Larkham’s back garden. The dog barks and barks.
“He should be frightened,” Faded Navy Baseball Cap Man says. “Or he can be beaten into telling the truth. It’s his choice. I’ll get it out of him either way because the police are getting nowhere with him. I know that for a fact.”
“I’ve called the police and they’re on their way,” David Gilbert says. “Now let go of Jasper before you make this any worse for yourself. Touching him like that is assault and you’ve already broken a window.”
Faded Navy Baseball Cap Man’s fist swings upwards. He’s going to beat me into confessing, but that’s what I’ve been trying to do ever since my First Account.
“No, mate, this is an assault,” he says.
There’s a purple bruised thud as his fist strikes a face. It’s not mine. The other man—David Gilbert—lets out a cry of brittle red splinters and falls to the ground. The dog whimpers, pale, uncooked frozen fries, and cowers behind him.
“I told you to keep the hell out of this. This is my business. They’re my sons.” Faded Navy Baseball Cap Man turns to face me again.
“Does she have a laptop or a computer in there?” He jerks his head at the house. “Or an iPad? Something that will tell me where the hell she’s hiding?”
He shakes me hard again, but my lips have frozen and can’t form words. I can’t tell him the truth: I have no idea where she is because Dad never admitted what he did with the body on Friday night or possibly over the weekend.
As he lets go, I slide to the ground next to David Gilbert, the bird killer. Blood’s gushing from his cheek and he’s gasping for breath. He catches hold of my arm as the other man darts into the house.
“The police will be here any minute,” he says. “They’ll deal with him. Until they get here, keep next to me. I won’t let him hurt you. I promise.”
I hear the thin pastel yellow and soft pink zigzags of police sirens in the distance.
“That’s the police now.” He stands up unsteadily. “We need to get back onto the street. We’ll both be safer there.”
He sways, holding the side of his face. The other hand reaches down to help me up. Too late. Faded Navy Baseball Cap Man shoots out of the house, an iPad tucked under his arm. As he moves, a tiny, sharp silver splinter flies out from beneath his trainer and strikes the ground. It bounces and lands near me.
I know you.
“She’s done a runner, hasn’t she? She cleaned up before she left. I can smell the disinfectant in the kitchen. Where did she go? I bet she told you, didn’t she? Her little bitch?” He holds up the iPad. “Or did she email you? What’s her password?”
I hear blue marbled sobs. They’re coming from my mouth as I pick up the object that Lucas Drury’s dad accidentally kicked out of the house.
“Get away from him. You can’t do this.” David Gilbert stands in his path, but Faded Navy Baseball Cap Man pushes him to one side.
“Oh yes, I can. The police are doing fuck all to find Bee Larkham. I’m going to do it for them and I’m going to beat the crap out of her when I find her.”
The police siren is zigzags of bright electric yellow and pink.
“Where is that bitch?”
He’s going to force his face into mine again. He’ll hit me, the way he smashed David Gilbert’s cheek and turned it into a red, purply mush. He’ll beat me into the ground and I’ll never be able to get up again. I crush the object into my hand until I feel it pierce skin.
“You can’t find her!” I cry. “You’ll never find her.”
“You little shit!” He lunges at me. “Where is she? Tell me! Tell me what she did to my Lee!”
I hear the black torpedo shapes of footsteps, the petrol green of the gate swinging open. Two policemen run towards us.
“Tell me!” Faded Navy Baseball Cap Man shrieks, as he’s wrestled to the ground. “Tell me! I have a right to know!”
I try to block out the color of his shouts. I can’t. They’re stabbing my hands, which are clamped to my ears, and penetrating my eardrums.
“Don’t any of you get it?” I shout. “Why won’t any of you ever listen to me?”
I open my fist and throw her favorite swallow earring high up into the air.
“Bee Larkham’s dead and so is her baby,” I yell. “Stop pretending to everyone they’re coming back! They’re not! They can’t!”
27
THURSDAY (APPLE GREEN)
Still That Afternoon
When will Dad get home from his run?
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders as I sit in the back of the police car parked outside our house. I was allowed to keep the door open after I explained I was worried about being trapped inside.
Two policemen handcuffed Lucas Drury’s dad and led him off to a different car six minutes and two seconds ago, at 2:14 P.M. precisely. The ambulance has also left with David Gilbert inside, lying on a stretcher, with a large pad taped to his cheek.
The policewoman said he couldn’t bring the dog with him to hospital. She tap-tapped the owl knocker on the door of 18 Vincent Gardens and asked the man who lives there temporarily—Ollie Watkins—to look after Monty. Up until today, I didn’t know the dog’s name was Monty. I still don’t like its color.
The door of 18 Vincent Gardens opens again and a man in a black duffel coat walks out with a large dog on a lead. He talks to a police officer before crossing the road. He’s not wearing black suede shoes or spotty red and black socks, but he’s come from Mrs. Watkins’s house and walks towards me.
“Jasper, it’s Ollie,” he says, as he approaches the car door. Custard yellow. “Ollie Watkins from number eighteen. Are you OK? I’m so sorry about what’s happened. It’s awful. Just awful.”
He didn’t need to confirm his identity. I’d seen the house number and recognized his voice color. I wish he hadn’t crossed the road to speak to me. “I hate dogs. Their colors are awful.”
“Really? Sorry. I rather like black Labradors. I’ll keep him away from you.”
He yanks the lead. Stubborn Yellow French Fries won’t budge. Custard Yellow turns away and watches the police officers across the street.
“Yet more drama on our street,” he says. “And Bee Larkham is slap bang in the middle of it again, surprise, surprise. She’s always enjoyed being the center of attention, ever since she was a kid. That’s what Mum and David used to say about her. I don’t remember her much back then. I was away at boarding school and then Cambridge. Our paths didn’t cross much.”
I don’t care.
He pulls the lead again. Yellow French Fries sits down. I drape the blanket over my head. I want to shut everything out, the way I do in my den.
“I wonder what the police are looking for in Bee’s house,” the custard yellow voice says. “They’ve been inside for ages and she’s clearly not there. Like you said, she hasn’t come back to refill the bird feeders.”
He changes the subject to what I want to do when I’m grown up. Now it’s something about how he studied economics at a college belonging to Christ before a career in a city and a transfer to a bank in Switzerland, where his fiancée lives. I’ve stopped listening.
I jump as I feel a hand on my shoulder through the blanket. It’s hot and heavy. I don’t like it.
“Do you want to wait for your dad in my mum’s house? You’ll be more comfortable there.” It’s the same color as Ollie Watkins’s voice. He hasn’t walked away yet.
I count my teeth with my tongue, one by one.
“OK,” he
continues. “I think you want to be left alone. Knock on my door if you change your mind. Hopefully your dad will be back soon.”
“Did you remember to buy more seed for the parakeets?” I ask from beneath the blanket. “You have to keep feeding the birds or they will leave.”
“Yes, Jasper. I promise I’ll do that for you. Promises are very important to me. I always keep mine.”
“I try to keep mine, but don’t always manage to,” I admit. “Other people are the same. They break promises all the time and don’t ever say they’re sorry.”
“That’s a shame, Jasper. I’ll top up the feeders now. You can watch and check I’m doing it right, if you like.”
Through the weave of the blanket, I see him walk back across the road. There’s a snatch of yellow French fries as he opens his front door and leads the dog inside. It doesn’t want to go with him.
Is Monty ashamed it did nothing to protect its owner, David Gilbert, when Lucas Drury’s dad attacked him? Or doesn’t the dog realize that a crime was committed under its nose?
I rip the blanket off as the front door to Bee Larkham’s house swings open. A woman with blond hair appears.
It can’t be. It’s impossible.
I let my breath out in small, misty blue blobs.
She’s wearing a uniform. It’s a police officer, not Bee Larkham. She shakes her hand at a policeman in the street. He goes inside too, and they shut the door behind them.
It’s funny. Even though I know what happened to Bee Larkham, I still expect to see her walk out of her front door and say hello to me before feeding the parakeets.
A tiny part of me can’t believe she’s dead. Most mornings when I wake up, I feel the same way about Mum.
Today, I remember Bee Larkham standing on her doorstep. Talking to me. Discussing her favorite shade of blue teal.
I painted the picture three months ago.
It’s in box number twelve (haughty, dull gold), hidden at the back of my wardrobe, where Dad won’t look.
28
January 28, 5:03 P.M.
Sky Blue Saving Blue Teal on paper
“There’s no need to apologize for yesterday,” Bee Larkham said when she finally stopped playing aquamarine polka dots on the piano and opened her front door.
The Color of Bee Larkham's Murder Page 16