Sarah J. Harris - The Colour of Bee Larkham’s Murder

‘Absolutely. Ollie doesn’t mean her any harm. He’s taken her by surprise, that’s all. She probably wasn’t expecting any visitors on her first night here.’

Again, my hands longed to rip the binoculars back. Dad gripped them hard. He didn’t want to let go, but they didn’t belong to him. They were mine. I was about to point out this Important Fact when the man’s hand lunged out. I gasped. I took a step back too, convinced he was about to grab the belt of The Woman With No Name.

‘Don’t worry, Jasper. He’s not threatening her or anything like that. He wants to shake her hand. Remember, people do that when they’re introducing themselves to each other for the first time. It’s polite.’

The woman didn’t want to shake his hand. Perhaps she didn’t know Dad’s rules about what to do in social situations. She folded her arms around her body as if she needed to tie up the parcel even tighter, with especially strong brown vinyl tape, for the long journey ahead.

‘Ha! That went well,’ Dad said.

‘I know. It means we can’t welcome her now that he’s welcomed her.’ The crushing disappointment felt like a huge weight on my shoulders, drilling into the carpet, through the wooden floorboards and plunging me into the sitting room below. The man had stolen our introduction.

‘I doubt he’s the welcoming committee,’ Dad said. ‘I mean, he probably has welcomed her to the street, to be polite. I don’t think that’s his real reason for visiting tonight.’

‘Why? What is it?’ I stared at the mysterious man, Ollie Watkins, with the mysterious motive for wanting to jump the queue and meet The Woman With No Name before us.

‘He probably wants to have a chat about the music. The noise passes right through the walls of terraced houses. He and his mum must be able to hear everything magnified in Technicolor.’

That’s when I felt another, strange emotion.

Jealousy. The word’s a wishy-washy pickled onion shade.

Ollie Watkins and his mum didn’t suffer an annoying dilution of colour. It could absorb through the walls into their front room.

‘Lucky, lucky them,’ I said.

Dad accidentally breathed in and out at the same time, making an ink-shaped blob of mustard and brown sauce.

‘Not everyone appreciates loud house music like you, Jasper. I’m sure he’s asking her to turn the volume down. It’s a residential street, not Ibiza.’

Why would Ollie Watkins and his mum want the colours to disappear? Ibiza sounded like a fun place to be.

The front door closed and the man walked back down the path again. He looked up and raised a hand at us. Dad raised his hand back, a secret gesture.

‘You have to feel for Ollie,’ Dad said. ‘He’s having a rough time with his mum. It won’t be long now. She doesn’t have much time left.’

Dad was wrong yet again. I didn’t feel anything at all for Ollie Watkins. I didn’t know who he was, where he’d come from or the colour of his voice. I’d never seen him before – at least I didn’t think I had. I didn’t recognize his clothes.

All I knew for sure was that Ollie Watkins didn’t like loud music and had stopped all the lovely colours.

That was a black mark in my book. Not pure black, but a dirty smudge of a colour with traces of grainy grey that would deliberately stain anything it touched.

I tried to focus because I could feel myself getting distracted by the shades. Dad was right about one thing – the man walked along the pavement and up the path to the next-door house, 18 Vincent Gardens. This was definitely Ollie Watkins, going back to his mum who didn’t have much time left. For something or other .

‘That’s it, Jasper.’ Dad wrapped the strap around the binoculars. ‘Time for bed. It’s school tomorrow. No more raves. No more excitement on our street tonight.’ He sounded as disappointed as me that the show was over.

I bit my lip and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to let the Martian colours go; I could forget them in my sleep. My alarm clock would go off at 6.50 a.m. as normal, but I had to paint them straightaway.

I needn’t have worried. The Martian music dramatically returned a few seconds later, a fraction quieter before it cranked up again. Louder. Louder than ever before.

My eyes flew open. The Woman With No Name was back in the sitting room, twirling, her dressing gown lifting and blowing as if the breeze had grown stronger.

I couldn’t help myself. I knew Dad hated my dancing, but I flapped my arms and leapt about, swimming in the colours. I danced in solidarity with her, a perfect blending of shades.

Defiant colours that didn’t care what anyone thought or said.

Dad didn’t tell me off or demand I stop dancing as usual. He stood at the window, staring at the Technicolor rebellion.

‘Here comes David Gilbert to complain about the noise too,’ he murmured. ‘It won’t take him long to lay down the law. She’ll regret moving in next door to him.’

That evening’s second visitor, David Gilbert, strode up the garden path. He came from the house on the other side, number 22. If I hadn’t seen this and Dad hadn’t given me his name, I’d have guessed Ollie Watkins was back. Wearing a hat.

‘I don’t think she’ll turn the music down for Ollie Watkins or David Gilbert,’ I said. ‘I don’t think she can. This music has to be played loud. The neighbours will get used to it.’

There was a rolling, darkish ochre colour as Dad chuckled to himself.

‘I wouldn’t want to take on David. I think he’s going to have his hands full with this one. Whoever she is, Jasper, she’s going to be a troublemaker.’

‘Really?’

She didn’t look like a troublemaker to me. Troublemakers covered their faces with scarves and spray-painted graffiti on walls at weekends. They hung around street corners, aiming kicks and punches at anyone who strayed too close.

Dad didn’t sound worried about The Woman With No Name or the fact she was transforming into A Troublemaker. He studied her through my binoculars even though No One Likes A Spy.

‘Mmmmmm.’ His voice was the colour of warm, buttery toast.

I LINE UP MY BRUSHES by the bathroom sink. I don’t want to alert Dad to the fact that I’m up at 11.47 p.m. I turn on the tap slowly, making a trickle of water.

Small circular clouds of kingfisher blue.

I love this colour. It’s happy, without a care in the world.

Shivers of excitement play trick or treat up my back, the way they do whenever I open a fresh tube of paint. I love gently squeezing the smooth tube. Too hard and the paint spurts out, wasting it; too little and it’s impossible to tell a proper story from beginning to end.

A small dot of paint is always the best place to start. I can add to the splash of colour and make it grow in size until it becomes the perfect amount. I’ve remembered enough for one night – how excited I was about seeing the mystery woman for the first time and how I longed for the right moment to meet her in person.

When the music eventually stopped that night, after a visit lasting three minutes and thirteen seconds from David Gilbert, I began planning for the day when I could meet our new neighbour. I had to memorize what she looked like ( long, blonde hair, not many clothes ) and come up with the perfect introduction.

Both these things were important. I didn’t want her to think I was a stupid weirdo, like everyone else.

I had hope: a tomato ketchup coloured word.