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

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 neighbours 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 neighbour would tell you I’ve fed the parakeets?’ My £5 note crackles as I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I’m glad he can’t see the greyish-mint colour coming from my pocket, that he can’t see any colours. He can’t see me. Not properly, anyway.

Dad laughs deep, mellow ochre.

‘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 £5 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 per cent 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.

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 favourite 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 colour and routine, like the male members of staff who stick to grey, 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 blonde 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 blonde hair.

Row 3, seat 2: Aar Chandhoke, grey 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 colour 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.