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

Uncomfortable colours nudge around the corners of my brain. I daren’t let them in. Finally, I open my eyes and avoid looking at Lucas. He sounds like Dad. I hate him for that.

Concentrate. Act normal. Don’t flap your arms like a parakeet.

I can’t ever tell him that while he broke a grown-up woman’s heart into millions of tiny, sharp silver pieces, I did something far, far worse to her on Friday night.

Something unforgivable.

‘I didn’t tell Richard Chamberlain, like the actor, anything about you and Bee Larkham.’ That’s the truth . ‘I warned him about the death threats to my parakeets, but my notebooks were out of order. He told me to stop making 999 calls. They waste police time. I screamed and threw up all over his sofa.’

‘Great. Well done. Whatever you’re talking about. Weirdo.’

He punches my arm, not hard. It doesn’t make me cry. Not like when the bigger boys do it after school.

‘Listen, Jasper. I’m denying absolutely everything. The police have nothing, just what Lee thinks he knows and Dad’s suspicions after he found some messages and pics from Bee on Facebook. That’s all. I’m sticking to my story that the note you delivered last week was a prank. It was a dumb girl at school having a laugh.’

‘A prank,’ I repeat.

‘Yes, a prank. Bee didn’t sign the letter with her name. She used initials as usual. They’ve got no proof unless you tell them she gave it to you. You haven’t done that, have you, Jasper?’

‘I didn’t tell the detective anything.’

‘You see. No proof. Dad says the police haven’t been able to get hold of Bee yet and they won’t be able to analyse her handwriting because I ate the letter.’

‘You. Ate. The Letter.’

‘Yup. I tried to make a joke of it when Dad waved it in my face. I grabbed it off him, chewed it up and washed it down with a glass of water before he could pull it out of my mouth. Dad didn’t laugh.’ He touches his split lip. ‘He didn’t find it funny when I refused to tell the police anything about Bee at the weekend.’

‘What did it taste like? The letter, I mean?’

‘You’re missing the point, Jasper. I ate it because I needed to get rid of the evidence. I had to protect Bee. Without that note, Dad has nothing concrete. Nothing that proves we were ever together.’

‘I’m glad you ate it.’ I’m still curious what it tasted like, but Lucas isn’t interested in sharing the details.

‘You have to deny everything too, if they speak to you again,’ he continues. ‘Say the note was from some random girl at school. You don’t know her name. You found it stuffed in your bag or dropped on the pavement outside your house. Or talk gobbledegook about parakeets again to throw them off the scent. Just don’t tell the police the truth about the letters or the time you …’ He stops.

I can’t look at him.

I don’t want to think about that.

I want to be absorbed into the periodic table and create a chemical explosion that annihilates me, Lucas Drury and Bee Larkham and all the putrid colours we created together.

Bang!

Bright flashing lights, splintering acrid yellows and oranges.

I rub Mum’s button harder in my pocket.

‘Look at me, Jasper,’ Lucas says. ‘You have to do this for me. You have to fix this mess because it’s your fault. My dad’s threatening Bee with all kinds of things. She could lose her job and go to prison, all because you cocked up. It’s over between us, but she needs cash from her music lessons more than ever right now.’

He curls up his fist. I close my eyes and wait for him to punch me. I deserve to be hit because I’ve hurt Bee Larkham far worse than his dad ever could. I deserve to go to prison. Maybe this is a trick and Lucas has already guessed what I’ve done.

Maybe her death is written all over my face.

Nothing happens.

I look up. Lucas has walked over to the window.

‘Life sucks,’ he says, wiping a tear from his face. ‘I wish I could go back in time. I’d change everything.’

I agree about time travelling. My life totally and utterly sucks too. I want him to stop crying. Then I’ll pretend I never saw anything; he’ll pretend he never did anything. We’ll both pretend we haven’t seen anything or done anything or know anything about each other.

Most importantly, we’ll both pretend we don’t know anything about Bee Larkham or what went horribly wrong last week.

‘What am I going to do?’ Lucas asks, running his hands over his face. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

I have absolutely no idea. If we were both in a swimming pool, I couldn’t throw Lucas a life buoy because I’m drowning too. I can’t help myself, let alone him.

Lucas doesn’t wait for my non-existent advice.

‘I’m only fifteen. I can’t do it. We were careful – we used protection.’ He looks back at me. ‘Do you think the baby’s even mine?’

WE SPLIT UP LIKE an apple sliced down the middle, spitting out its shiny black pips. I suggested Lucas left the science lab first to prevent any spies reporting our clandestine meeting to the head teacher or police. I waited four minutes, fourteen seconds before heading straight to medical, the only possible destination.

I vomited as soon as I walked in, before the nurse had time to stand up from behind her desk let alone pass a paper bowl. That made me feel even worse, because lately I’ve caused a lot of sick-clearing-up work for people.

I make trouble everywhere I go.

The nurse and me have been arguing for the last five minutes, her dark marigold versus my cool blue.

I can’t let you go home alone. I have to get hold of your dad first.

Dad has an important meeting and can’t be disturbed.

I’ll try again.

He’ll have his phone turned off. I have a key. I can let myself in. I do it all the time. I have neighbours who look out for me.

That’s a lie, but it’s highly unlikely she knows anyone who lives on my street.

I want to hide in my den, away from the accusing windows of Bee Larkham’s house until the bright colours stabbing my brain no longer flash.

I need to get rid of the picture in my head of the baby inside Bee Larkham’s tummy, the baby I killed when I killed Bee Larkham. I’d murdered two people that day, not one like I thought.

I can’t tell the nurse, of course. She’s trying Dad’s number again. My voice is a higher pitch, a whiter, flakier blue.

My tummy hurts. I’ll tell Dad to take me to the doctor’s this evening. We’ll get a sick note. Medicine. I promise.

Bad, horrible thoughts chase each other around my head and make me want to claw at the hole in my tummy while she leaves another message on Dad’s mobile. I can’t get a doctor’s note to fix those feelings.

The truth is, I can’t confess to the nurse. Words jam in my mouth; random thoughts are lodged in my brain. Some can’t get out and others won’t own up to what they’ve done and reveal their true colours.

She won’t understand, how could she?

Her phone rings bubble gum pink and she starts talking again.

I have to get to my den and burrow beneath the blankets. I’ll close my eyes and wrap Mum’s cardigan around me and pretend she’s lying next to me, talking about the colours and shapes she sees when she listens to classical music alone at night while Dad’s away.

The nurse puts the phone down. ‘Wait here, Jasper. A pupil with asthma needs me right away. I’ll find a teaching assistant to stay with you until your dad gets here.’