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

One, two, three, four, five times.

‘Do you know what the police want with her? It’s the fourth time they’ve called at her house since the weekend.’

I step away again because his clothes need washing. The stale tobacco smell makes my tummy hurt.

‘I wonder what she’s done this time,’ he says.

My head’s shaking hard. I may take off like Dumbo and soar over the houses. I’ll fly far away from here, leading the pandemonium of parakeets. I’m sure they’ll follow me. They won’t want to be left here, where it’s hard to know which people to trust.

‘The police knocked on my door this morning while I was clearing out Mum’s loft and asked if I knew where she was.’

He likes to talk. A lot. He’s stopping me from reaching my den. I can’t be rude. I can’t draw attention to myself. I have to act normal for a few more minutes.

‘They’ve knocked on the doors of several houses along this street. David’s too.’ Why won’t he stop talking? Maybe he’s lonely after his mum died. Like me.

‘The policewoman wouldn’t tell him what she wanted with Bee either, but we both think it’s about the loud music. I told her I thought Bee must have gone away. The house was quiet all weekend. I reckon she’ll be slapped with that noise abatement order David’s been threatening when she gets back.’

Slapped. I don’t like the way the fizzy lemon sherbet word rolls around his tongue. I change the subject.

‘Hens are female chickens. Did you know chickens have as good memories as elephants? They can distinguish a face from more than one hundred other chickens. Except I’m not sure it’s technically correct to say a chicken has a face. Do you know?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Custard Yellow admits. ‘I hear you’ve got a good memory for facts and recognizing voices, not so much for faces. Is that right?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘David. He was talking to your dad at the party Bee threw to get to know the neighbours. Do you remember? I left early to look after Mum, but it was quite a raucous night. David was a tad worse for wear afterwards. So were a lot of people, I hear.’

I shudder. That’s when Dad …

I force the horrible picture out of my head. The party’s high up on the list of things I don’t want to paint, after Friday night. It’s not in order anyway. There are other pictures to recreate before that. My fingers itch at the thought of my paints, impatiently waiting for me in my bedroom. Maybe I’ll be brave and use them instead of crawling inside my den.

‘The Martian music vanished and Bee Larkham never fed the parakeets.’

‘At the party?’ he asks.

‘Over the weekend. No Martian music. All the bird feeders are empty. No monkey nuts or plates of apple and suet.’

‘Martian music? You’re right. It actually sounds like aliens are rattling the plates on Mum’s dresser when she turns up the volume to full blast. Mum would beg me to do something about it because she couldn’t get out of bed to ask Bee herself.’

I suck in my breath as he swears a Norovirus vomit colour about the music.

‘Sorry. I’m not used to being around kids. I don’t have any of my own. No nieces or nephews either.’

My tummy spits silver stars. ‘I have to go.’

‘Wait a minute, Jasper. You’re right about the parakeets. I hadn’t noticed. Bee hasn’t refilled the bird feeders. She’s definitely away. I’ll tell the police if they come back again.’

‘I’m sorry.’

It’s my fault the parakeets have no food and a dozen died. It’s my fault a baby’s dead. I have no idea how to start making amends for everything I’ve done.

‘You feel sorry for the birds?’ Custard Yellow asks. ‘Of course, I forgot. You’re a bird lover, like me. I’ve seen you help Bee top up the feeders. Quite the young ornithologist, aren’t you? I was the same at your age.’

I don’t want to think about Bee Larkham, the parakeets and me. I don’t like that triangle. I block her out of the picture and focus on the parakeets and me instead.

‘I have half a bag of seed left, but Dad says I must stay away from Bee Larkham’s house,’ I say. ‘She’s a troublemaker and a silly little tart and a basket case. I’m not allowed to touch the feeders. He has spies on the street. They’ll tell him if I refill them.’

‘Ha, let me guess. David? Right?’

‘His favourite hobby is shooting pheasants and partridges. Bang, bang, bang.’

‘Well, he’s out walking his dog. I chatted to him after the police came around. He’s knocked on Bee’s door too today. She’s in demand this morning.’

I bite my lip and stare at the pavement.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Custard Yellow asks.

‘Why can’t bird-killer David Gilbert leave Bee Larkham alone?’

She hated his visits. I heard her tell him to go away and never come back on 13 February. He’d turned up the day before Valentine’s Day with a bunch of flowers while I studied the parakeets from her bedroom window. She didn’t want the flowers.

I should have called the police that day. Before it was too late.

I watch the starlings arguing in a tree further down the street, attempting to get my attention with their coral pink trills. Their colours can never compete with the parakeets. They should give up. I’m not going to paint them.

‘I meant your dad didn’t ban me from feeding the parakeets, did he? Bird lovers like us have to stick together,’ he says.

I wonder what he means. Sticking together sounds permanent, like using super-strength glue, yet I don’t know anything about this man apart from the fact we’re both bird lovers and lonely and our mums died of cancer.

I don’t want to argue with him. My tummy, knee and hand hurt. I want to go home.

‘Why don’t you give the bag of seed to me and I’ll feed them for you? That way you won’t be doing anything wrong. You won’t get into trouble with your dad.’

I think about this for seventeen seconds. ‘What about the men in the van? Will they tell my dad?’

‘What van?’ Custard Yellow looks up and down the street.

‘I’ll find the seed,’ I say, ignoring the question. The men in the van are only interested in me, but it’s best he doesn’t draw attention to himself. ‘Do you promise you won’t tell Dad? Or David Gilbert?’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

He doesn’t mean that. No one ever does.

I want to tell him enough people have died on our street.

I don’t.

I say nothing at all. It’s far safer that way.

We cross the road in silence and walk over to my house. Custard Yellow stays on the pavement, by the gate, as I tip up the large, marble flowerpot and retrieve my key. I let go before it smashes down and crushes my fingers.

After letting myself in, I concentrate on looking for the birdseed before I get distracted and forget what I’m supposed to do.

I find the bag in the kitchen cupboard, behind the cereal packets. Dad’s never any good at hiding things. Maybe they didn’t teach that skill in the Royal Marines. I run out the door and down the path. I thrust the bag into the man’s hands and dash back into the house, slamming the door.

From the sitting room window, I watch Custard Yellow cross the road, bag swinging in his right hand. He pushes open the gate to Bee Larkham’s house and stops, looking over his shoulder. A man walks towards him. His dog barks. There’s only one man on this street with cherry cords, a brown flat cap and a dog that barks yellow French fries.

My hand dives into my pocket and finds Mum’s button.

Rub, rub, rub.

This must be bird-killer David Gilbert – out walking his dog and back sooner than expected. He’s outside 20 Vincent Gardens again. He’s caught a fellow bird lover. He has a shotgun and he’s threatened to use it before. He threatened Bee Larkham.