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

Run away from bird-killer David Gilbert!

Custard Yellow doesn’t move. He can’t. He’s being kidnapped. He must know about the gun and doesn’t want to risk making a run for it. He manages to hide the bag of birdseed behind his back before he’s frogmarched away, like I was by X and Y at school. They walk up the path of the house next door.

It’s 22 Vincent Gardens, David Gilbert’s house. I was right about the man with the dog. His hand’s on Custard Yellow’s shoulder as they enter the house. He’s forcing him inside, whether he wants to go or not, the way I was pushed into the science lab.

No one helped me.

No one’s here to help Custard Yellow. The street’s empty.

No eyewitnesses, except me.

David Gilbert will punish him for trying to feed my parakeets. I’m afraid, extremely afraid. I need to act. Someone’s in danger, the type of terrible danger you can’t ignore.

I don’t listen to Dad’s voice in my head, ordering me not to draw attention to myself, to what we’ve both done.

I ignore Rusty Chrome Orange’s voice in my head, which tells me to stop making unnecessary emergency calls.

I ignore the call of my den, my paints and the pain in my tummy, which is getting louder and louder and brighter and brighter like a silvery hot spiky star.

I grab my phone and dial 999. I tell the operator I need the police, not the fire service, because I haven’t seen flames. Not yet, anyway .

‘Last week a horrible murder happened on our street and now a man’s been kidnapped,’ I tell the woman in the control centre. ‘He’s been taken against his will into a house. He’s in great danger.’

I give her David Gilbert’s address. She asks a lot of irrelevant details about me: Why am I ringing from home? Why aren’t I at school? Have I rung 999 before? Where are my parents? Do they know I’m at home alone?

She should question me about the kidnapping. She should demand info about David Gilbert. He’s the true villain in this painting.

‘Richard Chamberlain, like the actor, knows me,’ I say. ‘He told me to stop ringing 999, but he can’t expect me to ignore another person in terrible danger on this street. This is an absolute emergency.’ I repeat myself, in case she didn’t hear the first time. ‘There’s been a kidnapping, which shouldn’t be confused with a murder.’

I hang up the phone and wait by the window for the police. They need to hurry. The parakeets are shrieking green and peacock blue cut glass in Bee Larkham’s oak tree.

They’re scared, like me.

THE POLICE CAR DOESN’T screech to a halt with its siren blaring bright yellow and pink zigzags outside David Gilbert’s house. The driver slowly reverses into a parking space. A blonde woman in a black uniform climbs out, followed by a man. He opens his mouth wide and stretches his arms above his head. To be honest, they’re taking this emergency at a frighteningly leisurely pace.

The policewoman could be the one I saw outside Bee Larkham’s house earlier. I’m not sure. She walks up the path ( why isn’t she running?) and knocks dark brown shapes on the front door. After thirty-one seconds, the door opens. A man appears, they talk for forty-four seconds and she goes inside. Her colleague waits by the car.

I’m not an expert in hostage situations, but shouldn’t she be more careful? She didn’t even have her weapon drawn (if she’s even carrying one) and she’s alone in a stranger’s house, which isn’t a good idea. People have a habit of turning on you when you least expect it. Her colleague can’t help. His finger’s stuck inside his left nostril.

After three minutes and two seconds, the policewoman steps out of the house with two strangers. They all walk down the path and stop on the pavement, next to the second police officer. Their faces turn and look in my direction.

Why isn’t the man in cherry cords wearing handcuffs?

David Gilbert should be locked up in prison. That’s where he belongs.

They walk towards my house. I don’t like this. Why are they coming here when they should be going to the police station? I back away from the window. I can’t hide. There’s no point. They know I’m here. I called 999 on my mobile. Not because I wanted to, because I had to.

No one else stepped in to help.

I’m a reluctant witness, a reluctant helper – the roles I’m used to playing.

One member of this group knocks blobs of light brown with streaks of bitter dark chocolate. I can’t be sure which one, because I’ve moved far away from the window. I’m hiding behind the front door, counting my teeth with my tongue.

‘Hello, Jasper,’ the policewoman says in viridian blue when I’ve finished my teeth count and opened the door. ‘My name is PC Janet Carter and this is my colleague, PC Mark Teedle. I think you recognize your neighbours.’

She gestures to the two men standing behind her. Obviously, she couldn’t be further from the truth if she tried, but I have useful clues to help me. One man is wearing cherry cords and has come from David Gilbert’s house. His dog is barking angry yellow French fries at being left alone in 22 Vincent Gardens. The other guy has black suede shoes, red and black spotty socks and is clutching half a bag of birdseed.

They’re the kidnapper and his hostage.

The policewoman glances at the men behind her. ‘We wanted to let you know everything’s OK,’ she says. ‘There hasn’t been a kidnapping or a murder. Your neighbour, Mr Watkins, wasn’t forced into Mr Gilbert’s house. He was paying a friendly visit.’

‘It’s true,’ Custard Yellow says. ‘I was about to refill the bird feeders when David asked if I could help shift a piece of furniture in his kitchen. It was too heavy for him to do alone.’

I’m not entirely certain about this turn of events. It’s unexpected and I don’t like unexpected. It’s a waxy, Crayola orange word.

‘He had his hand on your shoulder,’ I point out, taking a step backwards. ‘Even X and Y didn’t do that to me earlier. They stood one in front and one behind, but didn’t touch me because that would have been assault and they’d have been expelled.’

‘I went with him willingly, Jasper. It wasn’t a problem. I don’t mind helping out someone who’s in trouble. It’s what neighbours do for each other on this street. That’s what Mum always said.’

I feel a jab of pain in my tummy and the back of my neck is cactus prickly.

‘You’d help a neighbour even if you knew he was a serial killer or had helped a serial killer?’ I ask.

The policewoman’s mouth widens into an ‘O’ shape, the way Bee’s did on her first night here. I guess she’s as curious as me to know the answer.

David Gilbert looks at the police officers. ‘Do you see what I mean? These wild accusations have to stop. The lad’s gone too far this time. He’s a total basket case.’

Like Bee Larkham.

That’s how he described her. When she was alive.

‘You’re a bird killer,’ I clarify, because that’s only fair as he doesn’t have a defence lawyer with him. ‘I didn’t accuse you of killing Bee Larkham.’

‘I should think not!’ he says loudly. ‘What’s he going on about? What does any of this have to do with Beatrice? She’s going to have a lot to answer for when she finally bloody well shows up again.’ He directs his grainy red words at the two uniformed police officers. ‘I want something done about him. This is victimization. He makes slanderous accusations about me all the time . I have witnesses like Ollie here, who’ll back me up. Isn’t that correct?’