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

Despite his repeated warnings to keep quiet, I tried to confess. Honestly I did, because I’m very, very sorry about what happened in the kitchen at 20 Vincent Gardens. I deserve to be punished.

Rusty Chrome Orange wouldn’t listen. I doubt he’s going to start looking for Bee Larkham’s body.

Which gives me time.

Time to protect the surviving parakeets. I need longer, around four days until the young begin to abandon the nests in Bee Larkham’s oak tree and eaves and fly far, far away from the dangers lurking on our street.

But I can’t leave.

I can’t ignore the colours any more.

I have to face the truth. I have to remember what happened the night I murdered Bee Larkham.

LYING IN BED THAT night, I trace my index finger over the ring-necked parakeet photographs in my Encyclopaedia of Birds . The adult male parakeet is easily identifiable because of the pink-and-black ring around its neck. Females also have these rings, but they’re similar shades of green to their bodies and harder to pick out.

Twelve deaths in total.

Bee Larkham didn’t tell me how many males versus females were slaughtered before she died. I must start a new census before it’s too late. Before the nests are abandoned.

After we got home from the police station, Dad didn’t ask if I felt up to afternoon lessons. While he made cheese toasties and looked for painkillers for my tummy, I grabbed my half-empty bag of seed. I managed to get to the hallway before he stopped me.

Don’t go over to Bee Larkham’s house to feed the parakeets.

Promise?

Don’t put pieces of apple on the ground in our front garden for the birds. It’ll attract rats.

Promise?

No more 999 calls.

Promise?

It’s a pinkish grey word with curly edges, which always gives me a strange, achy feeling inside my tummy – not on the outside where it currently burns like dry ice and looks like a half-open mouth.

I agreed, but had my fingers crossed behind my back, which means it didn’t count. Someone has to feed the parakeets because Bee Larkham can’t do it any more.

Dad doesn’t realize it yet, but Bee Larkham’s house is already attempting to grab attention. The six bird feeders in her front garden have been empty since Friday night. She hasn’t strung up any monkey nuts or put out plates of sliced apple and suet. Bee Larkham didn’t turn on her music to full blast as usual. The parakeets weren’t serenaded and the neighbours didn’t complain about the noise. Earlier today, she didn’t open her front door to the piano and guitar pupils who are allocated forty-five-minute slots after school from 4 p.m. onwards. The house has remained dark and silent since Friday – the Indigo Blue day Bee Larkham died.

I know these Important Facts because I barricaded myself in my bedroom after Dad stopped me leaving the house to feed the parakeets. At first, I concentrated on painting Mum’s voice, but the shades were off. The colours were uncooperative and churlish. That’s the way Dad describes me.

Difficult.

He said he was working from home for the rest of the day, but I could see the colour of the television downstairs while I painted. Half an hour later, when Mum’s true cobalt blue refused to reveal itself and the black-and-silver stripes of the TV became too distracting, I had abandoned my tubes of blue paints and stood at the window with my binoculars.

As usual, I had kept a record of all the relevant activity and used a fresh cornflower blue notebook. I started it especially because it seemed like the right thing to do – to keep my ‘after’ notes separate and uncontaminated from the ‘before’ notes.

3.35 p.m. – Male parakeet flies into branches, berries in beak.

4.02 p.m. – Bee’s piano lesson. Kingfisher Blue Coat Boy two minutes late. Runs up path. Looks at empty bird feeders. Bangs cardboard box colour on door. Door doesn’t open. Kingfisher Blue Coat Boy walks down street.

4.11 p.m. – Five young parakeets together on branch.

4.45 p.m. – Bee’s guitar lesson. Sea Green Coat Boy taps lighter, dusty brown. Door doesn’t open. Sea Green Coat Boy gets back into black car.

Bee Larkham also had an unexpected appointment that wasn’t on her usual teaching schedule.

5.41 p.m. – Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man.

Bang, bang, bang.

‘Open the door, Bee! We need to talk!’ Clouds of dirty brown with charcoal edges.

I was tempted to lean out of my window and shout: Go away and take your clouds with you!

Of course, I couldn’t. I was too afraid of the Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man. I wasn’t sure if I’d seen him before, but knew I didn’t like his colours. Or his baseball cap.

I had scanned the tree with my binoculars. The parakeets remained hidden in the highest branches; even the youngest didn’t draw attention by squawking noisily. Clever birds.

5.43 p.m. – Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man walks backwards down path, staring up at Bee’s bedroom window. Turns around—

The pen had fallen from my hand, making droplets of light, flinty brown on the green carpet. I dived into my den and buried myself beneath the blankets. I stayed in the dark, warm cocoon, running my fingers around the buttons on Mum’s cardigan and smelling the rose scent.

Finally, I crawled out and peeped outside my window. The Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man had gone. 6.14 p.m. I know, because I had double-checked on both my watch and the bedside clock. It’s important to be precise about the details.

I have to record the rest now, one hour and forty-two minutes later at 7.56 p.m., otherwise I’ll never be able to sleep, knowing my records are incomplete. I pick up the blue fountain pen I keep at the side of my bed and start the sentence again. It looks better that way, when my handwriting isn’t panicking and attempting to run off the page. I write:

5.43 p.m. – Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man walks backwards down path, staring up at Bee’s bedroom window. Turns around and sees me watching him with binoculars. He strides towards our house.

?????????????????????????????????

6.14 p.m. – Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man gone.

What happened while I hid for thirty-one minutes in my den? I can’t answer the thirty-three question marks I’ve jotted down.

Did the Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man plan to confront me about my snooping then change his mind? I didn’t hear Dad open the front door. I’d stuck my hands over my ears and sung Taylor Swift’s ‘Bad Blood’ loudly. Still, I’d have heard, wouldn’t I? I’d have seen dark brown shapes, the rapping on our front door.

I’d have heard the colour of voices.

I update my notes:

Who was Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man and what did he want with Bee Larkham?

AFTER UPDATING MY RECORDS, I push the notebook beneath my pillow and return to tracing my finger over the male parakeet photo. I don’t want to think about the Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man. I may get nightmares again and they hurt my tummy even when I’ve taken Dad’s painkillers.

I don’t want to think about the blood either, but I can’t help worrying. It hasn’t gone away. Dad’s probably stuffed the knife and my clothes from Friday night behind the lawnmower in the shed at the bottom of our garden. That’s where he hides the sneaky contraband he thinks I don’t know about – emergency packets of cigarettes even though he’s supposed to have given up smoking.