Читать книгу The Colour of Bee Larkham’s Murder - Sarah J. Harris - Страница 15

I SAY HELLO TO THE young parakeets through the crack in the curtains – our daily routine. I estimate these small birds are just over six weeks old. They usually caw playful shades of cornflower blue and buttercup yellow balloons back. Today, they preen their feathers and chatter among themselves. They’re ignoring me because I didn’t protect them. Only two in the tree and five adults – far, far fewer birds than usual. One’s pecking at the empty feeder, willing it to spew out seed. It can’t understand what’s gone wrong.

I don’t open my curtains completely in case Richard Chamberlain’s eavesdropping men are watching me. I take a quick peek. Two little girls in blue uniforms run out of number 24: Molly and Sara live at this address. A woman chases after them – probably their mum, Cindy. She always dresses the girls in similar clothing – even at the weekends – so I never know which one’s Molly and which one’s Sara from up here.

I can’t see any vans on our street. Or police cars. No detectives banging on the front door of Bee Larkham’s house.

The house looks exactly the same as last night:

Deserted.

Reproachful.

Vengeful.

I keep the curtains shut and pull on my school uniform, carefully, making the least amount of movement possible. My tummy sings prickly stars. I’m not sure if I’ve got an infection, we still haven’t seen a doctor. Dad’s looking after me instead. That’s safer.

A doctor would ask us both too many difficult questions.

I tuck one of Mum’s buttons in my trouser pocket. I cut it off her cardigan and carry it around with me, which means she’s never far away whenever I get stressed.

Next, I stick a £5 note into my blazer pocket. It’s dog-eared and torn, making my scalp itch, but I can’t replace it. I have no pocket money left.

Without looking, I stick my hand under the bed. I know the exact spot to aim for. My fingers clasp around something cold and unforgiving: a disfigured china lady. I was too ashamed to return her to Bee Larkham two months ago and now it’s far too late to own up.

I hide the broken ornament under my blazer – she’s unable to return home, but can’t stay in my bedroom either. Not any more. That wouldn’t be right.

I check the forget-me-not blue blanket hangs down properly, sealing the entrance to my den, and pull the bedroom door shut. Twice. To make sure it’s closed. Only then can I go downstairs.

Dad’s frying bacon in the kitchen. He doesn’t turn around. I use the chance to stuff the ornament into my school bag, next to the maths worksheets for Mrs Thompson. They sting my fingers reproachfully. She gave them out last Thursday and I haven’t got round to them yet.

Dad never cooks a fry-up on a school day. We only have bacon on Sunday mornings before football practice, which he makes me go to. I didn’t play football this weekend or sit on the bench in Richmond Park, which is inscribed with Mum’s name. Dad didn’t go for a run. If anyone had watched us, they’d have realized the Wishart family routine – as well as Bee Larkham’s – was off.

My legs want to bolt and not stop running until I’m covered in blankets in the corner of my bedroom.

‘Grab a plate, Jasper. It’s almost done. We both need a good breakfast today.’

Good. It’s that dumb word again.

A good night. A good breakfast. A good day. It’s not a good colour; it’s brash yellow with a slushy Ribena core.

I don’t want the bacon Dad forgot to fry on Sunday.

I pick up my favourite blue-and-white striped bowl and reach for the cereal packet.

Rustle, rustle. Crinkly dashes of iceberg lettuce.

The pieces drop into my bowl, up to the lip of the second stripe. I pour in the milk until it reaches the grey crack in the enamel. It’s a delicate operation. Above the crack, the cereal is ruined and I have to throw it away and start again.

Dad doesn’t turn around. He tuts light brown dots. ‘Have it your own way. All the more for me.’

Using tongs, he picks up the bacon from the pan and piles the pieces on to his plate. He sits in his usual seat at the table, opposite me, which he says encourages me to practise eye contact and my conversational skills.

I will his chair to magically sprout wings, soar into the air and fly out of the kitchen window.

I pick up my spoon and stare at the seven Cheerios floating like mini life rafts in the milk. My throat tightens. I drop five of the Cheerios back into the sea.

‘You’re feeling OK today, Jasper, because I’ve got meetings all day at work.’

I can’t detect a question mark in that sentence. It sounds like a statement.

‘Yes.’ It’s another lie, but it’s what he wants to hear. I can say things I don’t mean if it helps Dad. He does the same for me.

He’s going through a lot. Like me. Except he doesn’t have Mum’s cardigan to rub.

‘Good news.’ He breathes out. ‘I’ve got a late conference call. You’ll need to let yourself in with the spare key.’

I cough as a Cheerio catches in my throat. The cereal tastes wrong. Off somehow. The milk too. I check the labels in case Dad’s accidentally bought the wrong brands. They’re the same as usual. It must be me. I’m different this morning.

Will my classmates notice? Will the teachers? Has Dad?

‘You can do that, right?’ he asks. ‘It’s not a problem, Jasper? The key’s in the usual place. Under the flowerpot.’

I push my bowl away, brandishing the spoon like a weapon.

Too much. I can’t do this.

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.