Читать книгу The Colour of Bee Larkham’s Murder - Sarah J. Harris - Страница 16

I’M SAFE IN MATHS first period. Lucas Drury won’t be able to find me in 312b. We don’t share any lessons; he’s in Year 11. I like this class even though it’s tough. I’m behind because I haven’t done my homework from last week. It’s only a few pages, but it feels like they’ve covered a whole new syllabus.

Mrs Thompson has promised to help me catch up. She’s my favourite teacher by far. She has a lovely, dark navy blue voice and helpfully rotates her tops to match her black trousers on a strict regime. Today’s Wednesday, which means it’s the turn of the racing green blouse.

None of the other female teachers dress like her. They have a weird aversion to colour and routine, like the male members of staff who stick to grey, blue or black suits.

Apart from her easy-to-identify appearance, the best thing about Mrs Thompson is that she insists on a seating plan. Everyone has to sit in the same place, every single lesson. No discussion, no arguments.

I always sit at the back, fourth seat from the left, which means I’ve had the chance to memorize the backs of people’s heads and place them in a grid.

It goes something like this:

Row 1, seat 3: Susie Taylor, dome-shaped skull, shoulder- length blonde hair.

Row 2, seat 4: Isaiah Hadad, acne scars on back of neck, short, black hair.

Row 3, seat 1: Gemma Coben, dandruff on blazer, greasy, mousy blonde hair.

Row 3, seat 2: Aar Chandhoke, grey turban.

Row 3, seat 3: Jeanne Boucher, black cornrows.

It’s like playing Guess Who? backwards, but unlike other games this one I actually have a chance of winning. Unless my classmates turn around, of course, or I’m asked to recognize the students in my row, further along to my right. I can’t remember what they look like. I haven’t been able to memorize their heads from this position.

‘Algebraic equations can be written in the form y equals mx plus c,’ Mrs Thompson says. ‘We can draw a straight-line graph. Everyone make a start before the bell and we’ll pick up from here next time.’

I’ve left my ruler at home and have to use the edge of my folder to draw the line. It’s wonky, the way I feel this morning.

An orange juice colour erupts from row 2, seat 5: curly red-haired Lydia Tyler is arguing with Mrs Thompson.

‘That’s God’s honest truth, I swear,’ she says loudly.

‘Make your mind up, Lydia.’ Mrs Thompson snaps like an angry turtle. ‘I’d suggest you get your story straight before you earn another detention this week.’

Straight lines.

Straight stories.

Those are the best stories, but also the hardest to tell.

Will Lucas Drury tell the truth to Richard Chamberlain about Bee Larkham? What has he told the police already? I don’t understand how they got involved. Lucas said he’d sorted everything last week.

My dad believes my story. I think I’ve got away with it, but warn Bee not to try and contact me. Got that, Jasper?

‘Are you feeling OK, Jasper? Do you want to borrow my ruler to help you draw a proper straight line?’

Mrs Thompson has finished her argument about straight stories with Lydia. I expect she won; you have to be smart to be a maths teacher. She’s standing beside my desk, staring down at my pathetic graph. It curls up in shame under her hard gaze.

Silvery yellow dancing lines ring through the air.

‘Saved by the bell,’ Mrs Thompson says.

She’s wrong. I haven’t been saved at all. It’s first break. I can’t hide in her class any longer. I have to brave the corridors.

‘Is everything all right, Jasper? You’re trembling.’

Mrs Thompson and me are always on the same wavelength. She understands patterns and the need for order. I want to tell her there’s a slit in my tummy, like a mouth. As I stand and push my chair back, it opens and closes again; the pain makes silver, pointy stars dance on my skin.

Don’t tell anyone what you did to Bee Larkham.

Keep your mouth shut.

I leave the classroom without replying because I don’t want to lie. I can do it to other people, but not to Mrs Thompson. The truth is, I don’t know how I got hurt. I can’t remember what happened to my tummy. I only recall parts of Friday night. My brain’s blocked out the rest. It’s fuzzy and no distinct colour becomes clear.

My best guess?

I accidentally slashed myself with the knife when I murdered Bee Larkham.

A hand stretches out from the bundle of black trousers and black blazers travelling down the corridor. It thrusts me against the wall. To be honest, I’m surprised I’ve made it this far without being caught.

The boy’s face is indistinguishable from The Blazers accompanying him. I concentrate on his hand instead. It has a telephone number written in blue biro on the skin. Would Lucas Drury’s dad pick up if I rang it? Or his younger brother Lee? Lee used to have electric guitar lessons with Bee Larkham. I enjoyed the range of his colours.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t tell the police anything about you and Bee yesterday, I promise. They only asked me about school friends and condoms.’

‘Are you having a laugh?’ The boy’s face looms at me, his voice a dark nutmeg brown. ‘Why are you talking about bees and condoms?’

I flinch at the spiky turmeric swear word that follows.

‘I, I, don’t know anything,’ I stutter.

The biro hand doesn’t belong to Lucas Drury; his voice is the wrong colour. I have no idea who this is. His shade is similar to lots of boys’ voices in this school. Dull brown, not interesting enough to paint.

I look up and down the corridor, hoping to see someone who isn’t wearing a uniform. I draw a blank. I wish Mrs Thompson would appear, but she’s probably at her desk, marking books. She’s hardworking like that and dead brainy and organized.

‘Damn right you don’t know anything.’ The boy’s hand dives into my blazer pocket and pulls out my £5 note. It’s as if he knew exactly where to find it. How is that possible?

‘That’s mine,’ I whisper.

‘Pardon?’ Biro Hand’s face looms closer. Pasty and acne-scarred.

I hadn’t noticed those details before. I glance away, my eyes pierced by daggers. I need the money to buy seed from the pet shop for the parakeets, but I can’t find my voice. I can’t tell Biro Hand anything.

‘Think of this as a retard tax. It’s money you owe me for getting in my way.’ He pats my pockets down again. ‘Let’s see. Nah. Thought not. As if you’d have condoms! You couldn’t even get a pity shag.’

He pockets my money, whistling yellow-brown spiralling lines and returns to The Blazers. The gang has swelled in size. Their giggles and taunts are thunderclouds of dark grey with streaks of cabbage green.

I don’t try to stop him. No point. He’s twice my size and I won’t be able to wrestle my money off him. Now what am I going to do? I’ve got less than half a bag of seed hidden somewhere at home and no more cash left. I can’t borrow money from Dad; he’ll ask what I want it for.

I can’t admit I’m planning to disobey him and feed the parakeets. I’ll head back to Bee Larkham’s house while he’s working late. Well, technically not her house. Her front garden. I’m not brave enough to go inside. I’m afraid of what I might find.

I walk down the corridor, away from Biro Hand. Too slow. Within seconds, he’s caught up with me again. This time he puts his hand on my shoulder, making me jump. I don’t look at him. His pockmarks make me think of moon craters. If I stare at them, they’ll swallow me up and I won’t be able to climb out again.

‘I don’t have another five-pound note,’ I say.

‘I don’t want your money, Jasper.’ He hisses whitish, almost translucent lines. I can’t identify the true colour. I look down at his right hand. It doesn’t have a phone number written on it.

This isn’t Biro Hand.

He whispers in my ear: ‘I want to know what you’ve told the police about me and Bee Larkham.’

I don’t need to study his face or ask him to raise his voice so I can see the genuine shade. Lucas Drury.

This is the boy at the centre of everything, whose voice is blue teal when he’s not whispering.

It was Bee Larkham’s favourite colour; she liked it far more than my cool blue.

Another uncomfortable truth that revealed itself to me when I least expected it.

‘I know you were at the police station yesterday, Jasper,’ he says quietly. ‘There’s no point denying it. My dad called a copper for an update. He said you came in for a chat with your dad.’

Light Copper makes me laugh, but it could have been Rusty Chrome Orange.

‘This isn’t funny, you idiot. My dad’s gone ballistic.’

‘You told me that last week. You said you were pulling the duvet over his eyes.’

‘The wool, you idiot, and he worked it out. He found my Facebook password and guessed BL is Bee Larkham. He got straight on to the police on Saturday morning and claimed Bee’s a paedophile: a serial offender who preys on young boys. My two sons. Probably more victims. Those were his exact words.’

I breathe out cool blue with white circles. ‘Was he right? Was Bee Larkham a paedophile who preyed on young boys including Lee?’

‘Of course not,’ he says louder. ‘She was in love with me. No one else, but … Never mind about that now. We don’t have time. We’re both in trouble. We have to—’

The bluish green is cut off by shiny conker brown.

‘Lucas! What are you doing? Hurry up!’

Lucas glances over his shoulder as two boys approach. They look like identical twins and must be his friends. They’re not smiling. I’m not sure about Lucas. I haven’t looked at him since he grabbed me. His hand drops from my shoulder as if it’s been burnt.

‘I have to go, Jasper. I’ll meet you in the usual place at lunchtime, OK? We need to get our stories straight before either of us speaks to the police again. Deal?’

I move my head up and down because I agree with him about straight lines and straight stories.

Those are the stories we both need to tell, but I’m not a total fool. Lucas Drury has to go first. He owes me that after everything I had to do for him and Bee Larkham.