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