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.
THIS IS MUM’S STRAIGHT story, not mine. I was only three or four. I sat with her in the back garden of our house in Plymouth on a late summer evening. Dad wasn’t there. He was with the Royal Marines in Afghanistan or Iraq. I’m not sure which country. No matter. We didn’t need him in the picture when we had each other.
The grass felt warm beneath our bare feet. I don’t remember wriggling my toes in the sunburnt yellow grass, but that’s what Mum said we both did while we played with my red pick-up truck. It had come to rescue the battered yellow car that crashed into Mum’s foot and overturned.
She told me this story over and over again because I was too young to remember it actually happening. She remembered it for me and it became our favourite bedtime story.
‘What’s