need to get rid of the picture in my head of the baby inside Bee Larkham’s tummy, the baby I killed when I killed Bee Larkham. I’d murdered two people that day, not one like I thought.
I can’t tell the nurse, of course. She’s trying Dad’s number again. My voice is a higher pitch, a whiter, flakier blue.
My tummy hurts. I’ll tell Dad to take me to the doctor’s this evening. We’ll get a sick note. Medicine. I promise.
Bad, horrible thoughts chase each other around my head and make me want to claw at the hole in my tummy while she leaves another message on Dad’s mobile. I can’t get a doctor’s note to fix those feelings.
The truth is, I can’t confess to the nurse. Words jam in my mouth; random thoughts are lodged in my brain. Some can’t get out and others won’t own up to what they’ve done and reveal their true colours.
She won’t understand, how could she?
Her phone rings bubble gum pink and she starts talking again.
I have to get to my den and burrow beneath the blankets. I’ll close my eyes and wrap Mum’s cardigan around me and pretend she’s lying next to me, talking about the colours and shapes she sees when she listens to classical music alone at night while Dad’s away.
The nurse puts the phone down. ‘Wait here, Jasper. A pupil with asthma needs me right away. I’ll find a teaching assistant to stay with you until your dad gets here.’
I do as I’m told.
The door closes and I wait twenty seconds.
I don’t do as I’m told.
I run.
I don’t know how I’ve managed to arrive here. Not at this terrible point in my life, aged thirteen years, four months, twenty-seven days and five hours. I mean the physical journey to my house after running through the school gates – the roads crossed and people passed. I’m grateful my legs kept marching like soldiers rescuing a wounded comrade from behind enemy lines. They moved without me shouting orders.
They carried me all the way back here, to Pembroke Avenue, where I finally stop and catch my breath. My breath is short, ragged lines of sharp blue. My hand and knee throb. A quick inspection reveals I’ve torn my trousers. There’s blood on my knee and a graze on my palm. My tummy’s on fire with pointy silver stars.
I don’t remember tripping and falling over. Or standing up. Or running again.
It doesn’t matter though, because I’m almost home. I’m holding my button; I didn’t drop it when I fell. I turn the corner into Vincent Gardens and spot it immediately: the police car parked outside Bee Larkham’s house.
My legs grind to a halt, abandoning the rescue mission. They can’t go any further. It’s too much to ask of any soldier, even a Royal Marine.
Surrender.
That’s what my legs silently scream at me.
Give yourself up without a fight.
Dad once shouted that order at an enemy soldier.
I lean against a lamppost to help gather my strength and set off again on my fateful expedition. It’s going to end a few metres away, with the blonde ponytail policewoman standing next to the car. I stagger towards her.
She doesn’t realize it yet, but she’s going to solve the mystery of why no one can find Bee Larkham.
Blonde Ponytail Policewoman doesn’t see me approach; she’s talking into her radio, probably checking in with Richard Chamberlain. Giving him a rundown on the situation. Another police officer strides up the path to Bee Larkham’s front door and knocks loudly.
‘Miss Larkham. It’s the police. Are you there? Open up, please. We urgently need to talk to you.’
Behind the front door is a hallway, painted cornflower blue, with overflowing coat pegs; a black suitcase, which Bee said she’d packed full of sparkly clothes especially for the hens and a ‘who invited you?’ mat.
‘Erm. Hi, Jasper.’ A man appears in front of me, blocking my path with his custard yellow words. He drops a cigarette, stubbing it out with a black suede shoe. ‘I’ve seen you out and about with your dad. Do you know who I am?’
My throat constricts. I gag. This man’s in serious danger of becoming collateral vomit damage if he doesn’t get out of my way. I try to skirt around him, but he moves again.
‘Are you feeling all right? You’re as white as a sheet.’
That’s not remotely possible. I can’t look like stretched cotton material.
His hand reaches out. I don’t know what he’s going to do with it. I shrink away. He could be planning to attack me.
I glance at him again. He’s probably a plain-clothes detective, working with the two police officers in uniform. They’ve come for me while Dad’s at work, which is sneaky. I wonder if a lawyer from one of Dad’s TV shows would shout: Inadmissible!
‘Did Richard Chamberlain send you?’ I ask.
‘Who?’
‘Did he send you here to arrest me?’
‘What? No. Don’t you recognize me?’
I move my head from side to side to signal ‘no’ because I don’t know anyone with a custard yellow voice who wears black suede shoes and distinctive red and black spotty socks.
‘Sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Ollie Watkins. I’m staying over the road while I sort through my mum’s stuff and sell her house.’
He points to the house with a large, ornate knocker in the shape of an owl on the door.
‘I saw you and your dad on the street a few months ago when David complained to Bee about the noise of the parakeets,’ he says. ‘You probably won’t remember – I haven’t got to know many of the neighbours. I’ve been a bit out of it.’
I do remember. This is Ollie Watkins who doesn’t like loud music or Ibiza and doesn’t get out much because he’s been nursing his terminally ill mum, Lily Watkins. She lived at number 18 and was friends with Bee Larkham’s mum, Pauline, at number 20.
I haven’t seen anyone go in or out of number 18 for ages, but I know someone’s still there because the lights go on and off. Mrs Watkins is dead now so maybe that’s why Ollie Watkins has been allowed out again.
I saw the hearse parked outside 18 Vincent Gardens eleven days ago, filled with white and delicate pink flowers. Not my favourite colours. I didn’t pay too much attention because that was the day I saw the baby parakeets up close for the first time.
‘My mum died of cancer,’ I tell him. ‘She was cobalt blue. At least I think she was. That’s what Dad says I remember. I’m not sure he’s telling the absolute truth about that.’
About anything.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ollie Watkins says. ‘Your dad told me.’
‘About my mum’s colour? That it was cobalt blue? Is that what he said? For definite?’
‘No, I don’t know anything about that. I meant we were talking about your mum’s death. He was kind when my mum passed away. It’s tough when you lose your mum, whatever age you are.’
‘Kind?’
‘He was helpful, too, you know, with the logistics of death: arranging the paperwork and the funeral notice in the local paper. He’d done it before, of course, whereas I didn’t have a clue where to start.’
The logistics of death.
I’ve never heard it explained that way.
‘I’m not allowed to go to funerals. I might