about this man apart from the fact we’re both bird lovers and lonely and our mums died of cancer.
I don’t want to argue with him. My tummy, knee and hand hurt. I want to go home.
‘Why don’t you give the bag of seed to me and I’ll feed them for you? That way you won’t be doing anything wrong. You won’t get into trouble with your dad.’
I think about this for seventeen seconds. ‘What about the men in the van? Will they tell my dad?’
‘What van?’ Custard Yellow looks up and down the street.
‘I’ll find the seed,’ I say, ignoring the question. The men in the van are only interested in me, but it’s best he doesn’t draw attention to himself. ‘Do you promise you won’t tell Dad? Or David Gilbert?’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
He doesn’t mean that. No one ever does.
I want to tell him enough people have died on our street.
I don’t.
I say nothing at all. It’s far safer that way.
We cross the road in silence and walk over to my house. Custard Yellow stays on the pavement, by the gate, as I tip up the large, marble flowerpot and retrieve my key. I let go before it smashes down and crushes my fingers.
After letting myself in, I concentrate on looking for the birdseed before I get distracted and forget what I’m supposed to do.
I find the bag in the kitchen cupboard, behind the cereal packets. Dad’s never any good at hiding things. Maybe they didn’t teach that skill in the Royal Marines. I run out the door and down the path. I thrust the bag into the man’s hands and dash back into the house, slamming the door.
From the sitting room window, I watch Custard Yellow cross the road, bag swinging in his right hand. He pushes open the gate to Bee Larkham’s house and stops, looking over his shoulder. A man walks towards him. His dog barks. There’s only one man on this street with cherry cords, a brown flat cap and a dog that barks yellow French fries.
My hand dives into my pocket and finds Mum’s button.
Rub, rub, rub.
This must be bird-killer David Gilbert – out walking his dog and back sooner than expected. He’s outside 20 Vincent Gardens again. He’s caught a fellow bird lover. He has a shotgun and he’s threatened to use it before. He threatened Bee Larkham.
Run away from bird-killer David Gilbert!
Custard Yellow doesn’t move. He can’t. He’s being kidnapped. He must know about the gun and doesn’t want to risk making a run for it. He manages to hide the bag of birdseed behind his back before he’s frogmarched away, like I was by X and Y at school. They walk up the path of the house next door.
It’s 22 Vincent Gardens, David Gilbert’s house. I was right about the man with the dog. His hand’s on Custard Yellow’s shoulder as they enter the house. He’s forcing him inside, whether he wants to go or not, the way I was pushed into the science lab.
No one helped me.
No one’s here to help Custard Yellow. The street’s empty.
No eyewitnesses, except me.
David Gilbert will punish him for trying to feed my parakeets. I’m afraid, extremely afraid. I need to act. Someone’s in danger, the type of terrible danger you can’t ignore.
I don’t listen to Dad’s voice in my head, ordering me not to draw attention to myself, to what we’ve both done.
I ignore Rusty Chrome Orange’s voice in my head, which tells me to stop making unnecessary emergency calls.
I ignore the call of my den, my paints and the pain in my tummy, which is getting louder and louder and brighter and brighter like a silvery hot spiky star.
I grab my phone and dial 999. I tell the operator I need the police, not the fire service, because I haven’t seen flames. Not yet, anyway.
‘Last week a horrible murder happened on our street and now a man’s been kidnapped,’ I tell the woman in the control centre. ‘He’s been taken against his will into a house. He’s in great danger.’
I give her David Gilbert’s address. She asks a lot of irrelevant details about me: Why am I ringing from home? Why aren’t I at school? Have I rung 999 before? Where are my parents? Do they know I’m at home alone?
She should question me about the kidnapping. She should demand info about David Gilbert. He’s the true villain in this painting.
‘Richard Chamberlain, like the actor, knows me,’ I say. ‘He told me to stop ringing 999, but he can’t expect me to ignore another person in terrible danger on this street. This is an absolute emergency.’ I repeat myself, in case she didn’t hear the first time. ‘There’s been a kidnapping, which shouldn’t be confused with a murder.’
I hang up the phone and wait by the window for the police. They need to hurry. The parakeets are shrieking green and peacock blue cut glass in Bee Larkham’s oak tree.
They’re scared, like me.
THE POLICE CAR DOESN’T screech to a halt with its siren blaring bright yellow and pink zigzags outside David Gilbert’s house. The driver slowly reverses into a parking space. A blonde woman in a black uniform climbs out, followed by a man. He opens his mouth wide and stretches his arms above his head. To be honest, they’re taking this emergency at a frighteningly leisurely pace.
The policewoman could be the one I saw outside Bee Larkham’s house earlier. I’m not sure. She walks up the path (why isn’t she running?) and knocks dark brown shapes on the front door. After thirty-one seconds, the door opens. A man appears, they talk for forty-four seconds and she goes inside. Her colleague waits by the car.
I’m not an expert in hostage situations, but shouldn’t she be more careful? She didn’t even have her weapon drawn (if she’s even carrying one) and she’s alone in a stranger’s house, which isn’t a good idea. People have a habit of turning on you when you least expect it. Her colleague can’t help. His finger’s stuck inside his left nostril.
After three minutes and two seconds, the policewoman steps out of the house with two strangers. They all walk down the path and stop on the pavement, next to the second police officer. Their faces turn and look in my direction.
Why isn’t the man in cherry cords wearing handcuffs?
David Gilbert should be locked up in prison. That’s where he belongs.
They walk towards my house. I don’t like this. Why are they coming here when they should be going to the police station? I back away from the window. I can’t hide. There’s no point. They know I’m here. I called 999 on my mobile. Not because I wanted to, because I had to.
No one else stepped in to help.
I’m a reluctant witness, a reluctant helper – the roles I’m used to playing.
One member of this group knocks blobs of light brown with streaks of bitter dark chocolate. I can’t be sure which one, because I’ve moved far away from the window. I’m hiding behind the front door, counting my teeth with my tongue.
‘Hello,