The Colour of Bee Larkham’s Murder. Sarah J. Harris

angry yellow French fries at being left alone in 22 Vincent Gardens. The other guy has black suede shoes, red and black spotty socks and is clutching half a bag of birdseed.

      They’re the kidnapper and his hostage.

      The policewoman glances at the men behind her. ‘We wanted to let you know everything’s OK,’ she says. ‘There hasn’t been a kidnapping or a murder. Your neighbour, Mr Watkins, wasn’t forced into Mr Gilbert’s house. He was paying a friendly visit.’

      ‘It’s true,’ Custard Yellow says. ‘I was about to refill the bird feeders when David asked if I could help shift a piece of furniture in his kitchen. It was too heavy for him to do alone.’

      I’m not entirely certain about this turn of events. It’s unexpected and I don’t like unexpected. It’s a waxy, Crayola orange word.

      ‘He had his hand on your shoulder,’ I point out, taking a step backwards. ‘Even X and Y didn’t do that to me earlier. They stood one in front and one behind, but didn’t touch me because that would have been assault and they’d have been expelled.’

      ‘I went with him willingly, Jasper. It wasn’t a problem. I don’t mind helping out someone who’s in trouble. It’s what neighbours do for each other on this street. That’s what Mum always said.’

      I feel a jab of pain in my tummy and the back of my neck is cactus prickly.

      ‘You’d help a neighbour even if you knew he was a serial killer or had helped a serial killer?’ I ask.

      The policewoman’s mouth widens into an ‘O’ shape, the way Bee’s did on her first night here. I guess she’s as curious as me to know the answer.

      David Gilbert looks at the police officers. ‘Do you see what I mean? These wild accusations have to stop. The lad’s gone too far this time. He’s a total basket case.’

       Like Bee Larkham.

      That’s how he described her. When she was alive.

      ‘You’re a bird killer,’ I clarify, because that’s only fair as he doesn’t have a defence lawyer with him. ‘I didn’t accuse you of killing Bee Larkham.’

      ‘I should think not!’ he says loudly. ‘What’s he going on about? What does any of this have to do with Beatrice? She’s going to have a lot to answer for when she finally bloody well shows up again.’ He directs his grainy red words at the two uniformed police officers. ‘I want something done about him. This is victimization. He makes slanderous accusations about me all the time. I have witnesses like Ollie here, who’ll back me up. Isn’t that correct?’

      The man standing next to him moves his head and arm. I’m not sure what the gesture means. Is he silently signalling he will back David Gilbert up or is he refusing to? It’s hard to tell.

      Instead, I concentrate on victimization. It’s an interesting colour, almost translucent with a slight violet hint.

      The word builds on the singular victim. You can turn it around and around in your head to mean different things. Perhaps that’s not simple to understand either, who the victim is supposed to be.

      ‘We can deal with this from here on, sir,’ PC Carter says. ‘Perhaps you could both go home and we’ll have a chat with Jasper alone?’

      Cherry Cords stalks back to his house, to Yellow French Fries, but the other man, Custard Yellow, doesn’t move.

      ‘I can stay with him if you want, since his dad doesn’t seem to be around.’ His body shifts in my direction. ‘Would you like that, Jasper?’

      ‘Bee Larkham hasn’t fed the parakeets since Friday. The bird feeders have been empty all weekend.’

      The policewoman turns to him. ‘It’s best if you leave, sir. We’ll call on you if we need any help.’

      ‘If you’re sure.’

      He doesn’t move, which is annoying.

      ‘You can refill the feeders with the bag of seed I gave you, but you’ll have to buy more. You’ll need to keep feeding the parakeets from now on. Twice a day. Also plates of apple and suet. Please don’t forget.’

      ‘Of course. Whatever you say.’ He strides away, bag swinging against his thigh.

      ‘Can we talk, Jasper?’ PC Carter asks.

      ‘In one minute or maybe ninety seconds.’ I watch as Custard Yellow returns to his original mission. The plastic bag billows in the breeze as he turns it upside down and empties the seed into the feeders. There’s not enough to go around all six, but at least three have been half topped up.

       Job done.

      Custard Yellow sticks his thumb in the air and walks back to his mum’s house.

      ‘I’m ready to go to the police station now,’ I say, turning to the policewoman. ‘I have to tell you everything that’s happened. I want to confess.’

      ‘No need for that.’ She talks in small viridian blue staccato sentences. ‘We can talk here. Can we come inside? It’s nothing to worry about. You should have someone with you. You’re on your own, right? Is there someone you want to be here?’

      ‘I want my mum. She’s the only person I want right now.’

      ‘That’s OK. Is she at work? We can call her for you. Have you got her telephone number to hand?’

      ‘You can’t call her. She’s cobalt blue, but the colour’s fading.’ I burst into tears. I can’t help myself. Truly, I can’t. ‘That’s all Bee Larkham’s fault. She diluted Mum’s colour for Dad, mainly Dad, but me too because I didn’t realize what was happening. By the time I noticed it was too late to do anything about it and I’d lost her.’

      ‘It’s all right, Jasper. Don’t get upset. I’m sorry I upset you. How can we get hold of her?’

      ‘I don’t know how to bring her back. I don’t know how to bring anyone back from the dead.’

      ‘Jasper—’

      ‘I want to bring her back, the baby too. I can’t! I don’t know where the bodies are. Please help me! Help me! I can’t do this. I’m too young. I want to get out of here.’

      Her face looms towards me. Then another. I don’t recognize either. A man’s mouthing loud words and unpleasant colours at me, but I don’t know what they are or who he is. I don’t want to study the shades in detail, because I know I’ll hate them. I’ve blocked them out.

      His mouth is thin and red, like a gash. It’s opening and closing.

      I see ice blue crystals with glittery edges and jagged, silver icicles again.

      They’re going to hurt me. Hurt my tummy.

      I scream and scream until the icicles smash and fall away into tiny pieces.

      I see nothing.

      Nothing except blackness, all around me, pulling me down.