and still goes pheasant and partridge shooting every year.
Why oh why isn’t someone trying to stop the potential murderer, David Gilbert?
9.02 a.m.
Arrive at school. Late. Dad tells me not to worry. He’s sorry. Shouldn’t have mentioned David Gilbert’s hobby and former occupation. Forget about it.
9.06 a.m.
Must save parakeets. Concentrate on potential future murderer, David Gilbert from number 22. Dial 999 on my mobile phone in toilet and report death threat.
9.08 a.m.
Operator says—
‘Let’s take a break there, Jasper,’ Rusty Chrome Orange interrupts. ‘I think we should cover this. I can see from our log, this was one of a number of 999 calls you’ve made to the police recently.’ He stops talking and starts again. ‘These calls weren’t emergencies. Unnecessary 999 calls take up police resources, which could be used for proper emergencies. They waste police time.’
Who is this idiot? He’s wasting my time right now, when I could be watching over my parakeets. Maybe the actor Richard Chamberlain is brighter.
‘Of course it was necessary. It was an emergency that day. Don’t you see? I was reporting an imminent threat to life. One you should have taken more seriously if you’d wanted to stop a murder.’
‘Jasper—’ Dad starts.
‘That’s OK.’ Rusty Chrome Orange holds up his hand like he’s directing traffic.
I hope he’s better at that than interviewing me about serious crimes.
‘Your dad’s already explained you suspect someone on your street has killed a few parakeets that nest in Miss Larkham’s front garden.’
‘I know twelve parakeets are dead. Thirteen, if you count the baby parakeet, which died on 24 March, but that was an accident. The other deaths were definitely deliberate.’
Rusty Chrome Orange’s head bounces up and down. ‘I understand you’ve found recent events hard to come to terms with.’
‘Yes,’ I confirm. ‘Murder upsets me.’
‘Stop it, Jasper!’ Dad warns.
Rusty Chrome Orange stops cars again with his hand. ‘It’s OK, Mr Wishart. I can handle this.’
He leans towards me and I almost fall off the cushions to escape from him.
‘Don’t worry, Jasper. We can certainly discuss your concerns about the death of the parakeets. But first, I’d like to talk about your friends: Bee Larkham and Lucas Drury.’
Where did the Metropolitan Police find this man? Is he the last human survivor of a zombie apocalypse? Honestly, I thought this was what we were talking about before he changed the subject abruptly and brought up the massacre of my parakeets.
I should give him another chance, I suppose, even though he’s stupid enough to think Lucas and me are friends. We’ve never been friends. We were Bee Larkham’s friends. Her willing accomplices.
I try again to make him understand. ‘Ice blue crystals with glittery edges and jagged, silver icicles.’ I emphasize the icicles because that’s important. It’s the one thing about Friday night that sticks in my mind. The rest is too blurry; too many blanks and curly question marks, but the icicles’ jagged points remind me of the knife.
‘You’ve told me that twice already, but I’m afraid artists’ colours don’t mean a lot to me,’ Rusty Chrome Orange says. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve confused you. Let’s be clear, none of the boys we’re speaking to are in any trouble or danger. We’re trying to establish a few background facts before we track down Miss Larkham and speak to her ourselves.’
I’m attempting to tell him he’ll never be able to speak to Bee Larkham, but he’s not interested. His voice grates like nails down a blackboard.
‘I want to go home.’
‘Please, Jasper. Concentrate. It’s not for much longer.’ Dad’s muddy ochre has a yellowish pleading tone.
‘I can’t do this. I’m too young. I can’t do this. I’m too young.’
I speak loudly, but Dad doesn’t hear.
‘Jasper’s hardly an ideal witness in your investigation,’ he says. ‘There must be other boys at his school who can assist you? Boys who don’t have as many special needs?’
I need to go home. That’s my special need. My tummy’s hurting. No one’s listening. They never do. It’s like I don’t exist. Maybe I’ve melted away beneath my fingertips into nothing.
‘I understand your concerns, Mr Wishart. I’ll raise them at our case meeting this week, but we need to look closer at Jasper’s relationship with Miss Larkham and Lucas Drury. We believe he may have information that could assist our inquiries. He may have made notes of important times and dates in their alleged relationship.’
‘I doubt it.’
A fluttering of pale lemon.
One of my notebooks protests against Dad’s probing fingers.
‘Look at this entry. The people going in and out of Bee’s house have only basic details: Black Blazer enters, Pale Blue Coat leaves, etc. Jasper has no sense of what they look like, even if they’re teenagers or adults. I doubt he’d be able to identify Lucas or any other boy.’
Dad flicks through my notepad.
‘Most of Jasper’s entries don’t even record people. They’re his sightings of the parakeets nesting in Bee’s tree and other birds. He’s a keen ornithologist.’
Rusty Chrome Orange’s hand dips into a box and pulls out a steel blue notebook with a white rabbit on the front.
‘That’s not right,’ I say, surprised. ‘The rabbit doesn’t belong there.’
‘OK, sorry,’ Rusty Chrome Orange says.
The white rabbit notebook returns to its hiding place in the box.
‘Look at this notebook,’ Dad says, holding up another. ‘It’s all about his colours. How’s that interesting to you? To anyone?’
I want to scream and kick and flap.
Dad doesn’t see my difference in a good, winning-the-X- Factor-kind-of-way. He doesn’t look for the colours we might have in common, only those that set us apart.
I need to hold on. I have to focus on the colour I love most in the world: cobalt blue.
That’s all I’ve got left of Mum – the colour of her voice – but after Bee Larkham moved into our street the shade became diluted. It happened gradually and I never noticed until it was too late.
‘Take me home!’ I say. ‘Now! Now! Now!’
The colour and ragged shape of my voice shocks me. It’s usually cool blue, a lighter shade than Mum’s cobalt blue. Today it looks strange. Is it actually a darker shade than Mum’s? More greyish? I can’t remember. I need to remember her. I want to paint her voice.
‘I have to leave!’
It’s too late. Her colour’s slipping from my grasp, sand through my fingertips. I plaster my hands to my eyes. I want to keep the cobalt blue, vivid, reassuring, behind my eyelids.
Rub, rub, rub.
I want her cardigan. I forgot to bring one of the buttons to rub because I was concentrating on making sure my boxes were correctly ordered.
I glance across the room and the back of my neck prickles. Rusty Chrome Orange told me the mirror was ornamental,