The Colour of Bee Larkham’s Murder. Sarah J. Harris
How dare he say that? It’s useful to me because the distinctive colour of people’s voices helps me recognize them. Plus, it’s not just useful, it’s wonderful – something Dad will never understand.
My life is a thrilling kaleidoscope of colours only I can see.
When I look out of my bedroom window, chaffinches serenade me with sugar-mouse pink trills from the treetops and indignant blackbirds create light turquoise lines that make me laugh.
When I lie in bed on Saturday mornings, Dad bombards me with electric greens, deep violets and unripe raspberries from the radio in the kitchen.
I’m glad I’m not like most other teenage boys because I get to see the world in its full multi-coloured glory. I can’t tell people’s faces apart, but I see the colour of sounds and that is so much better.
I was desperate to tell this police officer that while he and Dad can see hundreds of colours, I see millions.
But there are also terrible colours in this world that no one should ever have to witness. Since Friday night I haven’t been able to get some of these ugly tints out of my head, however hard I try.
I longed to disobey Dad and tell this detective that whenever I close my eyes at night the palette becomes even more vivid, more brutal.
That’s because I can’t stop seeing the colour of murder.
BEFORE WE CAME TO the station, Dad had instructed me to avoid talking about Friday night; I had to stick to what we’d discussed. But when we got there, he was the first person to divert from the plan, not me. Even though they were on the other side of the waiting room, I could hear him firing question after question at the police officer.
‘Is this a formal interview?’ he asked. ‘About young boys visiting Bee’s house?’
Low murmurs rippled from the detective, grey-white noise in the background that floated away as if it didn’t want to draw attention to itself.
‘Oh, OK. Not formal, but a first account about Bee and her relationship with Lucas Drury in particular? That’s it? I’ve tried to explain to Jasper what you might want to ask him, but it’s difficult for someone like him.’
Grey-white lines turned into fluffy clouds and drifted off.
‘Have you tried to get hold of Bee yet?’ Dad went on.
More muted coloured murmurs as the detective’s head moved up and down – something about the police not being able to locate her yet for questioning.
What was a First Account? Why was I really here?
I looked from one man to the other but discovered no clues stamped on their faces. Did Dad and the detective want me to talk about my first impression of Bee Larkham’s voice?
Sky blue.
My memory of our first meeting?
I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends.
Or did they want to know about her first threat?
Do this for me tonight or I won’t let you watch the parakeets from my bedroom window ever again. I’ll stop feeding them unless you do exactly as I say.
I wanted Dad to explain what they were discussing, but he had to fetch the boxes from the car. While we waited, I watched the light dove-grey tapping of my foot and felt the detective’s eyes slice like a knife through my forehead and into my brain as if he knew every detail from beginning to end. The whole ghastly coloured story with no edits.
The waiting room walls closed in on me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t hear anything or see any colours. I forgot the story I had to tell, the one Dad and me had rehearsed for hours at home. Instead, I walked over to the detective, took a deep breath, and began to confess while I had the chance. He remained silent as I told him all about the ring-necked parakeets nesting in Bee Larkham’s oak tree.
They’re incredibly intelligent and musically colourful like a vibrant orchestra. They’ve already got me into trouble with the police and our neighbours but are still my favourite birds in the world.
More importantly I said very loudly and clearly: ‘Ice blue crystals with glittery edges and jagged, silver icicles.’
I didn’t have time to explain these were the colours and shapes of Bee’s screams on Friday night because Dad returned, carrying the first two boxes.
‘Don’t talk without me here, Jasper,’ he said. ‘Sit back down over there.’
A deep line appeared between his eyes. He was annoyed or angry or anxious because I’d launched into the story without him. Dad needn’t have worried. I’d spent three minutes and twenty-three seconds describing the parakeets and their glorious colours, but hadn’t got to the part about hurting Bee Larkham with the sharp, glinty knife and all the blood yet.
Dad’s left eye twitched as he turned to the man in the suit. ‘Art’s his favourite subject at school. He’ll get carried away talking about colours and painting if you let him.’
His muddy ochre voice transmitted a secret warning to me:
Keep quiet or someone will carry you away to a different world.
I returned to the bright orange plastic chair while the detective punched silver coin-shaped numbers into the door panel and disappeared. Dad came back and forth with boxes. I unfolded my arms in case Light Copper thought I looked defensive and had something to hide.
Dad always says that first impressions are important:
Focus on a person’s face and make eye contact otherwise you’ll look shifty.
If this is too difficult, fake eye contact by staring above a person’s eyebrows.
Try to act normal.
Don’t flap your arms.
Don’t rock.
Don’t go on about your colours.
Don’t tell anyone what you did to Bee Larkham.
Remember, that’s not the reason they want to speak to us today.
I was sure I’d impressed the detective. I’d told him the absolute truth. Well, 66 per cent of it. I hadn’t told him everything. I didn’t want to think about the missing 34 per cent.
After three minutes and fifteen seconds, the desk sergeant buzzed us through the door. Dad heaved the boxes into a small room.
A man in a white shirt entered ten seconds later. He looked at me and then up at the camera.
‘Hello, Jasper. Thank you for coming here today. For the record, I’m DC Richard Chamberlain. Also present is Jasper’s father, Ed Wishart. It’s Tuesday the 12 of April and we’re here to discuss an allegation made against your neighbour Bee Larkham.’
His voice was a gross shade of rusty chrome orange.
‘What was your name again?’ I said, shuddering.
‘Richard Chamberlain – like the actor,’ he replied. ‘My one and only claim to