Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Sarah J. Harris 2018

Cover design: Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photograph @ Shutterstock.com

Sarah J. Harris asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008256371

Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008256388

Version: 2018-11-28

Dedication

For Darren, James and Luke

Love also to Mum, Dad and Rachel

Epigraph

‘I could tell you my adventures – beginning from this morning,’ said Alice a little timidly: ‘but it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.’

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

synaesthesia

noun

1. physiology a sensation experienced in a part of the body other than the part stimulated

2. psychology the subjective sensation of a sense other than the one being stimulated. For example, a sound may evoke sensations of colour

Collins English Dictionary

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

1. Tuesday (Bottle Green): Afternoon

2. Tuesday (Bottle Green): Still That Afternoon

3. Tuesday (Bottle Green): Evening

4. Tuesday (Bottle Green): Still That Evening

5. 17 January, 7.02 A.M.: Blood Orange Attacks Brilliant Blue And Violet Circles on canvas

6. Tuesday (Bottle Green): Later That Evening

7. Wednesday (Toothpaste White): Morning

8. Wednesday (Toothpaste White): Later That Morning

9. Mum’s Story

10. Wednesday (Toothpaste White): Afternoon

11. Wednesday (Toothpaste White): Still That Afternoon

12. Wednesday (Toothpaste White): Still That Afternoon

13. Wednesday (Toothpaste White): Later That Afternoon

14. 18 January, 6.50 A.M.: Marmalade With Cobalt Blue And Crimson Stars on paper

15. 18 January, 3.31 P.M.: Sky Blue Meets Cool Blue on canvas

16. Nan’s Story

17. Wednesday (Toothpaste White): Evening

18. 18 January, 9.02 P.M.: Out With The Old And In With The New on paper

19. Wednesday (Toothpaste White): Later That Evening

20. Thursday (Apple Green): Morning

21. 19 January, 3.18 P.M.: Award-Winning Sky Blue on paper

22. 22 January, 7.02 A.M.: Pandemonium on canvas

23. Thursday (Apple Green): Afternoon

24. 22 January: Dirty Sap Circles on paper

25. 27 January, 4.30 P.M.: Blue Teal And Fir Tree Green on canvas

26. Thursday (Apple Green): Still That Afternoon

27. Thursday (Apple Green): Still That Afternoon

28. 28 January, 5.03 P.M.: Sky Blue Saving Blue Teal on paper

29. Thursday (Apple Green): Still That Afternoon

30. 6 February, 10.04 A.M.: Sky Blue With Muddy Ochre, Cool Blue And Sapphire on canvas

31. 8 February, 9.13 A.M.: Finding Blue Teal Ruined By Aluminium Giggles on paper

32. Thursday (Apple Green): Later That Afternoon

33. 12 February, 7.39 P.M.: Glittering Neon Tubes Harassed By Scratchy Red on canvas

34. Friday (Indigo Blue): Morning

35. 13 February, 8.22 A.M.: Parakeets Disturbed on paper

36. Friday (Indigo Blue): Still That Morning

37. 12 March, 2.23 P.M.: Parakeets Feeding Babies on canvas

38. 24 March, 7.02 P.M.: The Death on paper

39. Friday (Indigo Blue): Afternoon

40. 31 March, 8.01 A.M.: Baby Parakeets on paper

41. Friday (Indigo Blue): Evening

42. 5 April, 1.32 P.M.: Blue Teal Mist Paints Over Sky Blue on paper

43. 6 April, 5.13 P.M.: Sky Blue Paints Over Cool Blue on paper

44. Saturday (Turquoise): Morning

45. Interview: Saturday 16 April, 10.30 A.M.

46. Interview: Saturday 16 April, 10.43 A.M.

47. Interview: Saturday 16 April, 11.01 A.M.

48. Interview: Saturday 16 April, 11.23 A.M.

49. Interview: Saturday 16 April, 11.39 A.M.

50. Interview: Saturday 16 April, 12.15 P.M.

51. Interview: Saturday 16 April, 2 P.M.

52. Interview: Saturday 16 April, 3.10 P.M.

53. Interview: Saturday 16 April, 3.43 P.M.

54. Interview: Saturday 16 April, 4.10 P.M.

55. Interview: Saturday 16 April, 4.24 P.M.

56. Dad’s Story

57. Sunday (Apricot): Morning

58. Sunday (Apricot): Afternoon

59. Monday (Scarlet): Morning

60. Monday (Scarlet): Afternoon

61. Monday (Scarlet): Later That Afternoon

62. Monday (Scarlet): Still That Afternoon

63. Tuesday (Bottle Green): Morning

64. Tuesday (Bottle Green): Afternoon

65. Tuesday (Bottle Green): Later That Afternoon

Epilogue: Three Months Later

References

Acknowledgements

Discover more

About the Author

About the Publisher

TUESDAY (BOTTLE GREEN)
Afternoon

BEE LARKHAM’S MURDER WAS ice blue crystals with glittery edges and jagged, silver icicles.

That’s what I told the first officer we met at the police station, before Dad could stop me. I wanted to confess and get it over and done with. But he can’t have understood what I said or he forgot to pass on the message to his colleague who’s interviewing me now.

This man’s asked me questions for the last five minutes and twenty-two seconds that have nothing to do with what happened to my neighbour, Bee Larkham, on Friday night.

He says he’s a detective, but I’m not 100 per cent convinced. He’s wearing a white shirt and grey trousers instead of a uniform and we’re sitting on stained crimson sofas, surrounded by cream-coloured walls. A mirror’s on the wall to my left and a camera’s fixed in the right-hand corner of the ceiling.

They don’t interrogate criminals in here, not adult ones anyway. Toys sit on a shelf, along with an old Top Gear annual and a battered copy of the first Harry Potter book that looks like some kid tried to eat it. If this is supposed to put me at ease, it’s not working. The one-armed clown is definitely giving me the evil eye.

Would you describe yourself as happy at school, Jasper?

Are you friends with any Year Eleven boys?

Do you know anything about boys visiting Bee Larkham’s house for music lessons?

Did Miss Larkham ask you to deliver messages or gifts to any boys, for example Lucas Drury?

Do you understand what condoms are used for?

The last question’s funny. I’m tempted to tell the detective that condom wrappers look like sparkly sweets, but I recently learnt the correct answer.

It’s SEX: a bubble gum pink word with a naughty lilac tint.

Again, what does that have to do with Bee and me?

Before the interview began, this man told us his name was Richard Chamberlain.

Like the actor, he said.

I haven’t got a clue who the actor Richard Chamberlain is. Maybe he’s from one of Dad’s favourite US detective TV shows – Criminal Minds or CSI. I don’t know the colour of that actor’s voice, but this Richard Chamberlain’s voice is rusty chrome orange.

I’m trying to ignore his shade, which mixes unpleasantly with Dad’s muddy ochre and hurts my eyes.

This morning, Dad got a phone call asking if he could bring me down to the station to answer some questions about Bee Larkham – the father of one of her young, male music students has made some serious allegations against her. His colleagues plan to interview her too, to get her side of the story.

I wasn’t in any trouble, Dad stressed, but I knew he was worried.

He came up with the idea of us taking in my notebooks and paintings. We would tell the police that I stand at my bedroom window with binoculars, watching the parakeets nesting in Bee Larkham’s oak tree. And about how I keep a record of everything I see out of my window.

It’s important the police think we’re cooperating, Jasper, and not attempting to hide anything.

I didn’t want to take any chances, so I stacked seventeen key paintings and eight boxes of notebooks – all filed correctly, their boxes labelled in date order – by the front door.

I hated the thought of them all together in one confined dark place: the boot of Dad’s car. What if the car crashed and burst into flames? My records would be destroyed. I helpfully suggested we divided the boxes and travelled in two separate taxis to the police station, like members of the Royal Family who aren’t allowed to travel together on one plane.

Dad vetoed this and muttered: ‘It might be a good thing if these boxes did go up in flames.’

I screamed glistening aquamarine clouds with sharp white edges at Dad until he promised never to harm my notebooks or paintings. But the damage was done and I couldn’t shake his threat or the colours out of my head; they mixed spitefully behind my eyes. I couldn’t bear to look at Dad or think about the terrible things he was capable of doing.

What he had done already.

Returning to the den in the corner of my bedroom, I rubbed the buttons on Mum’s cardigan until I felt calmer. When I crawled out again twenty-nine minutes later, Dad had packed the car without me. He’d replaced some of my numbered boxes containing records of the people on this street with much older ones from the loft.

You’ve made a mistake, I told him. These are my notebooks from years ago, listing Star Wars characters and merchandise.

Dad said not to worry; the police would probably still be interested in the range of my work and the selection of notebooks could help distract them.

I disliked his explanation. Worse still, when I looked closer in the boot, I realized he’d put box number four on top of box number six.

‘Number four’s carrot orange and sneaky!’ I said. ‘It can’t go on top of dusky pink and friendly number six. They don’t even remotely belong together! How can you not know that by now?’

I wanted to add: Why can’t you see what I can see?

There was no point, there never is. Dad’s blind to a lot of things, particularly involving me. When I was little it was always Mum who understood my colours. But Mum’s gone now and Dad doesn’t want to know.

He let me go back inside so I could spin on the chair in the kitchen rather than run to my den again. We didn’t have time, but we both knew I had to avoid more upset. I felt like an actor, walking around in the shoes belonging to me – Jasper Wishart – ever since the night Bee Larkham …

I couldn’t go there. Not yet.

I had to get the long, snaky ticker tape in my head in order. It had tangled up, with vital bits damaged or jumbled together. I couldn’t figure out how to rejig what had happened back into place.

Being late freaked me out even more. Dad said it’d be OK and not to worry, but that’s what he says whenever we get late-payment reminders for our electricity bills. I’m not sure I can trust his judgement any more.

After I’d double-checked my boxes were settled in the boot, we made sure our seat belts were fastened, because people are thirty times more likely to be thrown from a vehicle if they’re not wearing one.

When we finally arrived, we were fifteen minutes and forty-three seconds late. The desk sergeant told us this wasn’t a problem and we should take a seat, a detective would see us soon.

The desk sergeant’s voice was light copper. I tried not to giggle at the irony. No one else in the police station would understand the joke, apart from Dad, who wouldn’t laugh. He doesn’t find my colours funny.

I longed to fly around the waiting room like a parakeet. Instead, I folded my arms tight and pretended I was a normal thirteen-year-old boy. I stared at my watch. Counting.

Five minutes, fourteen seconds.

The door beeped open, light greyish turquoise circles, and a man in a grey suit came out and shook Dad’s hand without glancing at me.

‘Hello, Detective,’ Dad said. ‘Are you in charge of the investigation into Bee and these boys?’

The man took Dad aside and spoke quietly in muted grey-white lines. He didn’t talk to me or stare.

I overheard Dad tell the detective he doubted I could help because I don’t recognize people’s faces. Something to do with my profound learning difficulties, Dad suspected. He’ll get that assessed at some point.

Did the detective still want to go ahead with the interview? It could be a waste of everyone’s time.

‘Jasper sees colours and shapes for all sounds too, but that’s not much use to anyone either,’ Dad added.

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.

TUESDAY (BOTTLE GREEN)
Still That Afternoon

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 fame. Shall we get started?’

We sat opposite each other on the sofas, me shuffling almost off the edge to avoid the vomit-looking stain and Dad yanking me backwards with a hard grip.

My heart had dropped like a huge, glass lift. This wasn’t the first detective I’d met in the waiting room who listened carefully and only spoke in reassuring white-grey murmurs.

This was Rusty Chrome Orange, possibly named after a mysterious actor from some American TV crime show.

I took an instant dislike to him due to:

1. His colour (obviously)

2. He talked about dumb actors and claimed to be famous

3. He stared directly at me

Without warning, he launched into a series of baffling questions about school, my friends and teachers, gifts for boys and condom wrappers that can be disguised as sparkly sweets. But his questions were all wrong from the start – and they haven’t improved.

Where’s the grey suited man from the waiting room?

‘I don’t want to be rude, but I hate your colour and I don’t want to talk to you.’

‘Jasper! We discussed this, Son – about being polite and respectful when you answer questions.’

‘Yes, but perhaps the police officer who had grey-white whispers can come back? He seemed to get me. I don’t want Richard Chamberlain like the actor. I want the first detective from the waiting room.’

Silence.

People say silence is golden. They’re wrong. It’s no colour at all.

Rusty Chrome Orange speaks again. ‘That was me, Jasper, in the waiting room. You talked to me about colours and parakeets.’

‘What?’

He picks up his notebook. ‘Ice blue crystals with glittery edges and jagged, silver icicles. You also said that parakeets are incredibly intelligent.’

I glance at Dad to verify Rusty Chrome Orange’s story.

His head moves up and down. ‘You were speaking to DC Chamberlain while I got the boxes from the car.’

I can scarcely believe it. I can’t look at Dad or the detective from the waiting room who has morphed into Richard Chamberlain aka Rusty Chrome Orange. I stare at the grey jacket lying next to the detective on the sofa. He’s taken it off. I didn’t notice him carry the jacket in here.

‘Oh.’ I can’t think of anything else to say. Oh is a small word, exactly how I feel.

Tiny. Insignificant.

Oh. A colour that people can’t see.

‘Sorry, I forgot.’ It’s a lie, of course, but a useful one. Like Sorry, I didn’t see you. I trot it out at least once a day when I don’t recognize someone I’m supposed to.

‘I did try to warn you,’ Dad’s muddy ochre voice says to Richard Chamberlain. ‘He doesn’t recognize me if I turn up at his school unexpectedly.’

He’s right.

I don’t remember Dad’s face.

Richard Chamberlain’s face.

Anyone’s face.

I see them, yet I don’t. Not as complete pictures.

I close my eyes. I hear the muddy ochre of Dad’s voice, but can’t draw together the image of his face in my mind. I couldn’t pick him out of a line-up of men wearing blue jeans and blue shirts – his usual uniform. Is that what Dad’s got on today? I can’t remember. I haven’t paid enough attention.

When he speaks, the rusty chrome orange of Richard Chamberlain’s voice pummels my eyeballs, but if he walked up to me in the street I wouldn’t be able to recognize him unless I’d memorized a distinctive detail: the make of his watch, a hat, socks featuring a character like Homer Simpson or the colour of his voice. Those are the kinds of things I look for first, rather than hair colour or styles that change whenever people run their hands over their heads.

I open my eyes again. None of the usual clues helped me today. Rusty Chrome Orange wasn’t wearing unusual clothes. He tricked me by taking off his grey jacket and whispered, which disguised the genuine colour of his voice with white and grey lines.

Whispers are always frustrating for me because they completely change the hues of people’s voices. Coughs and colds play the same mean trick, which is really sneaky too.

More colourless silence.

It lasts longer than before. I count ten teeth with my tongue before Richard Chamberlain clears his throat, creating an offensive ochre shade.

‘You’ve gone to town on this,’ he says, pointing at my boxes as I perch with one buttock hovering in mid-air over the fried egg-shaped splodge on the sofa.

I sigh. ‘We didn’t go to town. We came straight here otherwise we’d have been even later.’

‘Okaaaaaaaay.’ The rusty chrome orange stretches into an equally unpleasant brownish mud colour.

Richard Chamberlain – call me Richard – clarifies that he’s surprised by how many notebooks I keep and stresses there was no need to bring so many today. He only wants to know if anything I’ve seen might help the investigation.

Before Dad can stop me, I pull out the crucial notebook from box number six and turn to 22 January. This isn’t the true beginning, but it’s an incredibly important day in the sequence of events that followed:

7.02 a.m.

Parakeets land in the oak tree at 20 Vincent Gardens.

Happy, bright pink and sapphire showers with golden droplets.

7.06 a.m.

Man wearing cabbage green pyjamas opens upstairs window of house next to Bee Larkham’s. Shouts prickly tomato red words at parakeets. Clue: Number 22 belongs to David Gilbert.

‘Can we skip forwards?’ Rusty Chrome Orange interrupts, setting my teeth on edge. ‘I’m not sure this is getting us anywhere.’

I sigh. We’re back to where we started, with Rusty Chrome Orange asking the wrong questions again.

If he were a proper detective, he’d have asked me to rewind and start even earlier, from the day it all began: 17 January.

The day Bee Larkham moved into our street.

I guess I understand Rusty Chrome Orange’s impatience. It’s been four days since her murder and he still doesn’t seem to realize she’s dead, but he needs to follow the correct order. I try again with my entry from 22 January, since this part is clear in my head. It’s not confused at all:

8.29 a.m.

Cherry Cords with a dog barking yellow French fries talks to Dad on street. Smoking Black Duffle Coat Man arrives but I don’t hear him speak.

Cherry Cords threatens to kill parakeets using a shotgun. The colour of his trousers, the dull red, grainy voice and the dog give me clues – this must be David Gilbert from number 22.

I don’t know the colour of Black Duffle Coat Man’s voice. I double-check his identity later and Dad says it was Ollie Watkins. I haven’t spoken to him before. He moved back to the street a couple of weeks ago to look after his mum, Lily Watkins, who is dying of cancer at number 18.

I pause and wait for Rusty Chrome Orange to catch up because this is the first sign a murder’s going to happen on our street. But he’s hitting his knee with a pen and has missed the vital clue.

Tap, tap, tap.

A light brown sound with flaky blue-black edges.

I ignore the irritating colour and jump ahead by nine minutes.

8.38 a.m.

Set off for school with Dad, worrying about David Gilbert. He’s lived on our street as long as Mrs Watkins. I ask Dad why he mentioned the shotgun. Dad says he’s a retired gamekeeper 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, like the ship picture on the far wall. He insisted there’s no one behind it, but I can’t trust his colour.

Someone is standing behind the mirror, scrutinizing my face, my mannerisms and laughing at my mix-ups. There are three strangers sitting on crimson sofas on this side of the mirror.

I don’t recognize any of them.

The smallest, the one with dark blond hair who is rocking backwards and forwards, opens his mouth and screams.

Pale blue with violet-tinged vertical lines.

He vomits on the sofa.

Dad’s silent. He doesn’t flick on Radio 2 or tap his fingers on the steering wheel. I guess it’s not surprising, considering the whole embarrassing vomit thing. He’s still angry with me even though Rusty Chrome Orange said not to worry. Lots of kids throw up in that room; the police service employs someone to scrape up their sick. Dad says that’s the deadbeat career I’ll end up with if I don’t work harder to control myself.

The sofa had definitely seen a lot of sick action. What does Rusty Chrome Orange expect when he hangs a trippy mirror on the wall? One minute you think you’re alone and the next you’re surrounded by strangers.

He showed me behind the mirror after I’d calmed down; it was a normal wall.

No hidden window into another room.

No hidden recording devices.

I attempt to block out the dark colours and harsh shapes of the lorries and cars rumbling past. Dad hasn’t said a word since he turned on the engine, marmalade orange with pithy yellow spikes. Maybe he’s not angry with me. Maybe he’s thinking about Bee Larkham.

He knows we both need time to think about what’s happened – me without distractions of unnecessary colours and shapes, him without me banging on about my colours and shapes.

I should try to make him feel better, considering everything he’s done for me. He hasn’t forced me to come out of my den over the last three days except to visit the police station. He rang my school yesterday and said I had a bad tummy ache. At least that wasn’t a lie.

‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ I say finally. ‘I think we did it.’

‘We did what?’ he asks, without glancing back.

‘We got away with murder. Richard Chamberlain – like the actor – knows nothing.’

Dad spits out a yellowish cat-puke word.

I hate swearing. He knows I hate swearing.

He’s getting back at me for throwing up over Rusty Chrome Orange’s sofa.

‘I’m sorry, Jasper. I shouldn’t have used that word. Have you understood anything I’ve told you? Is that what you think’s happened?’

I screw my eyes tightly shut and curl into a ball beneath the seat belt.

Yes, I do. Think. That’s What Happened Back There.

Despite his repeated warnings to keep quiet, I tried to confess. Honestly I did, because I’m very, very sorry about what happened in the kitchen at 20 Vincent Gardens. I deserve to be punished.

Rusty Chrome Orange wouldn’t listen. I doubt he’s going to start looking for Bee Larkham’s body.

Which gives me time.

Time to protect the surviving parakeets. I need longer, around four days until the young begin to abandon the nests in Bee Larkham’s oak tree and eaves and fly far, far away from the dangers lurking on our street.

But I can’t leave.

I can’t ignore the colours any more.

I have to face the truth. I have to remember what happened the night I murdered Bee Larkham.

TUESDAY (BOTTLE GREEN)
Evening

LYING IN BED THAT night, I trace my index finger over the ring-necked parakeet photographs in my Encyclopaedia of Birds. The adult male parakeet is easily identifiable because of the pink-and-black ring around its neck. Females also have these rings, but they’re similar shades of green to their bodies and harder to pick out.

Twelve deaths in total.

Bee Larkham didn’t tell me how many males versus females were slaughtered before she died. I must start a new census before it’s too late. Before the nests are abandoned.

After we got home from the police station, Dad didn’t ask if I felt up to afternoon lessons. While he made cheese toasties and looked for painkillers for my tummy, I grabbed my half-empty bag of seed. I managed to get to the hallway before he stopped me.

Don’t go over to Bee Larkham’s house to feed the parakeets.

Promise?

Don’t put pieces of apple on the ground in our front garden for the birds. It’ll attract rats.

Promise?

No more 999 calls.

Promise?

It’s a pinkish grey word with curly edges, which always gives me a strange, achy feeling inside my tummy – not on the outside where it currently burns like dry ice and looks like a half-open mouth.

I agreed, but had my fingers crossed behind my back, which means it didn’t count. Someone has to feed the parakeets because Bee Larkham can’t do it any more.

Dad doesn’t realize it yet, but Bee Larkham’s house is already attempting to grab attention. The six bird feeders in her front garden have been empty since Friday night. She hasn’t strung up any monkey nuts or put out plates of sliced apple and suet. Bee Larkham didn’t turn on her music to full blast as usual. The parakeets weren’t serenaded and the neighbours didn’t complain about the noise. Earlier today, she didn’t open her front door to the piano and guitar pupils who are allocated forty-five-minute slots after school from 4 p.m. onwards. The house has remained dark and silent since Friday – the Indigo Blue day Bee Larkham died.

I know these Important Facts because I barricaded myself in my bedroom after Dad stopped me leaving the house to feed the parakeets. At first, I concentrated on painting Mum’s voice, but the shades were off. The colours were uncooperative and churlish. That’s the way Dad describes me.

Difficult.

He said he was working from home for the rest of the day, but I could see the colour of the television downstairs while I painted. Half an hour later, when Mum’s true cobalt blue refused to reveal itself and the black-and-silver stripes of the TV became too distracting, I had abandoned my tubes of blue paints and stood at the window with my binoculars.

As usual, I had kept a record of all the relevant activity and used a fresh cornflower blue notebook. I started it especially because it seemed like the right thing to do – to keep my ‘after’ notes separate and uncontaminated from the ‘before’ notes.

3.35 p.m. – Male parakeet flies into branches, berries in beak.

4.02 p.m. – Bee’s piano lesson. Kingfisher Blue Coat Boy two minutes late. Runs up path. Looks at empty bird feeders. Bangs cardboard box colour on door. Door doesn’t open. Kingfisher Blue Coat Boy walks down street.

4.11 p.m. – Five young parakeets together on branch.

4.45 p.m. – Bee’s guitar lesson. Sea Green Coat Boy taps lighter, dusty brown. Door doesn’t open. Sea Green Coat Boy gets back into black car.

Bee Larkham also had an unexpected appointment that wasn’t on her usual teaching schedule.

5.41 p.m. – Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man.

Bang, bang, bang.

‘Open the door, Bee! We need to talk!’ Clouds of dirty brown with charcoal edges.

I was tempted to lean out of my window and shout: Go away and take your clouds with you!

Of course, I couldn’t. I was too afraid of the Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man. I wasn’t sure if I’d seen him before, but knew I didn’t like his colours. Or his baseball cap.

I had scanned the tree with my binoculars. The parakeets remained hidden in the highest branches; even the youngest didn’t draw attention by squawking noisily. Clever birds.

5.43 p.m. – Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man walks backwards down path, staring up at Bee’s bedroom window. Turns around—

The pen had fallen from my hand, making droplets of light, flinty brown on the green carpet. I dived into my den and buried myself beneath the blankets. I stayed in the dark, warm cocoon, running my fingers around the buttons on Mum’s cardigan and smelling the rose scent.

Finally, I crawled out and peeped outside my window. The Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man had gone. 6.14 p.m. I know, because I had double-checked on both my watch and the bedside clock. It’s important to be precise about the details.

I have to record the rest now, one hour and forty-two minutes later at 7.56 p.m., otherwise I’ll never be able to sleep, knowing my records are incomplete. I pick up the blue fountain pen I keep at the side of my bed and start the sentence again. It looks better that way, when my handwriting isn’t panicking and attempting to run off the page. I write:

5.43 p.m. – Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man walks backwards down path, staring up at Bee’s bedroom window. Turns around and sees me watching him with binoculars. He strides towards our house.

?????????????????????????????????

6.14 p.m. – Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man gone.

What happened while I hid for thirty-one minutes in my den? I can’t answer the thirty-three question marks I’ve jotted down.

Did the Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man plan to confront me about my snooping then change his mind? I didn’t hear Dad open the front door. I’d stuck my hands over my ears and sung Taylor Swift’s ‘Bad Blood’ loudly. Still, I’d have heard, wouldn’t I? I’d have seen dark brown shapes, the rapping on our front door.

I’d have heard the colour of voices.

I update my notes:

Who was Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man and what did he want with Bee Larkham?

TUESDAY (BOTTLE GREEN)
Still That Evening

AFTER UPDATING MY RECORDS, I push the notebook beneath my pillow and return to tracing my finger over the male parakeet photo. I don’t want to think about the Dark Blue Baseball Cap Man. I may get nightmares again and they hurt my tummy even when I’ve taken Dad’s painkillers.

I don’t want to think about the blood either, but I can’t help worrying. It hasn’t gone away. Dad’s probably stuffed the knife and my clothes from Friday night behind the lawnmower in the shed at the bottom of our garden. That’s where he hides the sneaky contraband he thinks I don’t know about – emergency packets of cigarettes even though he’s supposed to have given up smoking.

‘Everything OK in here?’ Muddy ochre.

The encyclopaedia tries to escape off my duvet. I manage to catch it in time, ramming my elbow on the pillow to protect my notes. Dad mustn’t find out I’m continuing to make records; I’m keeping secrets. He won’t like to hear about the things I’m remembering.

It’s 7.59 p.m. Dad’s come to say goodnight earlier than usual. A new episode of Criminal Minds must be about to begin on TV.

‘It’s been a tough day, but it’s over now,’ he says. ‘I don’t want you to get worked up about the police. I’ve spoken to DC Chamberlain this evening and taken care of everything. Bee’s someone else’s problem now, not ours.’

I concentrate on the parakeet photos.

‘What about her body?’

Dad sucks in his breath with smoky ochre wisps. ‘We’ve been through this a million times. I sorted everything with Bee. You can stop worrying about her.’

‘But—’

‘Look, I’m telling you she’s not going to bother either of us again. I promise you.’

Silence. No colour.

‘Jasper? Are you still with me?’

‘Yeah. Still here.’ Unfortunately. I wish I wasn’t. I wish I could be a parakeet snuggled deep in the nest in the oak tree over the road. I bet it’s cosy. It used to be a woodpeckers’ nest after the squirrels left, but the parakeets took over the old drey. They always force out other nesting birds like nuthatches, David Gilbert said.

‘Jasper. Look at me and focus on my face. Concentrate on what I’m about to say.’

Don’t want to.

I drag my gaze away from the book in case Dad tries to take that away as well as the bag of seed. I pull his features into a concise picture inside my head – the blue-grey eyes, largish nose and thin lips. I close my eyes and the image vanishes again like I’d never drawn it.

‘Open your eyes, Jasper.’

I do as I’m told and Dad reappears as if by magic. His voice helps. Muddy ochre.

‘I’ve told you already, the police aren’t going to find Bee’s body because there’s no body to find.’

Now it’s my turn to make a funny sucking in colour with my breath. It’s a darker, steelier blue than before.

He’s trying to distance us both from what happened in Bee Larkham’s kitchen on Friday night. Maybe he thinks Rusty Chrome Orange has bugged my bedroom. He could have planted listening devices throughout the whole house. The police do that all the time on Law & Order.

I picture a dark van parked outside our house – two men inside, headphones clamped to their ears, listening to Dad and me talking, hoping we’ll let slip something incriminating about Bee Larkham.

I have to stick to our story.

There is no body.

I repeat the words under my breath.

The police can’t find Bee Larkham’s body if they don’t look for the body and the police aren’t looking for the body, dense Rusty Chrome Orange has proven that. He’s trampled over the Hansel-and-Gretel-style trail of crumbs I left for him, never noticing they lead to the back door of Bee Larkham’s house. They continue into her kitchen and stop abruptly.

I don’t know where the crumbs reappear. Dad hasn’t told me what happened after I fled the scene. Her body could rot for months before it’s found.

If it’s ever found.

There’s no body to find.

‘OK, Dad. If you’re sure about this?’

‘I am. Stay away from Bee’s house and stop talking about her. I don’t want to hear you mention her name again. I want you to forget about her and forget what happened between the two of you on Friday night. No good can come from talking about it.’

I move my head up and down.

Dad’s supposed to know best because he says he’s older and wiser than me. The problem is, whatever Dad claims, it still feels wrong.

I pull out a photo from beneath the book on my bedside table. It’s a new one. Not new, as in someone just took a picture of Mum, which would be impossible. She died when I was nine. I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral because Dad said I’d find it too upsetting. I haven’t seen this photo before – not in the albums or in his bedside drawer. I found it at the back of the filing cabinet in his study.

I stare at the six people standing in a line. ‘Which one’s Mum?’

‘What?’ Dad’s checking his watch. I’m keeping him from important FBI business. The plots are complicated. He’ll never catch up.

‘Which one’s my mum?’ I repeat. ‘In this photo?’

‘Let me see that.’

I hold the picture up but don’t let him take it off me. He might leave a smudgy fingerprint, which would ruin it.

‘God, I haven’t seen that photo in years. Where did you find it?’

‘Er, um.’ I don’t want to admit I’ve been rummaging in his filing cabinet again and the drawers in his study.

After the parakeets and painting, my next favourite hobby is rooting through all Dad’s stuff when he’s not around.

‘It was stuck behind another photo in the album.’ It’s only a small lie in the grand scheme of things.

Dad’s eyebrows join together at the centre. ‘Wow. This brings back memories. It’s Nan’s seventy-fifth birthday party.’

Interesting, but he hasn’t answered my question.

‘Which woman is Mum?’

He sighs, smooth light ochre button shapes. ‘You honestly don’t know?’

‘I’m tired. I can’t concentrate properly.’ It’s that useful lie again, a trusty friend, like dusky pink number six.

‘She’s that one,’ he says, pointing. ‘At the far right of the photograph.’

‘She’s the woman in the blue blouse with her arms around that boy’s shoulders.’ I repeat it to myself to help memorize her position in the photo.

‘Your shoulders. She’s hugging you. You’re both smiling at the camera.’

I stare at the strangers’ faces.

‘Who’s that?’ I point at another woman, further along. She’s also wearing a blue top, which is confusing.

‘That was your nan. She passed away a month …’ His muddy ochre voice trails away.

I finish the sentence for him. ‘A month after Mum died. Her heart stopped beating from the grief and shock of losing her only daughter.’

Dad inhales sharply. ‘Yes.’ His word’s a jagged arrow, whistling through the air.

I bat away his unprovoked attack. ‘She knew she couldn’t replace Mum. That would have been impossible.’

‘Of course she couldn’t replace Mum. You can’t replace people, like possessions. Life doesn’t work like that, Jasper. You understand that, right?’

Deep down, he must know he’s a liar, but I don’t want to think about that now.

‘What colour was Mum’s voice?’ I say, changing the subject.

Dad checks his watch again. He should have pressed ‘pause’ on the remote before he came up to say goodnight. He’s missed six minutes and twenty-nine seconds of Criminal Minds. A serial killer has probably struck already.

‘You know what colour she was. It’s the colour you always say she was.’

‘Cobalt blue.’ I pinch my eyes shut, the way I did in the police station. It doesn’t work. I open my eyes and stare at my paintings. I’ve lined them up under the windowsill, below my binoculars. They stare back accusingly.

‘Mum’s cobalt blue. That’s what I want to remember about her. Shimmering ribbons of cobalt blue.’

‘That’s her colour,’ Dad says. ‘Blue.’

‘Was she? Was she definitely cobalt blue?’

His shoulders rise and fall. ‘I have no idea. When Mum spoke, I saw …’

‘What?’ I bite my lip, waiting. ‘What did you see?’

‘Just Mum. No colour. She looked normal to me. The way she looked normal to everyone else. Everyone apart from you, Jasper.’

He turns away, but I can’t let Mum’s colour go.

‘I used to talk about Mum being cobalt blue when I was little?’ I press. ‘I never mentioned another shade of blue? Like cerulean?’

‘Let’s not do this now. It’s late. You’re tired. I’m beat too.’

He means he doesn’t want to talk about my colours again. He wants me to pretend I see the world like he does, monochrome and muted. Normal.

‘This is important. I have to know I’m right.’ I kick off the duvet, which is strangling my feet.

‘What am I thinking? Of course she was cobalt blue.’ Dad’s voice is light enough to be swept away by a gentle summer breeze. ‘Don’t get het up about this before bedtime. You need to go to sleep. It’s school tomorrow and I’ve got work. I can’t take another day off. You have to stop thinking about Bee and start concentrating on school. Your stomach looks a lot better, but you need to get your head straight. OK?’

He comes back, leans down and kisses my forehead. ‘Good night, Jasper.’

Four large strides and Dad’s at the door. He closes it to the usual gap of exactly three inches.

He’s told yet another lie.

This isn’t a good night. Far from it.

I wait until I hear the dark maroon creak of the leather armchair in the sitting room before I leap out of bed and snatch up the paintings of Mum’s voice again.

Her exact shade of cobalt blue doesn’t come ready-mixed in a tube. It has to be created. I’ve tried to change the tint by adding white and mixed in black to alter the shade, but everything I attempt is wrong.

If these pieces of art are misleading me, are my other paintings a series of lies too? I sift through the boxes in my wardrobe and retrieve all the paintings from the day Bee Larkham first arrived and onwards. There are seventy-seven in total, which I sort into categories: the parakeets; other bird songs; Bee’s music lessons; everyday sounds.

I’m not worried about these pictures. Their colours can’t harm me.

Not like the voices, which I arrange into separate piles to study their colours in more detail: Bee Larkham. Dad. Lucas Drury. The neighbours.

All the main players.

I painted them to help remember their faces.

Some paintings refuse to get into order. The colours of conversations bleed into each other and transform into completely different hues.

That’s when I finally see what was never clear before. It’s where my problems began and it’s why I can’t get Mum’s voice 100 per cent right: I no longer know which voice colours are right and true, which are tricking me and which are downright liars.

I need to start again. I’ll never know what happened unless I get them right. Until I sort the good colours from the bad.

I wet a large brush and mix cadmium yellow with alizarin crimson paint on my palette.

I feel calmer and stronger. I’m in control. I’m going to paint this story from the beginning – from 17 January – the day it began. My first painting is called: Blood Orange Attacks Brilliant Blue and Violet Circles on canvas.

I will force the colours to tell the truth.

One brushstroke at a time.

17 JANUARY, 7.02 A.M.
Blood Orange Attacks Brilliant Blue And Violet Circles on canvas

THE GRATING BLOOD ORANGE tinged with sickly pinks demanded my undivided attention as three magpies argued noisily with an unidentified bird in the oak tree of number 20’s overgrown front garden. The house had been empty since we’d moved in ten months ago and various species of birds had staked claims to the trees and foliage.

I watched the magpies spitefully flutter and fight through the binoculars Dad had bought me for Christmas. Normally, I used them to spot the birds making colours in Richmond Park during our Sunday afternoon walks: the lesser spotted woodpeckers, chiffchaffs and jays. I couldn’t see what bird the magpies argued with, but I already respected it. Although outnumbered, it bravely held its ground. The bird remained hidden behind a branch, its voice colour drowned out by new, spiky ginger brown shapes.

A large blue van had pulled up outside the house, but the magpies didn’t break off from their vicious attack. A man wearing jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt climbed out and walked up the path to the front door. I thought just one man heaved furniture to and from the van, until I saw two men in jeans and navy sweatshirts carrying a chest of drawers.

I didn’t pay too much attention because two more magpies had landed in the tree. The three bullies had called for backup.

Then, something extraordinary: a parakeet shrieked at the magpies – brilliant blue and violet circles with jade cores – and soared into the sky.

Come back!

I opened my mouth to shout, but my throat was dry with excitement and no words came out. I’d only ever seen parakeets in Richmond Park, never here on my street.

I put my binoculars down and made a note of the parakeet in my light turquoise notebook, where I recorded all the birds I spotted in the park and on our street. I didn’t bother with the magpies. I’ve always disliked their pushy colours.

Across the road, the men continued with their work. Backwards and forwards. They lugged mattresses and boxes out of the house and squeezed them into the back of the van.

I scanned the branches with my binoculars, but I couldn’t spot the parakeet in the trees further down the road. The magpies had flown off too, proving the pointlessness of their territorial battle.

I continued to watch the tree, furious I may have missed another glimpse of the parakeet. When Dad told me it was time for school, I wouldn’t budge from the window. He tried to pull me away, but I screamed until my nose bled down my chest. I didn’t have a clean white shirt because Dad had forgotten to put a wash on again, so we agreed I could stay off school while he worked on a new app design in the study.

Long after the men’s unpleasant-coloured shouts and the sharp yellow spines of the van’s revving engine had died away, the street remained strangely quiet. I didn’t hear the colour of a single chaffinch or sparrow, a car horn beeping or a door slamming.

Maybe I blocked out other noises as I stood guard at the window. I focused on the tree in the front garden of 20 Vincent Gardens, not the house, but I don’t think anyone went in or out. Nothing happened.

It was the calm before the storm; the whole street waited with bated breath for the parakeet to return.

THAT EVENING, 9.34 P.M.
Carnival Of The Animals With A Touch Of Muddy Ochre on canvas

The windows of 20 Vincent Gardens swung open and loud music poured out, like a long, windy snake trailing across the road and up to my bedroom, tap-tapping on the window. Tap-tapping on all the windows in the street.

I’m here. Notice me.

The colours arrived with a bang and drifted into each other’s business, disrupting everything.

Some might call them a nuisance. They certainly did that night and in the weeks and months to come.

The glossy, deep magenta cello; the dazzling bright electric dots of the piano and the flute’s light pink circles with flecks of crimson formally announced that someone new had arrived on the street.

A person as well as a parakeet. They wanted to be seen. They loved loud, bright music as much as me.

Later, much later, I discovered this glorious music was called The Carnival of the Animals. Fourteen movements by Camille Saint-Saëns, a French Romantic composer, who wrote music for animals: kangaroos, elephants and tortoises. I loved the colours of Aviary, birds of the jungle, the most, but that evening was the turn of the Royal Lion.

As soon as the colours started, I jumped off my bed and raced to the window, tearing open the curtains. A woman with long blonde hair held a glass while she threw herself around the sitting room. She danced like me, not caring if anyone else watched. Not caring if she spilt her drink.

Whirling, twirling, she wrapped herself in a brightly coloured shawl of shimmering musical colours, hugging it close to her body.

The colours overlapped and faded in and out of each other on a transparent screen in front of my eyes. If I reached out, it felt like I could almost touch them.

‘Jasper! Turn it downnnnnnnnn …’

The last word was long and drawn out because the sentence never finished, like a lot of Dad’s sentences when he talks to me.

He walked towards me, but I couldn’t turn around. The pulsating music pushed absolutely everything out of my mind. Our house could have burnt to the ground and I wouldn’t have shifted voluntarily.

I thought it was the most perfect combination of colours I’d ever seen. I was wrong, of course. Much better was to come when the pandemonium of parakeets arrived. But I couldn’t know that then.

I focused my binoculars on the house opposite. The colourful music had squeezed out most of the furniture from the sitting room. The sofa, a small table and chairs were pushed up against the walls by the side of a piano. A green beanbag remained, along with an iPod on a stand.

I recognized the dark brown curtains and greyish-white nets that usually hung at the windows folded neatly into squares and placed on the table. They’d been sacked, made redundant.

‘Good God.’ Dad snatched the binoculars off me. ‘What will people think? You mustn’t do that, Jasper. No one likes a spy.’

I didn’t bother to ask what people would think. I’d given up trying to guess the answer to that particular puzzle long ago.

Normally Dad’s grabby hands would have outraged me – it’s rude to snatch. That’s one of the rules he’s taught me. I didn’t remind him because the depth of colours had transfixed me.

They dazzled against the whiteness of the woman’s arms in the background as she waltzed around and around, her floral dressing gown flapping open as if she’d been caught in a sudden breeze.

I couldn’t pull my gaze away to look at Dad.

He was about to explain what I’d done wrong when the music stopped.

‘No! Wait!’ I cried.

The colours vanished as fast as the parakeet from the oak tree. They didn’t drift off or melt away. Gone. Like a TV switched off. But then …

A FEW MINUTES LATER, 9.39 P.M.
Martian Music And Warm, Buttery Toast on canvas

The woman must have heard my shout.

She darted across the room to the beanbag. Bigger, bolder, glittering neon sounds belted out from the iPod.

Martian music.

These colours are alien visitors that only I can understand – colours that people like Dad don’t know exist. They don’t look like they belong in the real world. They only exist in my head – impossible to describe, let alone paint.

Silver, emerald green, violet blue and yellow simultaneously, but somehow not those colours at all.

‘She likes her house music, doesn’t she?’ Dad said. ‘The neighbours will be thrilled.’

It sounded like a question, but I had no answer. I didn’t know who ‘she’ was or what ‘she’ was doing at 20 Vincent Gardens.

Dad’s other choice of words was accurate for once. I was thrilled, along with all the neighbours. Not only did ‘she’ like dancing and loud classical music, she loved Martian music even more.

I sensed we could be friends. Great friends.

‘This won’t go down well,’ he said. ‘She’s already wound up David by parking directly outside his house.’

‘Who is she?’ I asked. ‘Why doesn’t she have any proper clothes? Why did the men take away her furniture in a van?’

Dad didn’t answer. He watched her wild dancing, throwing her hair from side to side. I think he felt sorry for her because she couldn’t afford furniture or curtains. She wore a slippery bright floral dressing gown, which kept wriggling down her shoulders and falling open at the waist. It felt wrong to look at her bare, alien-like skin, with or without binoculars.

This wasn’t the elderly woman Dad said used to live here. This ‘she’ – The Woman With No Name – didn’t remind me of an old person. At all. I don’t normally pay too much attention to hair, but hers was long and blonde and swinging. She moved gracefully around the room, twirling like a ballet dancer or a composer, conducting an orchestra of colour.

‘Who is she?’ I repeated.

‘I don’t know for sure,’ he replied. ‘Pauline Larkham died in a home a few months back. This woman could be a friend or a niece or something. Or maybe she’s the long-lost daughter. I don’t know her name. She’d be about the right age. David mentioned her a while ago. Said she never bothered to come back for Mrs Larkham’s funeral.’

This was news to me. I didn’t know the old woman who used to live over the road was called Pauline Larkham or that she’d died in a new home. Maybe she didn’t like this one much.

‘Well, which one is this woman? Is she a friend or a niece or a long-lost daughter who didn’t come back for the funeral and doesn’t have a name?’

Dad was infuriating. He didn’t grasp the importance of getting the facts straight. I knew one woman couldn’t be two or three people at the same time. She was either someone’s friend or someone had lost her and needed help finding her again.

‘I don’t know, Jasper. Do you want me to ask her for you?’ He fiddled with the strap of the binoculars, which made me itch to snatch them back before he scuffed the leather. ‘It would be neighbourly of us to welcome her to our street, don’t you think? To help her find her feet?’

I stared out of the window, confused. It was obvious where her feet were and she didn’t need his help finding them. She flitted about on the tips of her toes.

I didn’t want to point out the stupidity of his question. Instead of concentrating on her feet, he should have run out of our house and up the path to hers. I could have watched from the window because it was too soon to meet her in person. I hadn’t had time to prepare for the conversation.

Too late!

A man walked up the path to 20 Vincent Gardens, wearing dark trousers and a dark top. I guessed he was a thrilled neighbour, welcoming the new arrival to our street.

He banged hard on the door. Irregular circles of mahogany brown.

The music stopped abruptly.

I instantly disliked this visitor. He’d prevented Dad from introducing himself to The Woman With No Name. Worse still, he’d disrupted her palette of colours.

‘Uh-oh,’ Dad said.

‘Uh-oh.’ I agreed; this man looked like bad news.

The Woman With No Name tied up her dressing gown. Hard. Like she was fastening a parcel at Christmas to deliver to the Post Office. Fifteen seconds later, she appeared at the front door. Her mouth opened wide as if she’d sat down in a dentist’s chair. She took a step backwards, further away from the door. Maybe he wasn’t a thrilled neighbour after all. I didn’t like the way he’d made her mouth change into an ‘O’ shape.

‘Why is she walking backwards?’ I asked. ‘Has he frightened her? Should we call the police?’

‘No, Jasper. That’s just Ollie Watkins from number eighteen. He came home last week to look after his mum. Mrs Watkins is very poorly so I doubt you’ll see much of him on the street.’

‘Are you sure the woman over there’s OK?’

‘Absolutely. Ollie doesn’t mean her any harm. He’s taken her by surprise, that’s all. She probably wasn’t expecting any visitors on her first night here.’

Again, my hands longed to rip the binoculars back. Dad gripped them hard. He didn’t want to let go, but they didn’t belong to him. They were mine. I was about to point out this Important Fact when the man’s hand lunged out. I gasped. I took a step back too, convinced he was about to grab the belt of The Woman With No Name.

‘Don’t worry, Jasper. He’s not threatening her or anything like that. He wants to shake her hand. Remember, people do that when they’re introducing themselves to each other for the first time. It’s polite.’

The woman didn’t want to shake his hand. Perhaps she didn’t know Dad’s rules about what to do in social situations. She folded her arms around her body as if she needed to tie up the parcel even tighter, with especially strong brown vinyl tape, for the long journey ahead.

‘Ha! That went well,’ Dad said.

‘I know. It means we can’t welcome her now that he’s welcomed her.’ The crushing disappointment felt like a huge weight on my shoulders, drilling into the carpet, through the wooden floorboards and plunging me into the sitting room below. The man had stolen our introduction.

‘I doubt he’s the welcoming committee,’ Dad said. ‘I mean, he probably has welcomed her to the street, to be polite. I don’t think that’s his real reason for visiting tonight.’

‘Why? What is it?’ I stared at the mysterious man, Ollie Watkins, with the mysterious motive for wanting to jump the queue and meet The Woman With No Name before us.

‘He probably wants to have a chat about the music. The noise passes right through the walls of terraced houses. He and his mum must be able to hear everything magnified in Technicolor.’

That’s when I felt another, strange emotion.

Jealousy. The word’s a wishy-washy pickled onion shade.

Ollie Watkins and his mum didn’t suffer an annoying dilution of colour. It could absorb through the walls into their front room.

‘Lucky, lucky them,’ I said.

Dad accidentally breathed in and out at the same time, making an ink-shaped blob of mustard and brown sauce.

‘Not everyone appreciates loud house music like you, Jasper. I’m sure he’s asking her to turn the volume down. It’s a residential street, not Ibiza.’

Why would Ollie Watkins and his mum want the colours to disappear? Ibiza sounded like a fun place to be.

The front door closed and the man walked back down the path again. He looked up and raised a hand at us. Dad raised his hand back, a secret gesture.

‘You have to feel for Ollie,’ Dad said. ‘He’s having a rough time with his mum. It won’t be long now. She doesn’t have much time left.’

Dad was wrong yet again. I didn’t feel anything at all for Ollie Watkins. I didn’t know who he was, where he’d come from or the colour of his voice. I’d never seen him before – at least I didn’t think I had. I didn’t recognize his clothes.

All I knew for sure was that Ollie Watkins didn’t like loud music and had stopped all the lovely colours.

That was a black mark in my book. Not pure black, but a dirty smudge of a colour with traces of grainy grey that would deliberately stain anything it touched.

I tried to focus because I could feel myself getting distracted by the shades. Dad was right about one thing – the man walked along the pavement and up the path to the next-door house, 18 Vincent Gardens. This was definitely Ollie Watkins, going back to his mum who didn’t have much time left. For something or other.

‘That’s it, Jasper.’ Dad wrapped the strap around the binoculars. ‘Time for bed. It’s school tomorrow. No more raves. No more excitement on our street tonight.’ He sounded as disappointed as me that the show was over.

I bit my lip and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to let the Martian colours go; I could forget them in my sleep. My alarm clock would go off at 6.50 a.m. as normal, but I had to paint them straightaway.

I needn’t have worried. The Martian music dramatically returned a few seconds later, a fraction quieter before it cranked up again. Louder. Louder than ever before.

My eyes flew open. The Woman With No Name was back in the sitting room, twirling, her dressing gown lifting and blowing as if the breeze had grown stronger.

I couldn’t help myself. I knew Dad hated my dancing, but I flapped my arms and leapt about, swimming in the colours. I danced in solidarity with her, a perfect blending of shades.

Defiant colours that didn’t care what anyone thought or said.

Dad didn’t tell me off or demand I stop dancing as usual. He stood at the window, staring at the Technicolor rebellion.

‘Here comes David Gilbert to complain about the noise too,’ he murmured. ‘It won’t take him long to lay down the law. She’ll regret moving in next door to him.’

That evening’s second visitor, David Gilbert, strode up the garden path. He came from the house on the other side, number 22. If I hadn’t seen this and Dad hadn’t given me his name, I’d have guessed Ollie Watkins was back. Wearing a hat.

‘I don’t think she’ll turn the music down for Ollie Watkins or David Gilbert,’ I said. ‘I don’t think she can. This music has to be played loud. The neighbours will get used to it.’

There was a rolling, darkish ochre colour as Dad chuckled to himself.

‘I wouldn’t want to take on David. I think he’s going to have his hands full with this one. Whoever she is, Jasper, she’s going to be a troublemaker.’

‘Really?’

She didn’t look like a troublemaker to me. Troublemakers covered their faces with scarves and spray-painted graffiti on walls at weekends. They hung around street corners, aiming kicks and punches at anyone who strayed too close.

Dad didn’t sound worried about The Woman With No Name or the fact she was transforming into A Troublemaker. He studied her through my binoculars even though No One Likes A Spy.

‘Mmmmmm.’ His voice was the colour of warm, buttery toast.

TUESDAY (BOTTLE GREEN)
Later That Evening

I LINE UP MY BRUSHES by the bathroom sink. I don’t want to alert Dad to the fact that I’m up at 11.47 p.m. I turn on the tap slowly, making a trickle of water.

Small circular clouds of kingfisher blue.

I love this colour. It’s happy, without a care in the world.

Shivers of excitement play trick or treat up my back, the way they do whenever I open a fresh tube of paint. I love gently squeezing the smooth tube. Too hard and the paint spurts out, wasting it; too little and it’s impossible to tell a proper story from beginning to end.

A small dot of paint is always the best place to start. I can add to the splash of colour and make it grow in size until it becomes the perfect amount. I’ve remembered enough for one night – how excited I was about seeing the mystery woman for the first time and how I longed for the right moment to meet her in person.

When the music eventually stopped that night, after a visit lasting three minutes and thirteen seconds from David Gilbert, I began planning for the day when I could meet our new neighbour. I had to memorize what she looked like (long, blonde hair, not many clothes) and come up with the perfect introduction.

Both these things were important. I didn’t want her to think I was a stupid weirdo, like everyone else.

I had hope: a tomato ketchup coloured word.

Hope she would get me. How couldn’t she? She loved loud Martian music and dancing wildly. The only difference between us was I didn’t like the cold and still don’t. I only ever dance with my clothes on.

The same scarlet-in-a-squeezy-bottle colour embraces me as I tiptoe back to my bedroom with damp paintbrushes, dabbed dry on an old hand towel. The TV in Dad’s bedroom buzzes grey, grainy lines, but tomato ketchup’s in my head.

As soon as I climb into bed, I remember it’s school tomorrow and popcorn yellow dread crawls under the duvet with me. It rudely refuses to budge, however hard I try to kick it out and replace it with tomato ketchup.

Dread’s my usual unwelcome bed guest on Sunday nights, reminding me of the break-time gauntlet – waves of anonymous faces surging towards me along the corridors.

Some could turn out to be friendly, others will not. Good and bad aren’t stamped on pupils’ foreheads to help me sift through their identical uniforms.

This time it’s different. Tomorrow’s Wednesday (toothpaste white) and dread is a far harsher colour because I have to face Lucas Drury again, for the first time since IT happened.

He was mad at me last week for my Big, Dumb Mistake. He’s going to be even madder now the police are involved.

He’ll yell shades of thorny peacock blue at me.

I jump out of bed and pull the curtains tighter together to get rid of the crack of light and the blurry purply black lines of a passing motorbike.

The windows of Bee Larkham’s house stare reproachfully at me through the duck egg blue curtain fabric.

However many times I apologize, the panes of glass will never forgive me.

Lucas Drury won’t either, if he finds out what I’ve done to Bee Larkham. I wish I could avoid him at school tomorrow, but I can’t.

It’s impossible to hide from someone you don’t recognize.

WEDNESDAY (TOOTHPASTE WHITE)
Morning

I SAY HELLO TO THE young parakeets through the crack in the curtains – our daily routine. I estimate these small birds are just over six weeks old. They usually caw playful shades of cornflower blue and buttercup yellow balloons back. Today, they preen their feathers and chatter among themselves. They’re ignoring me because I didn’t protect them. Only two in the tree and five adults – far, far fewer birds than usual. One’s pecking at the empty feeder, willing it to spew out seed. It can’t understand what’s gone wrong.

I don’t open my curtains completely in case Richard Chamberlain’s eavesdropping men are watching me. I take a quick peek. Two little girls in blue uniforms run out of number 24: Molly and Sara live at this address. A woman chases after them – probably their mum, Cindy. She always dresses the girls in similar clothing – even at the weekends – so I never know which one’s Molly and which one’s Sara from up here.

I can’t see any vans on our street. Or police cars. No detectives banging on the front door of Bee Larkham’s house.

The house looks exactly the same as last night:

Deserted.

Reproachful.

Vengeful.

I keep the curtains shut and pull on my school uniform, carefully, making the least amount of movement possible. My tummy sings prickly stars. I’m not sure if I’ve got an infection, we still haven’t seen a doctor. Dad’s looking after me instead. That’s safer.

A doctor would ask us both too many difficult questions.

I tuck one of Mum’s buttons in my trouser pocket. I cut it off her cardigan and carry it around with me, which means she’s never far away whenever I get stressed.

Next, I stick a £5 note into my blazer pocket. It’s dog-eared and torn, making my scalp itch, but I can’t replace it. I have no pocket money left.

Without looking, I stick my hand under the bed. I know the exact spot to aim for. My fingers clasp around something cold and unforgiving: a disfigured china lady. I was too ashamed to return her to Bee Larkham two months ago and now it’s far too late to own up.

I hide the broken ornament under my blazer – she’s unable to return home, but can’t stay in my bedroom either. Not any more. That wouldn’t be right.

I check the forget-me-not blue blanket hangs down properly, sealing the entrance to my den, and pull the bedroom door shut. Twice. To make sure it’s closed. Only then can I go downstairs.

Dad’s frying bacon in the kitchen. He doesn’t turn around. I use the chance to stuff the ornament into my school bag, next to the maths worksheets for Mrs Thompson. They sting my fingers reproachfully. She gave them out last Thursday and I haven’t got round to them yet.

Dad never cooks a fry-up on a school day. We only have bacon on Sunday mornings before football practice, which he makes me go to. I didn’t play football this weekend or sit on the bench in Richmond Park, which is inscribed with Mum’s name. Dad didn’t go for a run. If anyone had watched us, they’d have realized the Wishart family routine – as well as Bee Larkham’s – was off.

My legs want to bolt and not stop running until I’m covered in blankets in the corner of my bedroom.

‘Grab a plate, Jasper. It’s almost done. We both need a good breakfast today.’

Good. It’s that dumb word again.

A good night. A good breakfast. A good day. It’s not a good colour; it’s brash yellow with a slushy Ribena core.

I don’t want the bacon Dad forgot to fry on Sunday.

I pick up my favourite blue-and-white striped bowl and reach for the cereal packet.

Rustle, rustle. Crinkly dashes of iceberg lettuce.

The pieces drop into my bowl, up to the lip of the second stripe. I pour in the milk until it reaches the grey crack in the enamel. It’s a delicate operation. Above the crack, the cereal is ruined and I have to throw it away and start again.

Dad doesn’t turn around. He tuts light brown dots. ‘Have it your own way. All the more for me.’

Using tongs, he picks up the bacon from the pan and piles the pieces on to his plate. He sits in his usual seat at the table, opposite me, which he says encourages me to practise eye contact and my conversational skills.

I will his chair to magically sprout wings, soar into the air and fly out of the kitchen window.

I pick up my spoon and stare at the seven Cheerios floating like mini life rafts in the milk. My throat tightens. I drop five of the Cheerios back into the sea.

‘You’re feeling OK today, Jasper, because I’ve got meetings all day at work.’

I can’t detect a question mark in that sentence. It sounds like a statement.

‘Yes.’ It’s another lie, but it’s what he wants to hear. I can say things I don’t mean if it helps Dad. He does the same for me.

He’s going through a lot. Like me. Except he doesn’t have Mum’s cardigan to rub.

‘Good news.’ He breathes out. ‘I’ve got a late conference call. You’ll need to let yourself in with the spare key.’

I cough as a Cheerio catches in my throat. The cereal tastes wrong. Off somehow. The milk too. I check the labels in case Dad’s accidentally bought the wrong brands. They’re the same as usual. It must be me. I’m different this morning.

Will my classmates notice? Will the teachers? Has Dad?

‘You can do that, right?’ he asks. ‘It’s not a problem, Jasper? The key’s in the usual place. Under the flowerpot.’

I push my bowl away, brandishing the spoon like a weapon.

Too much. I can’t do this.

Three Cheerios are drowning. I can’t make up my mind whether to save them or not. They should have learnt to swim, but it’s wrong not to help. It’d be like failing to make a 999 call.

‘Yes. I can do that. Right. It’s not a problem.’

It is a problem. My problem. I don’t want to be alone here, watched by the windows in Bee Larkham’s house.

‘I meant what I said last night,’ he says, biting into the bacon. ‘We both need to move on. You’re to stay away from Bee’s house. You’re not to go anywhere near it.’ He chews, making his jaw click baby pink. ‘I don’t want to find out from one of the neighbours you’ve been feeding the parakeets after school. Do you understand? Her front garden’s a no-go zone, along with the alley at the back.’

The spoon drops from my hand, a red-tinged clattering. ‘Which neighbour would tell you I’ve fed the parakeets?’ My £5 note crackles as I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I’m glad he can’t see the greyish-mint colour coming from my pocket, that he can’t see any colours. He can’t see me. Not properly, anyway.

Dad laughs deep, mellow ochre.

‘I’m not going to say who my spies are on the street. That would blow their cover.’

This is news to me and not of the good variety like winning the lottery or discovering a cure for cancer. There are spies on our street, spies other than me who look out of their windows with binoculars and make notes about people. Spies other than the ones in the blacked-out van that forced Dad and me to speak in code about Bee Larkham’s body.

Is David Gilbert the treacherous spy? I bet it’s him.

I always thought David Gilbert was only observing the parakeets, waiting for the chance to kill them.

He tricked me into watching the wrong suspect all along.

‘Yes, Dad. We both need to move on.’ Like the van from last night, which will probably return later to check up on me.

‘Good boy. Now eat up. You need to build up your strength.’ He nudges the bowl towards me, spilling milk.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘I’ll make some toast. Or I could defrost a bagel?’

I push my chair back and walk into the hall. Slowly, I ease my arms into my old winter coat. That’s all I can find to wear.

‘What is it, Son?’

Dad’s followed me into the hall.

At first I think he’s got X-ray vision and plans to frisk me for the £5 note, but he ignores the blazer and peers under my shirt even though I tell him I’ve changed the dressing.

‘It’s looking better,’ he says. ‘Remember, don’t show anyone your stomach and don’t run around in the playground. It could make it a lot worse.’

‘I won’t run unless someone’s chasing me and I have to get away,’ I point out. ‘It’s the only logical thing to do. I can’t stand still and be caught. That would be madness.’

‘Jasper …’ His eyes burn into my forehead.

‘Yes?’

‘We’re going to get through this, I promise.’

Dad’s promised a lot lately. I won’t hold him to this on top of everything else. I take a deep breath and open the front door. Dad can’t take me to school this morning because he has a busy day at work. He walks to the end of the garden path. I know what he’s doing – he’s making sure I don’t cross the road and walk past Bee Larkham’s house. Worse still, I might go through the gate to refill the bird feeders. But I can’t do that because he’s hidden my bag of seed.

I check over my shoulder. Once he’s gone back into the house, I break into a run that stabs my tummy. I have to get off this street ASAP. I’m careful after Dad’s warning, making sure David Gilbert doesn’t follow me along Vincent Gardens and right into Pembroke Avenue.

When I reach Harborne Street, 100 per cent positive I’m alone, I pull out Bee Larkham’s mutilated ornament. She was the first china lady to be smashed. I tried to glue her back together, but she hates the way she looks now: the blemished face, the ruined gown and broken parasol.

Pieces are missing.

She blames me.

I chuck her in a rubbish bin and hurry towards school.

I feel guilty, but it was the kindest thing to do.

I couldn’t help her.

I couldn’t make her whole again.

WEDNESDAY (TOOTHPASTE WHITE)
Later That Morning

I’M SAFE IN MATHS first period. Lucas Drury won’t be able to find me in 312b. We don’t share any lessons; he’s in Year 11. I like this class even though it’s tough. I’m behind because I haven’t done my homework from last week. It’s only a few pages, but it feels like they’ve covered a whole new syllabus.

Mrs Thompson has promised to help me catch up. She’s my favourite teacher by far. She has a lovely, dark navy blue voice and helpfully rotates her tops to match her black trousers on a strict regime. Today’s Wednesday, which means it’s the turn of the racing green blouse.

None of the other female teachers dress like her. They have a weird aversion to colour and routine, like the male members of staff who stick to grey, blue or black suits.

Apart from her easy-to-identify appearance, the best thing about Mrs Thompson is that she insists on a seating plan. Everyone has to sit in the same place, every single lesson. No discussion, no arguments.

I always sit at the back, fourth seat from the left, which means I’ve had the chance to memorize the backs of people’s heads and place them in a grid.

It goes something like this:

Row 1, seat 3: Susie Taylor, dome-shaped skull, shoulder- length blonde hair.

Row 2, seat 4: Isaiah Hadad, acne scars on back of neck, short, black hair.

Row 3, seat 1: Gemma Coben, dandruff on blazer, greasy, mousy blonde hair.

Row 3, seat 2: Aar Chandhoke, grey turban.

Row 3, seat 3: Jeanne Boucher, black cornrows.

It’s like playing Guess Who? backwards, but unlike other games this one I actually have a chance of winning. Unless my classmates turn around, of course, or I’m asked to recognize the students in my row, further along to my right. I can’t remember what they look like. I haven’t been able to memorize their heads from this position.

‘Algebraic equations can be written in the form y equals mx plus c,’ Mrs Thompson says. ‘We can draw a straight-line graph. Everyone make a start before the bell and we’ll pick up from here next time.’

I’ve left my ruler at home and have to use the edge of my folder to draw the line. It’s wonky, the way I feel this morning.

An orange juice colour erupts from row 2, seat 5: curly red-haired Lydia Tyler is arguing with Mrs Thompson.

‘That’s God’s honest truth, I swear,’ she says loudly.

‘Make your mind up, Lydia.’ Mrs Thompson snaps like an angry turtle. ‘I’d suggest you get your story straight before you earn another detention this week.’

Straight lines.

Straight stories.

Those are the best stories, but also the hardest to tell.

Will Lucas Drury tell the truth to Richard Chamberlain about Bee Larkham? What has he told the police already? I don’t understand how they got involved. Lucas said he’d sorted everything last week.

My dad believes my story. I think I’ve got away with it, but warn Bee not to try and contact me. Got that, Jasper?

‘Are you feeling OK, Jasper? Do you want to borrow my ruler to help you draw a proper straight line?’

Mrs Thompson has finished her argument about straight stories with Lydia. I expect she won; you have to be smart to be a maths teacher. She’s standing beside my desk, staring down at my pathetic graph. It curls up in shame under her hard gaze.

Silvery yellow dancing lines ring through the air.

‘Saved by the bell,’ Mrs Thompson says.

She’s wrong. I haven’t been saved at all. It’s first break. I can’t hide in her class any longer. I have to brave the corridors.

‘Is everything all right, Jasper? You’re trembling.’

Mrs Thompson and me are always on the same wavelength. She understands patterns and the need for order. I want to tell her there’s a slit in my tummy, like a mouth. As I stand and push my chair back, it opens and closes again; the pain makes silver, pointy stars dance on my skin.

Don’t tell anyone what you did to Bee Larkham.

Keep your mouth shut.

I leave the classroom without replying because I don’t want to lie. I can do it to other people, but not to Mrs Thompson. The truth is, I don’t know how I got hurt. I can’t remember what happened to my tummy. I only recall parts of Friday night. My brain’s blocked out the rest. It’s fuzzy and no distinct colour becomes clear.

My best guess?

I accidentally slashed myself with the knife when I murdered Bee Larkham.

A hand stretches out from the bundle of black trousers and black blazers travelling down the corridor. It thrusts me against the wall. To be honest, I’m surprised I’ve made it this far without being caught.

The boy’s face is indistinguishable from The Blazers accompanying him. I concentrate on his hand instead. It has a telephone number written in blue biro on the skin. Would Lucas Drury’s dad pick up if I rang it? Or his younger brother Lee? Lee used to have electric guitar lessons with Bee Larkham. I enjoyed the range of his colours.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t tell the police anything about you and Bee yesterday, I promise. They only asked me about school friends and condoms.’

‘Are you having a laugh?’ The boy’s face looms at me, his voice a dark nutmeg brown. ‘Why are you talking about bees and condoms?’

I flinch at the spiky turmeric swear word that follows.

‘I, I, don’t know anything,’ I stutter.

The biro hand doesn’t belong to Lucas Drury; his voice is the wrong colour. I have no idea who this is. His shade is similar to lots of boys’ voices in this school. Dull brown, not interesting enough to paint.

I look up and down the corridor, hoping to see someone who isn’t wearing a uniform. I draw a blank. I wish Mrs Thompson would appear, but she’s probably at her desk, marking books. She’s hardworking like that and dead brainy and organized.

‘Damn right you don’t know anything.’ The boy’s hand dives into my blazer pocket and pulls out my £5 note. It’s as if he knew exactly where to find it. How is that possible?

‘That’s mine,’ I whisper.

‘Pardon?’ Biro Hand’s face looms closer. Pasty and acne-scarred.

I hadn’t noticed those details before. I glance away, my eyes pierced by daggers. I need the money to buy seed from the pet shop for the parakeets, but I can’t find my voice. I can’t tell Biro Hand anything.

‘Think of this as a retard tax. It’s money you owe me for getting in my way.’ He pats my pockets down again. ‘Let’s see. Nah. Thought not. As if you’d have condoms! You couldn’t even get a pity shag.’

He pockets my money, whistling yellow-brown spiralling lines and returns to The Blazers. The gang has swelled in size. Their giggles and taunts are thunderclouds of dark grey with streaks of cabbage green.

I don’t try to stop him. No point. He’s twice my size and I won’t be able to wrestle my money off him. Now what am I going to do? I’ve got less than half a bag of seed hidden somewhere at home and no more cash left. I can’t borrow money from Dad; he’ll ask what I want it for.

I can’t admit I’m planning to disobey him and feed the parakeets. I’ll head back to Bee Larkham’s house while he’s working late. Well, technically not her house. Her front garden. I’m not brave enough to go inside. I’m afraid of what I might find.

I walk down the corridor, away from Biro Hand. Too slow. Within seconds, he’s caught up with me again. This time he puts his hand on my shoulder, making me jump. I don’t look at him. His pockmarks make me think of moon craters. If I stare at them, they’ll swallow me up and I won’t be able to climb out again.

‘I don’t have another five-pound note,’ I say.

‘I don’t want your money, Jasper.’ He hisses whitish, almost translucent lines. I can’t identify the true colour. I look down at his right hand. It doesn’t have a phone number written on it.

This isn’t Biro Hand.

He whispers in my ear: ‘I want to know what you’ve told the police about me and Bee Larkham.’

I don’t need to study his face or ask him to raise his voice so I can see the genuine shade. Lucas Drury.

This is the boy at the centre of everything, whose voice is blue teal when he’s not whispering.

It was Bee Larkham’s favourite colour; she liked it far more than my cool blue.

Another uncomfortable truth that revealed itself to me when I least expected it.

‘I know you were at the police station yesterday, Jasper,’ he says quietly. ‘There’s no point denying it. My dad called a copper for an update. He said you came in for a chat with your dad.’

Light Copper makes me laugh, but it could have been Rusty Chrome Orange.

‘This isn’t funny, you idiot. My dad’s gone ballistic.’

‘You told me that last week. You said you were pulling the duvet over his eyes.’

‘The wool, you idiot, and he worked it out. He found my Facebook password and guessed BL is Bee Larkham. He got straight on to the police on Saturday morning and claimed Bee’s a paedophile: a serial offender who preys on young boys. My two sons. Probably more victims. Those were his exact words.’

I breathe out cool blue with white circles. ‘Was he right? Was Bee Larkham a paedophile who preyed on young boys including Lee?’

‘Of course not,’ he says louder. ‘She was in love with me. No one else, but … Never mind about that now. We don’t have time. We’re both in trouble. We have to—’

The bluish green is cut off by shiny conker brown.

‘Lucas! What are you doing? Hurry up!’

Lucas glances over his shoulder as two boys approach. They look like identical twins and must be his friends. They’re not smiling. I’m not sure about Lucas. I haven’t looked at him since he grabbed me. His hand drops from my shoulder as if it’s been burnt.

‘I have to go, Jasper. I’ll meet you in the usual place at lunchtime, OK? We need to get our stories straight before either of us speaks to the police again. Deal?’

I move my head up and down because I agree with him about straight lines and straight stories.

Those are the stories we both need to tell, but I’m not a total fool. Lucas Drury has to go first. He owes me that after everything I had to do for him and Bee Larkham.

MUM’s STORY

THIS IS MUM’S STRAIGHT story, not mine. I was only three or four. I sat with her in the back garden of our house in Plymouth on a late summer evening. Dad wasn’t there. He was with the Royal Marines in Afghanistan or Iraq. I’m not sure which country. No matter. We didn’t need him in the picture when we had each other.

The grass felt warm beneath our bare feet. I don’t remember wriggling my toes in the sunburnt yellow grass, but that’s what Mum said we both did while we played with my red pick-up truck. It had come to rescue the battered yellow car that crashed into Mum’s foot and overturned.

She told me this story over and over again because I was too young to remember it actually happening. She remembered it for me and it became our favourite bedtime story.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Do you mean the starlings? Look, they’re the noisy birds in the tree over there.’

‘No. I don’t mean those birds. They’re reddish pink. I mean the other sound. Short blue lines.’

A robin hopped out of the hedge, chirping. ‘That one,’ I exclaimed. ‘That’s the colour. A short blue line with moving lemon bits.’

‘You see colours?’ Mum asked. ‘When you hear sounds?’

I said yes, of course I did. Didn’t everyone?

Mum kissed the top of my head over and over again.

‘Not everyone,’ she said, when we finally stopped laughing. ‘Not everyone understands the wonderful way we both see the colour of sounds, Jasper. Which is a shame. A shame for them, not for us, because we share an amazing gift.’

We ran through a list of things, starting with noises we could hear in the back garden like a lawnmower, a car revving, an aeroplane passing overhead and radio music blasting out of a neighbour’s window. I told Mum the colours I saw for every sound.

Lawnmower: shiny silver

Car revving: orange

Aeroplane: light, almost see-through green

Radio: pink

We moved on to other things. The sound of the fan Mum had put in my bedroom to help keep me cool at night (grey and white with flashes of dark ink blue).

Dogs barking: yellow or red

Cats meowing: soft violet blue

Dad laughing: a muddy, yellowish brown

Kettle boiling: silver and yellow bubbles

We talked and talked about my colours and I’d never looked happier, Mum said. My smile stretched from ear to ear.

We could have chatted and played forever, but Mum said it was late and time to have a bath and get changed into my dinosaur pyjamas.

‘Roar!’ I shouted. ‘What colour are dinosaurs’ roars?’

We both decided they were probably shades of purple because that’s the coloured sound my T-Rex made whenever you squeezed his tummy.

Mum swung me up and I settled into my favourite position on her hip.

‘Thank you for letting me into your secret, Jasper,’ she said. ‘Now can I tell you something?’

‘Yes!’ I shouted. ‘T-Rex wants to hear too!’

‘For me, the starlings are bluish green, the robin is bright yellow and the kettle boiling is dark grey with orange bubbles.’ She kissed me quickly on my cheek. ‘Daddy doesn’t like me talking about the colours, so when he gets home you don’t need to tell him about yours either. He’ll be sad he can’t see the world like us, Jasper. Not everyone’s built the same. We’re the lucky ones.’

She was right, but my luck eventually ran out. When Mum died, I lost the one person in my life who could see the world like me.

She loved hearing about my different hues and discovering how they compared to hers.

My colours miss her. They long to be shared with someone who appreciates them as much as I do. But I still have to talk about the shades I see – even to Dad – because a part of Mum lives on through them.

That’s my straight story.

I hate the ending but I can’t change it.

WEDNESDAY (TOOTHPASTE WHITE)
Afternoon

‘IT’S THIS WAY TO the science lab, thicko.’ A hand grabs my collar and hauls me back as I dash out of the dining hall. ‘Lucas said you might make a run for it after lunch. He needs a word.’

I’ll call this boy X.

His evil twin, Y, hovers in the background in case I’m a secret ninja who can kick-box his way out of any situation.

I’m not and I can’t.

They don’t touch me – that would be assault. I’m silently escorted down the corridor. X walks in front and Y behind. No one notices I’m being taken against my will because I’m not screaming. That would be pointless. I doubt anyone would help. Not even the girls who walk past. Especially them. They’d probably laugh buttercup yellow.

When we reach the science lab, Y opens the door and pushes me inside. A boy’s perched on the bench. His lip is cut and there’s a pale green bruise on his cheek and a long, red mark on his hand.

It could be Lucas Drury. Lucas Drury after a fight with a tornado, which has messed up his hair, split his lip and scratched his hand. I didn’t look at his face when we spoke in the corridor earlier, so I can’t know for sure this is the same boy. I don’t say anything. It’s safer that way.

‘Did anyone follow you here?’ His voice is quiet and low. A dark greenish blue colour. Lucas Drury’s colour.

‘Dunno,’ Y says. ‘Don’t think so.’

‘Then what the hell are you looking at? Get out!’ Blue teal.

It’s definitely him.

X and Y’s shoulders go up and down. They slam the door behind them.

I shudder, not only at the unpleasant squashed beetle colour of ‘hell’, but also at the worrying development. I had no idea spies were here at school and on our street – people like David Gilbert who could search for damaging evidence about Bee Larkham and me.

Now I’m certain of one thing: there are spies everywhere.

I gaze at Lucas Drury. He’s trembling with rage at what I’ve done, all the mistakes I’ve made. I rub Mum’s button in my pocket harder as he strides towards me. He’s going to pin me against the wall, like last time. Instinctively, I move backwards. My head is slap bang in the middle of the periodic table poster again. Thulium is on my left, rubidium on my right.

He stops in front of me. ‘Tell me everything.’

I can’t. I don’t want to think about that. I turn my head to look at the poster.

Mendelevium, Nobelium, Ytterbium, Thulium.

‘Hurry up, Jasper. Before someone finds us in here. We need to agree what we tell the police before they question us both again.’

‘Rusty Chrome Orange,’ I say, before I can stop myself.

‘What?’

‘He’s a detective like the famous actor, Richard Chamberlain,’ I blurt out.

‘Wait. You’re confusing me. Who have you spoken to?’

‘Richard Chamberlain wanted a First Account about Bee Larkham, whatever that means. He didn’t explain.’

‘What did he ask you? Did he mention me?’

I reel off the weird questions about Year Eleven boys and Bee Larkham and condoms.

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I told him about the death of my parakeets and my neighbour, David Gilbert, who’s a bird killer, but he wasn’t interested.’

‘Fuck the parakeets, Jasper.’

My scalp prickles at the sharp, ugly-coloured word.

‘Jasper! Open your eyes! You can’t pretend this isn’t happening. This is real. For both of us.’

I don’t want to open my eyes. I don’t want this to be real. I want to shut out the unpleasant colours.

‘I’m not interested in the parakeets and neither are the police. Lee got scared last week and coughed up to Dad about other letters he found in our bedroom. He told him you pass me stuff at school and spy on Bee with binoculars. That makes you a witness in all this.’

He’s lying. I wasn’t spying on Bee Larkham. I was watching her oak tree and making notes of who visited her house and the neighbours’ houses. I thought that would help me build a case against David Gilbert.

‘Please, Jasper. Concentrate. What did you tell the detective about Bee and me? Did you say you’d seen me visiting? Through your binoculars? That you’d seen us together, you know that time …’

Uncomfortable colours nudge around the corners of my brain. I daren’t let them in. Finally, I open my eyes and avoid looking at Lucas. He sounds like Dad. I hate him for that.

Concentrate. Act normal. Don’t flap your arms like a parakeet.

I can’t ever tell him that while he broke a grown-up woman’s heart into millions of tiny, sharp silver pieces, I did something far, far worse to her on Friday night.

Something unforgivable.

‘I didn’t tell Richard Chamberlain, like the actor, anything about you and Bee Larkham.’ That’s the truth. ‘I warned him about the death threats to my parakeets, but my notebooks were out of order. He told me to stop making 999 calls. They waste police time. I screamed and threw up all over his sofa.’

‘Great. Well done. Whatever you’re talking about. Weirdo.’

He punches my arm, not hard. It doesn’t make me cry. Not like when the bigger boys do it after school.

‘Listen, Jasper. I’m denying absolutely everything. The police have nothing, just what Lee thinks he knows and Dad’s suspicions after he found some messages and pics from Bee on Facebook. That’s all. I’m sticking to my story that the note you delivered last week was a prank. It was a dumb girl at school having a laugh.’

‘A prank,’ I repeat.

‘Yes, a prank. Bee didn’t sign the letter with her name. She used initials as usual. They’ve got no proof unless you tell them she gave it to you. You haven’t done that, have you, Jasper?’

‘I didn’t tell the detective anything.’

‘You see. No proof. Dad says the police haven’t been able to get hold of Bee yet and they won’t be able to analyse her handwriting because I ate the letter.’

‘You. Ate. The Letter.’

‘Yup. I tried to make a joke of it when Dad waved it in my face. I grabbed it off him, chewed it up and washed it down with a glass of water before he could pull it out of my mouth. Dad didn’t laugh.’ He touches his split lip. ‘He didn’t find it funny when I refused to tell the police anything about Bee at the weekend.’

‘What did it taste like? The letter, I mean?’

‘You’re missing the point, Jasper. I ate it because I needed to get rid of the evidence. I had to protect Bee. Without that note, Dad has nothing concrete. Nothing that proves we were ever together.’

‘I’m glad you ate it.’ I’m still curious what it tasted like, but Lucas isn’t interested in sharing the details.

‘You have to deny everything too, if they speak to you again,’ he continues. ‘Say the note was from some random girl at school. You don’t know her name. You found it stuffed in your bag or dropped on the pavement outside your house. Or talk gobbledegook about parakeets again to throw them off the scent. Just don’t tell the police the truth about the letters or the time you …’ He stops.

I can’t look at him.

I don’t want to think about that.

I want to be absorbed into the periodic table and create a chemical explosion that annihilates me, Lucas Drury and Bee Larkham and all the putrid colours we created together.

Bang!

Bright flashing lights, splintering acrid yellows and oranges.

I rub Mum’s button harder in my pocket.

‘Look at me, Jasper,’ Lucas says. ‘You have to do this for me. You have to fix this mess because it’s your fault. My dad’s threatening Bee with all kinds of things. She could lose her job and go to prison, all because you cocked up. It’s over between us, but she needs cash from her music lessons more than ever right now.’

He curls up his fist. I close my eyes and wait for him to punch me. I deserve to be hit because I’ve hurt Bee Larkham far worse than his dad ever could. I deserve to go to prison. Maybe this is a trick and Lucas has already guessed what I’ve done.

Maybe her death is written all over my face.

Nothing happens.

I look up. Lucas has walked over to the window.

‘Life sucks,’ he says, wiping a tear from his face. ‘I wish I could go back in time. I’d change everything.’

I agree about time travelling. My life totally and utterly sucks too. I want him to stop crying. Then I’ll pretend I never saw anything; he’ll pretend he never did anything. We’ll both pretend we haven’t seen anything or done anything or know anything about each other.

Most importantly, we’ll both pretend we don’t know anything about Bee Larkham or what went horribly wrong last week.

‘What am I going to do?’ Lucas asks, running his hands over his face. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

I have absolutely no idea. If we were both in a swimming pool, I couldn’t throw Lucas a life buoy because I’m drowning too. I can’t help myself, let alone him.

Lucas doesn’t wait for my non-existent advice.

‘I’m only fifteen. I can’t do it. We were careful – we used protection.’ He looks back at me. ‘Do you think the baby’s even mine?’

WEDNESDAY (TOOTHPASTE WHITE)
Still That Afternoon

WE SPLIT UP LIKE an apple sliced down the middle, spitting out its shiny black pips. I suggested Lucas left the science lab first to prevent any spies reporting our clandestine meeting to the head teacher or police. I waited four minutes, fourteen seconds before heading straight to medical, the only possible destination.

I vomited as soon as I walked in, before the nurse had time to stand up from behind her desk let alone pass a paper bowl. That made me feel even worse, because lately I’ve caused a lot of sick-clearing-up work for people.

I make trouble everywhere I go.

The nurse and me have been arguing for the last five minutes, her dark marigold versus my cool blue.

I can’t let you go home alone. I have to get hold of your dad first.

Dad has an important meeting and can’t be disturbed.

I’ll try again.

He’ll have his phone turned off. I have a key. I can let myself in. I do it all the time. I have neighbours who look out for me.

That’s a lie, but it’s highly unlikely she knows anyone who lives on my street.

I want to hide in my den, away from the accusing windows of Bee Larkham’s house until the bright colours stabbing my brain no longer flash.

I 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 upset people and that would be bad. For them.’

He coughs. ‘Excuse me.’

‘Smoking makes you cough.’

‘Actually, I had a chest infection a few months ago. Hopefully, it’s not coming back. But you’re right, Jasper. I should give up smoking. I started again when I came over to look after Mum. Stress and all that.’

‘Smoking causes cancer,’ I point out. ‘That killed your mum. Cancer will probably kill you too.’

The man doesn’t say anything.

I walk away. His silence means the conversation is over and I don’t need to act normal any more.

Blonde Ponytail Policewoman no longer stands on the pavement, waiting to arrest me. She’s back inside the car, sitting in the driver’s seat. The policeman climbs in next to her and shuts the door.

Bang. A dark brown oval with layers of grey.

The engine revs orange and yellow spears.

I walk faster. I have to stop them. Dad’s wrong about this. He’s wrong about everything. I can’t forget. I can’t pretend it hasn’t happened. I have to confess. I have to tell the police what I’ve done.

It’s the only way. I can’t carry on like this.

‘Jasper.’

I turn around. This man is wearing black suede shoes, red and black spotty socks and has a custard yellow voice. It’s Ollie Watkins from number 18. I’ll make a note of those details in my notebook to help me remember him.

‘Is something wrong?’ he asks. ‘Should I call your dad? Shouldn’t you be at school?’

‘No!’

The police car pulls away. I’ve missed my chance, but there has to be another opportunity to confess. Rusty Chrome Orange will send the car back. Today. Or maybe tomorrow. He’ll figure out what I’ve done, won’t he? Eventually.

‘You’re friendly with Bee, aren’t you?’ Ollie Watkins asks.

That’s an impossible question to answer. I don’t open my mouth. I rub the button between my fingers instead.

One, two, three, four, five times.

‘Do you know what the police want with her? It’s the fourth time they’ve called at her house since the weekend.’

I step away again because his clothes need washing. The stale tobacco smell makes my tummy hurt.

‘I wonder what she’s done this time,’ he says.

My head’s shaking hard. I may take off like Dumbo and soar over the houses. I’ll fly far away from here, leading the pandemonium of parakeets. I’m sure they’ll follow me. They won’t want to be left here, where it’s hard to know which people to trust.

‘The police knocked on my door this morning while I was clearing out Mum’s loft and asked if I knew where she was.’

He likes to talk. A lot. He’s stopping me from reaching my den. I can’t be rude. I can’t draw attention to myself. I have to act normal for a few more minutes.

‘They’ve knocked on the doors of several houses along this street. David’s too.’ Why won’t he stop talking? Maybe he’s lonely after his mum died. Like me.

‘The policewoman wouldn’t tell him what she wanted with Bee either, but we both think it’s about the loud music. I told her I thought Bee must have gone away. The house was quiet all weekend. I reckon she’ll be slapped with that noise abatement order David’s been threatening when she gets back.’

Slapped. I don’t like the way the fizzy lemon sherbet word rolls around his tongue. I change the subject.

‘Hens are female chickens. Did you know chickens have as good memories as elephants? They can distinguish a face from more than one hundred other chickens. Except I’m not sure it’s technically correct to say a chicken has a face. Do you know?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Custard Yellow admits. ‘I hear you’ve got a good memory for facts and recognizing voices, not so much for faces. Is that right?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘David. He was talking to your dad at the party Bee threw to get to know the neighbours. Do you remember? I left early to look after Mum, but it was quite a raucous night. David was a tad worse for wear afterwards. So were a lot of people, I hear.’

I shudder. That’s when Dad …

I force the horrible picture out of my head. The party’s high up on the list of things I don’t want to paint, after Friday night. It’s not in order anyway. There are other pictures to recreate before that. My fingers itch at the thought of my paints, impatiently waiting for me in my bedroom. Maybe I’ll be brave and use them instead of crawling inside my den.

‘The Martian music vanished and Bee Larkham never fed the parakeets.’

‘At the party?’ he asks.

‘Over the weekend. No Martian music. All the bird feeders are empty. No monkey nuts or plates of apple and suet.’

‘Martian music? You’re right. It actually sounds like aliens are rattling the plates on Mum’s dresser when she turns up the volume to full blast. Mum would beg me to do something about it because she couldn’t get out of bed to ask Bee herself.’

I suck in my breath as he swears a Norovirus vomit colour about the music.

‘Sorry. I’m not used to being around kids. I don’t have any of my own. No nieces or nephews either.’

My tummy spits silver stars. ‘I have to go.’

‘Wait a minute, Jasper. You’re right about the parakeets. I hadn’t noticed. Bee hasn’t refilled the bird feeders. She’s definitely away. I’ll tell the police if they come back again.’

‘I’m sorry.’

It’s my fault the parakeets have no food and a dozen died. It’s my fault a baby’s dead. I have no idea how to start making amends for everything I’ve done.

‘You feel sorry for the birds?’ Custard Yellow asks. ‘Of course, I forgot. You’re a bird lover, like me. I’ve seen you help Bee top up the feeders. Quite the young ornithologist, aren’t you? I was the same at your age.’

I don’t want to think about Bee Larkham, the parakeets and me. I don’t like that triangle. I block her out of the picture and focus on the parakeets and me instead.

‘I have half a bag of seed left, but Dad says I must stay away from Bee Larkham’s house,’ I say. ‘She’s a troublemaker and a silly little tart and a basket case. I’m not allowed to touch the feeders. He has spies on the street. They’ll tell him if I refill them.’

‘Ha, let me guess. David? Right?’

‘His favourite hobby is shooting pheasants and partridges. Bang, bang, bang.’

‘Well, he’s out walking his dog. I chatted to him after the police came around. He’s knocked on Bee’s door too today. She’s in demand this morning.’

I bite my lip and stare at the pavement.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Custard Yellow asks.

‘Why can’t bird-killer David Gilbert leave Bee Larkham alone?’

She hated his visits. I heard her tell him to go away and never come back on 13 February. He’d turned up the day before Valentine’s Day with a bunch of flowers while I studied the parakeets from her bedroom window. She didn’t want the flowers.

I should have called the police that day. Before it was too late.

I watch the starlings arguing in a tree further down the street, attempting to get my attention with their coral pink trills. Their colours can never compete with the parakeets. They should give up. I’m not going to paint them.

‘I meant your dad didn’t ban me from feeding the parakeets, did he? Bird lovers like us have to stick together,’ he says.

I wonder what he means. Sticking together sounds permanent, like using super-strength glue, yet I don’t know anything 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.

WEDNESDAY (TOOTHPASTE WHITE)
Still That Afternoon

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, Jasper,’ the policewoman says in viridian blue when I’ve finished my teeth count and opened the door. ‘My name is PC Janet Carter and this is my colleague, PC Mark Teedle. I think you recognize your neighbours.’

She gestures to the two men standing behind her. Obviously, she couldn’t be further from the truth if she tried, but I have useful clues to help me. One man is wearing cherry cords and has come from David Gilbert’s house. His dog is barking 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.

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