‘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