THE MURDER OF MR ORANGE

It was rumoured that it was Terence Orange’s excessive positivity which the killer took umbrage with. I, on the other hand, knew why and how Mr Orange was killed.

Apart from being born in August and ‘young in the year’, I was merely a Year 9 boy, and not a detective. But I had his murder tied up when others had no clue.

* * *

California’s Terence Orange was tall, attractive and always orange. Beneath his pink shellsuit, he was muscular and the deserving winner of bodybuilding competitions in LA – where he had secured an endless supply of LA Gear Catapult high top trainers.

Before his body was found, the day already promised to be memorable. His one year work permit was up. His final day at school would coincide with the pinnacle of his accomplishments: the refurbishment of the football pitch. He had convinced a wealthy parent, Dr Matlock, to turn the wasteland into an award-winning flood-lit astro-turf pitch.

The pitch had been cordoned off with impenetrable gates wrapped in brown plastic wrapping. In part, the wrapping also served to prevent the neighbouring farm’s chickens from entering. A golden sheet covered six tall floodlights. Mrs Wolf, my science teacher, compared the temporary installation to a giant cupcake. She had plenty of time to think about the analogy since the science laboratories on the third floor overlooked the pitch.

At 8.01 a.m, I removed the padlock to the sports equipment hut and started my usual audit of the school equipment, until I felt a dig in my back. Over my shoulder, stood a short red-haired, freckled child who smiled while looking in the air.

‘That doesn’t get old, Stitch,’ I said, sarcastically.

‘Unlike those basketballs.’

Stitch’s real name was Mitch and the closest thing I had to a friend at school. He called himself Stitch due to his remarkable ability to stitch people up, while always managing to shirk consequences himself.

‘Maybe your dad can buy some new balls,’ I said.

‘You could get Mr Hole to do it since you’re best mates.’

‘Have you forgotten that this is punishment for graffiting a school bench?’

‘I still feel bad about that. But every cloud has a silver lining,’ he said. ‘Since we’re here early, we can check on the progress of the pitch, Dill.’

I grabbed the bag of basketballs and ignored the mischievous glint that I knew would have been sparkling in his blue eyes – if I chose to look at him.

‘Aren’t you even a bit curious?’

‘Of course,’ I said, dragging the bag while kicking the door partially shut with my heel. ‘But who knows what Mr Hole will have me doing if you get me in trouble again. We’ll have to wait until later to see the pitch – along with everyone else.’

We entered the nearby basketball court. I threw a ball. It barely reached the backboard before deflecting and landing in one of the many trees that surrounded the court – concealing the hut from our view. Only then, I noticed that the hoops were missing their nets.

‘Where’s Mr Orange?’ said Stitch. ‘He’s usually here.’ He looked me up and down as he bounced a ball. ‘By the way, do you realise that you look like an Oompa-Loompa, Dill?’

My friend was referring to my recent fake tan I acquired from Mr Orange’s gym, Orange Pump. Fortunately, Stitch’s attention quickly returned to the pitch.

‘If we get caught,’ he said, ineffectually shooting a ball at the hoop, ‘I’ll say you put a gun to my head.’

‘We won’t get caught because we’re not going to do it–’

A cry cut him short from the enclosed pitch.

An adult male?

We froze for a minute, exchanging a glance of panic while Stitch’s misfired ball bounced.

‘Should we get someone?’ I whispered.

Stitch consulted his digital watch. ‘It’s only 8.28. No one will be here for at least ten minutes.’

He was right. I had seen Mr Wine – the groundskeeper – open the school fifteen or so minutes earlier, but he never stayed on the grounds after completing the task.

Hesitantly, we left the court.

‘It definitely came from inside the pitch,’ said Stitch.

‘The chickens?’ I said. ‘It had to have been the chickens–’

‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen the workmen enter via these gates.’

Near the end of the pitch, a podium had been assembled of black wooden blocks. Behind the stage steps, Stitch pulled at a gate and pushed me through the slim gap. He followed me inside.

Euphoria surged.

Like the safety of hiding beneath a duvet, I was on a pitch that could’ve been Wembley and the chirping swallows outside could well have been my adoring crowd. The threat of danger had quickly dissipated when our shoes hit that fake grass and freshly-painted lines. The netted goal mouths had also been put in place. Novelty, curiosity and imagination collided at speed.

‘I’m going back for a ball,’ said Stitch.

‘I’ll come with you–!’

‘No. The moment you leave, you’ll be too afraid to return. Stay here.’

I obeyed.

A few minutes later, he returned. After apologising for the delay due to the hut being locked, he launched a football towards the distant net. I ran in goal to retrieve and hoofed it towards him before attempting to block his shots.

Pure joy . . .

Jerking us from our dream-like state, the bell rang over the tannoy.

8.40 a.m.

I picked up the ball and we both ran towards the point we had entered.

We looked around.

No one saw us.

Stitch adjusted the gate to how it was when we had entered as I peaked back at the pitch, blissfully unaware that at that moment a murderer was lurking nearby.

* * *

The unveiling of the pitch was set to happen at 9.30 a.m. We had double science from 9.00 until 11.00 a.m. Mrs Wolf stood in her white labcoat – smears of blood sat near the top. Known by some as ‘Mrs Eagle’ for her impressive sight, she pushed her thick-rimmed spectacles further up her nose with her elbow to prevent touching her glasses with her rubber gloves. Attractive and tanned, she had tied her blond hair back into a bun and she pursed her small lips.

Standing at the front of the classroom, she lifted a dead chicken wrapped in string.

‘Today will be a day of reveals, Year 9,’ she said. ‘First the football pitch and then this piece of poultry. But you need to know why I’ll be dissecting this . . .’

Returning the chicken to its bloody tray and removing her gloves, she insisted we copy information related to joints and muscle groups from an overhead projector – ‘OHP’ – into our exercise books.

Mrs Flowers – a geography teacher – entered and stood next to her by the window. She wore a flowery dress. Her skin was practically glowing, evidently from a recent spell on the sunbed.

Stitch and I sat at the front, close to the windows and closest to the two teachers.

‘Have you seen Terry?’ said Mrs Flowers, quietly.

I knew all of the staff names and nicknames because I had found a teacher’s handwritten notes some months earlier. ‘Terry’ was Mr Terence Orange; ‘Flo’ was Mrs Flora Flowers; ‘Debs’ was Mrs Deborah Wolf and ‘The Whiner’ was Mr Malcolm Wine.

Mrs Wolf shook her head. ‘Imagine if he doesn’t turn up.’

‘He’s usually shooting hoops at this time.’

‘You better get used to him not being around, Flo.’

‘But I saw him this morning, Debs. So he is in. He was talking to Mr Wine as I arrived about the basketball nets. It looked heated.’

‘Has The Whiner ever had a conversation with someone that’s not heated? On that subject, did your sunbed overheat, Flo?’

‘It takes a few days to settle. You should know about that, Debs.’

‘I have naturally olive skin, love. My skin doesn’t need much encouragement.’

‘Encouragement? This is Yorkshire!’ said Mrs Flowers. ‘The last time the sun came out, the mayor had a full head of hair!’

The two teachers chuckled.

* * *

By 9.25 a.m. all the brown gates surrounding the pitch had been removed and two hundred students stood, waiting for the unveiling.

The crowd parted, allowing the headmaster, Mr Hole, to pass. He threw his voice towards the wall of the gym behind us. His introduction sounded like it was coming from inside the pitch.

‘Without further ado, I hand over to Mr Guthrey, our mayor.’

A bald man stepped forward, dressed in black regalia and gold chains.

‘I now,’ he said, slowly and loudly, ‘pronounce . . . this . . . open!’

He spread his arms wide as a group of workmen in hardhats pulled at the corners of the golden-coloured covering.

As the sheet fell, an eerie hush.

A figure stood in the distant goal – in a pink shellsuit. Arms outstretched, it hung from the goal’s crossbar.

Mrs Wolf’s blood-curdling cry echoed.

Mr Orange hanging dead.

* * *

Mr Hole sent us back to our classrooms as the police interviewed teachers. Mrs Wolf didn’t make further mention of the tied up chicken. Another piece of acetate – more information for us to copy from the OHP.

The classroom was as quiet as I could remember.

‘Do you think they’ll question us, Dill?’ whispered Stitch.

‘No. The detective said that Mr Orange suffered a blow to the head – which a child couldn’t have done. But he also said that the time of death was one hour ago. Do you realise what that means, Stitch?’

‘The murderer was there when we were on the pitch . . . We could have caught him–’

‘We could’ve ended up like Mr Orange . . . Did you see anything when you left to get the ball–?’

‘Of course not, Dill! Do you not think I’d have said something?’

‘Weird things happened, Stitch.’

‘You mean apart from seeing a body hanging in a goal?’

‘No. Little things.’

‘Like what?’

‘The hut. You said it was shut when you went to get the ball. But I left it open. And when we got back, the lock was broken. We couldn’t put the basketballs back, remember? Even Mr Hole thought that was weird when I told him before coming to science. Also, there were white marks on the ground from the wall of the gym to the door of the hut. They weren’t there before we entered the pitch.’

Our attention quickly drifted to Mrs Flowers, who walked into the room. She approached Mrs Wolf by the window.

‘The detective just questioned me in Terry’s office,’ she said. ‘He asked me when I last saw Terry. I said that it must have been after 8.20 a.m. when I saw him outside my classroom.’

‘I can verify that,’ said Mrs Wolf.

‘What?’ said Mrs Flowers. ‘So, you saw . . . him?’

‘I saw both of you by the side of the gym. Terry knew that I could see you both from up here.’

‘Listen, Debs, I can explain–’

‘So can I,’ cut in Mrs Wolf. ‘He used you the same way that he used me. And others. I’m just glad that I didn’t dress in black today. Your outfit is the perfect expression of my sentiment.’

‘Did you do it, Debs?’

‘Of course not! I couldn’t bludgeon a six foot man to death, haul him across the school grounds and then tie his wrists to a bar.’

‘When did you get into school this morning?’ asked Mrs Flowers.

‘8.15,’ said Mrs Wolf.

‘But you have no alibi–’

I was distracted from their conversation by a tap on my shoulder. A classmate telling me to pass a note to Stitch. I did.

He opened the folded note.

Maybe your dad did it, Stitch!

Stitch turned around. A group of boys were chuckling.

He screwed the note up. ‘How do you think Mr Orange got my dad to fund the pitch, Dill? Via my mum . . . If you know what I mean.’

At the back of my exercise book, I wrote a list of events and the time associated with them.

8.00 Mr Wine opens school gates

8.05 Dill opens hut

8.15 Dill and Stitch go to basketball court

8.15 Mrs Wolf arrives

8.20 Mrs Flowers sees Mr Wine arguing with Mr Orange

8.23 Mrs Wolf sees Mr Orange with Mrs Flowers

8.27 Dill and Stitch hear cry and enter pitch

8.28 Stitch leaves pitch – sees nothing

8.31 Stitch returns with ball

8.40 Dill and Stitch leave pitch

9.00 Workmen arrive at pitch

9.30 Mr Orange’s body discovered

After gaining permission from Mrs Wolf to go to the toilet, I ripped out the page and left the room.

* * *

The detective sat in Mr Orange’s small office adjacent to the school gym. He was rubbing his round red face, examining the room.

Polished bodybuilding trophies, juicers and containers of vitamins filled the shelves. LA Gear Catapults lay strewn across the room and deodorant attempting to mask the damp hung in the air.

‘Inspector Clear,’ I said. ‘I’m ready for my interview.’

He looked at me with a benevolent smile. ‘Oh? Do you know who did it?’

‘Not yet.’

He grinned and sat up in his chair. ‘What lesson are you getting out of, lad?’

‘Double science.’

‘I never liked science either.’

He gestured at a vacant seat in front of him. The dip in the worn cushion told of a recent interviewee. ‘Tell me what you know, boy.’

‘Me and my friend, Maxwell Murdock–’

‘The doctor’s son?’

I nodded. ‘He got me in trouble a few weeks ago. Mr Hole makes me open the hut–’

‘The hut?’

I outlined the morning’s events in detail.

‘It wasn’t until Mr Hole’s speech,’ I said, ‘that I realised that the wall of the gym bounced the sound waves around so that it actually sounded like the scream came from much further away.’

‘Oh?’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Science. Clever.’

‘So I think Mr Orange was murdered near the wall of the gym, and then he was dragged on his heels to the hut.’

‘His heels?’

‘I saw marks on the ground when we returned the ball. The marks must have come from the heels of Mr Orange’s trainers. LA Gears are famous for it.’

‘But those marks could’ve been there for any number of days.’

‘No. It rained last night. They’re fresh.’

‘You must read a lot of detective novels, Dylan.’

Inside, a tiny flame of anger. Repressing it, I uttered an expression I’d heard on TV. ‘With all due respect, I think it’s important.’

‘No-one will believe you, lad.’

‘Why?’

‘Because much like our dead American friend, my hands are tied.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The groundsman has confessed. And he said nothing about dragging him anywhere.’

‘Mr Wine?’

‘He says he’s dying and couldn’t take the American’s constant positivity. It’s a quintessentially British motive. He was seen arguing with the victim.’

‘But–’

‘Sorry, boy. You’re into sports, correct? Each player has their position. That’s life. And sometimes we’re not even on the pitch, we’re on the bench. I’ve got my position and you’ve got yours. Know your place, Dylan. Go back to science. You seem to be good at that.’

It was with that metaphor that revealed the final clue – the clue that I didn’t know I needed.

* * *

The judge determined that Mr Wine should serve life imprisonment with a minimum term of eighteen years. He was eventually released twenty years after the event.

And shortly after, I sadly got my proof.

A vehicle left the M62 motorway, coming to stop on a trainline. A high-speed train carrying tonnes of oranges struck the car, killing all three passengers – Mitch ‘Stitch’ Matlock (a newly appointed headmaster), Mrs Wolf and Mr Wine. All except Mr Wine had their hands tied with a net and their mouths were stuffed with oranges.

Confirmation.

Mrs Wolf had seen Mr Orange with Mrs Flowers from her classroom window at 8.20. Over the next few minutes, she approached the opened hut – while Stitch and I were playing basketball – and took a cricket bat to him, but not before he screamed. He fell, his head colliding with the corner of the stage. She quickly dragged him underneath the stage and hid around the other side of the gym while Stitch and I entered the pitch. She cleaned the blood from the stage with her labcoat, confident that it would be passed off as poultry blood and then dragged Mr Orange’s body to the hut.

Some minutes later, Stitch left the pitch and saw Mrs Wolf entering the hut. He discovered the body of the man who had used his mother. Maybe he smiled. Maybe he didn’t. After passing Stitch a football, she closed the door to the hut, offering all sorts of promises for his silence and then destroyed the padlock.

When Mr Hole commanded Mr Wine to break open the lock of the hut at 8.45 a.m. and he found the body, it was obvious that he had been set up. He only had fifteen minutes until the workmen arrived to take down the gates, so he needed to act fast. He emptied the balls from the sacks and threw Mr Orange inside. No stranger to heavy lifting, he put him over his shoulders and entered the pitch, stringing him up, using the basketball nets as rope. He had twenty years to figure it out and how to make them pay.

Mrs Flowers moved to California and took a role as geography teacher at Orange County Elementary School. She still wears colourful clothing, is full of vitamin D and has a year-round suntan – not from a sunbed, but from the actual sun.

As for me, all these years later, I don’t pretend to like basketball or wear a fake tan, but I know my place – I’m a detective. And I will always be ‘young in the year’.