Lena Jones - The Secret Key

‘Exactly! And if you come with me to the Royal Geographical Society, I’ll prove it to you.’ I hold out the professor’s business card.

He takes it and reads. ‘Professor D’Oliveira, Senior Fellow, Hydrology Studiesd—’

‘We need to get going – now ,’ I say, cutting him off. ‘Time is of the essence.’

‘Whoa, hold up! We’ve got school. What’s the hurry?’

‘I need to solve this before the police do.’

‘But we have a maths test! And you almost got expelled yesterday! Just wait till we’re finished.’ His voice is plaintive – Liam loves maths tests. He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up at strange angles. I resist the urge to reach over and smooth it down. I catch the eye of two girls, who seem to be staring at Liam. That’s been happening a lot lately, since his growth spurt. They scowl at me and I shoot them a sweet smile as they start whispering to each other.

I lower my voice. ‘I’m going now. Are you coming or not?’ I hiss. I draw my notebook back towards me across the desk and stare down at it, trying not to be influenced by the pleading look in his eyes.

He sounds strained. ‘Erm … not.’

‘All right. But you can still help out with something.’

He brightens. ‘What?’

‘On the woman’s wrist, there was a symbol.’

‘A symbol?’

‘Well, a tattoo. I feel like I’ve seen it somewhere before. I need you to find out what it means.’

‘Sure. What did it look like?’

‘I’ll draw it for you.’ I take my fountain pen and draw from memory the eye-and-key tattoo. ‘I was thinking you could check Masonic symbols first, then alchemical, witchcraft …’

‘OK … I’ll scan it into my laptop and run some image-recognition algorithms to—’

‘Yes, yes. Whatever you have to do.’ I should have mentioned before that Liam is a computer genius. When he gets going about techy stuff, I have no idea quite when he’ll stop.

‘Right, I’d better be off then.’

Liam shrugs. ‘You’re going to be in so much trouble if you’re caught, Aggie … Oh, wait! Hang on a sec.’ He reaches into his bag and pulls out a black box, which he holds up to my mouth. ‘At least if I’m here I can cover for you. Say “here”.’

‘Why?’

‘Just do it.’

‘Here.’ I repeat into the box.

He takes the box away and presses a button.

Here , says the box in my voice.

‘I can hide this at the back of the class and remote control it with my phone when they call the register.’

‘Can’t you just say “here” for me?’

‘Do you think my impersonation of you is that good?’ Liam raises an eyebrow.

‘Point taken. Now, I really need to go!’

‘How are you going to get out? They’ve already locked the gates.’

‘Well, it’s a Thursday, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, so?’ He looks blank.

I smile.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell you later.’

Getting out of form class is as easy as excusing myself to use the loo. From there on, things become complicated. When I woke this morning, my brain felt grey and heavy, like an old wash rag that needed wringing out. But now I’m full of energy, which is good – I’ll need to be as awake as possible to escape St Regis.

I take the stairs down to the assembly hall, my footsteps echoing on the stone floor. I have three minutes before the bell goes and everyone rushes out of class. I make it past the biology labs, alongside the headmaster’s office and into the Great Hall with its polished maple floor. This is where we have assemblies, and where we sit exams. Even though the hall is empty, I feel watched by an invisible presence, and not just from the dusty frames of St Regis’ past alumni. I shiver and hurry on.

Creeping quickly over to the back doors, I hurry out on to the playing fields. I take off my red beret, crouch down, and start to run under the windows of the maths department, where students are still in form class. From an open window, I can hear one of Dr Hargrave’s sermons on innocence and obedience.

‘The rules are there to protect students from themselves. Stay within the rules, children, and you have nothing to fear …’

‘… and nothing to gain,’ I mutter, forging on.

At the end of the block, I stop and peer round the corner. The entire school is ringed by a three-metre-high wire fence, impenetrable with the tools I have on me (strawberry-flavoured eraser, 2HB pencil). The only way out is in disguise, and I’m looking right at one – between the sports teacher’s hut and the door to the kitchens stand the half-dozen wheelie bins that are collected by the council twice a week.

I know Mr Harrison, the PE teacher, will be having a cigarette in the privacy of his hut before the first class arrives to collect their hockey sticks and basketballs. He’s a creature of habit (full-tar, slim filter), and I’m relying on that. Smoke signals from the window support my hunch. Coast clear, I creep across the open ground to the bins and quickly look inside each of them in turn. All of them are full to the brim with tied-up rubbish sacks. What a pain.

Quickly, making as little noise as possible, I empty one bin, stashing the sacks in the space between the hut and the back wall of the school. I take off Mum’s scarf and put it in my pocket – I don’t want it getting dirty. For a second I hear a noise from the hut and freeze, but nobody comes out. The bin is empty. I peer in. There is a thin, brownish slime at the bottom, and a strong smell of rotten fruit. I sigh. With a last look at my polished shoes and my lint-brushed skirt, I start to climb in.

As I do, there’s a sound of unlocking from the kitchen door. Quickly, I crouch down in the foul-smelling bin and shut the lid. I’m in warm, smelly darkness, but I can hear well enough.

‘Oi, Charlie! You got anything else that needs chucking? I’m gonna put the bins out.’ It’s one of the kitchen workers.

‘Yeah,’ replied another voice, ‘take these peelings.’

There are muffled noises and footsteps coming closer. I close my eyes and hope he doesn’t pick the bin I’m in. A moment later, light floods in. I look up. A young, stubbled face peers at me, looking startled.

‘Oh, hey, David!’ I say cheerfully.

‘Again, Agatha?’ He does not seem thrilled to see me.

‘Look, David—’

‘Dave.’

‘Dave, this is very important.’

‘It was very important last time. I could lose my job!’ He speaks in an urgent whisper.

‘Look, this is the last time, I swear. Never again.’

He stares at me, unspeaking, then back to the kitchen, then at me again.

‘Never again,’ he says. ‘And if you get caught, I didn’t know you were in there, OK?’

‘Sure.’

He dumps the bag of potato peelings on my head and slams the bin shut. If I weren’t in hiding, I might have sworn. I spend another five minutes in cramped confinement, trying to shift the soggy bin bag from my head without making a sound. I hear Dave taking the bins around me, one by one, to the gates. I’m sure he’s leaving mine until last, prolonging my discomfort. Finally, I feel my centre of gravity shift sideways, and we begin the bumpy ride to the bin depot. With a last thud, my journey is complete.

I wait a moment until Dave has time to go back inside the gates. A dribble of cold juice has escaped the bin bag and trickles down my neck. A shiver runs up my spine. With the bag on top of me, it’s impossible to peek out and see if the coast is clear. Instead, deciding I can’t put it off any longer, I spring out.

The bin depot is outside the school grounds, next to the H83 bus stop. A small old man flattens himself against the shelter in shock.