Lena Jones - The Secret Key

‘That might be a problem. I don’t think you’ve filled in an application form for access to the Foyle Reading Room?’

I shake my head. ‘Can I do that now?’

‘I’m afraid, for under-sixteens, we would need parental consent.’

‘Really, Emile? Is there nothing you can do?’

‘Well … I suppose I could put in a call to your school – obtain their permission, as it’s for the school newspaper.’

‘Oh! No, that’s all right. I’ll leave it for now. Thanks anyway.’

‘Sorry not to be more help. Do give me a call tomorrow – Professor D’Oliveira often has meetings, so we can sort out that interview soon.’

‘Yeah, thanks, Emile.’

He calls to my back – ‘Agatha!’

I turn with renewed hope, ready to be as charming and grateful as required. ‘Yes?’

‘Did you realise you have a twig attached to your hair?’

‘Ah … no.’

I remove the twig and carry it outside. It’s hot after the air-conditioning, and I’m just pondering where to go from here when suddenly a hand covers my mouth from behind. I’m yanked backwards, out of sight of the foyer building with my arm pinned behind me. A male voice mutters in my ear –

‘You really are a meddling little girl, aren’t you?’

Strangely, I feel a moment of relief that I hadn’t been imagining it – I was being watched back in the park!

But relief gives way to panic. I struggle, but can’t escape the tight grip. Thinking back to self-defence manuals I’ve read, I scrape my heel up his shin and stamp hard on his foot. He grunts in pain but doesn’t loosen his hold.

‘You’re a regular little snooper, Agatha Oddlow.’ His breath is warm and wet on my cheek. He smells of whisky and Chanel Bleu aftershave. A man with expensive tastes.

‘Are you afraid?’ he whispers.

I shake my head as well as I can.

‘Well, you should be – and if you aren’t afraid for yourself, how about that father of yours? What if he had an accident? Be a shame for you to wind up an orphan, wouldn’t it?’

I try not to react – how does he know my name, and what does he know about Dad? How does he know my mum isn’t alive any more?

‘Where would you live if something should happen to him? That little cottage goes with the head gardener’s job, doesn’t it?’

I try to calm my breathing, and focus on his accent. It’s Scottish, that much is obvious. I think back to the tapes I’d listened to in the library – Accents of The British Isles – spending hours with headphones, playing the voices over and over, until I was confident of recognising them all.

Edinburgh – No.

The Borders – No.

Fife – No.

It comes to me – the man is from Glasgow!

This small victory does nothing to help my situation. A shiver works its way down my back. My breathing – already awkward due to the hand across my face – becomes laboured, and I can hear the blood pounding in my ears, like ocean waves. He leans in again. ‘You didn’t see anything this morning in Hyde Park – you understand me? Nothing.’

A rag is clamped over my mouth, and I smell something like petrol fumes. Darkness starts to pull me under. Sight leaves me, then sound, then touch. The last thing that lingers is the chemical smell.

Then nothing.

Darkness.

There is a tiny light, far off and I move towards it, but moving hurts . I’m not sure what is hurting – I don’t have a body yet. Slowly the light grows, white in the darkness. I remember my body – legs and torso, arms and head. Ah yes, my head – that’s where it hurts. I must have fallen. I can hear voices. Where is the man who attacked me?

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘Mum, is she going to die?’

‘Has anybody called an ambulance?’

I lie there, breathing deeply for a while, wishing for silence so that I can think straight. Another voice, gentle but firm, cuts through the rest.

‘Excuse me, please. I’m a doctor.’

Then something soft is placed under my head. The white light fades and turns into a face – the face of a man.

‘Hello. Are you all right?’

‘Mmf,’ I say.

‘Let me help you up.’

The man takes my arm gently and helps me into a sitting position against the wall. The crowd moves away. As my vision clears, I look at the man who is crouching to help me. His hair is white, though he can’t be much older than Dad. He has high cheekbones and very pale blue eyes. One hand grips a black malacca cane. His suit is white linen, with a silver watch chain between waistcoat pockets. His face is angelic.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks again.

‘Yes.’ I frown. ‘I, uh … I’m fine. I just slipped,’ I lie. My voice is hoarse – I haven’t had a drink in ages, and my throat is dry and gritty. I look round, trying to pick out anyone who might have been my attacker. ‘Are you a doctor?’ I ask the man.

‘Not practising. In my youth, I studied medicine at La Sorbonne.’

‘Oh … Paris.’ I say rather dumbly. My brain is full of fog.

He smiles indulgently. ‘Now, do you feel up to standing?’ He stands carefully, using the cane as support, and offers his hand. I take it, and manage to get to my feet, though my legs still feel wobbly. He’s wearing cologne, but this time I don’t recognise the brand. He’s so elegant, so very well dressed, that I can hardly believe I’m awake at all. I feel so foolish standing in front of him – with a torn skirt and messed-up hair – that I can’t think of anything to say.

‘Are you all right?’ He asks again.

‘Oh, yes … thank you.’

‘Not at all. Now, it’s a hot day – I think you should get yourself a cold drink.’ He takes a coin from his pocket and presses it into my palm. ‘Doctor’s orders.’

Smiling, he bows his head once and sets off down the street, malacca cane tapping the pavement. I feel a pang as he goes – as if an old friend has visited, but can’t stay.

Dazed, I find my way across the street to the nearest pub, the Sawyers Arms. At least I’m not far from home. The inside of the pub is cool and dark, though the barman looks less than pleased to see me. Children aren’t usually allowed in London pubs unaccompanied, but I’m desperate. I want to look for evidence outside the RGS, to track my attacker down. But I’m too tired, too thirsty.

‘Can I have a glass of water, please?’

‘We don’t serve kids ,’ he says.

‘Actually, under article three of the Mandatory Licensing Act, you’re obliged to ensure that free tap water is provided on request to customers where it is reasonably available .’

A man sitting by the bar chuckles, but the barman only scowls more.

‘On request to customers ,’ he says.

‘Oh, let her have a drink, Stan.’ The man on the stool says. ‘It’s as hot as brimstone out there.’

The barman grunts.

‘Only if she buys something.’

‘I’ll have a packet of peanuts then,’ I chip in.

The barman slouches to reach a pack and throws it in my direction. He gets a glass and picks up the nozzle, which dispenses fizzy drinks and water. But, when he presses the button, nothing comes out. He shakes the nozzle and tries again, but only a dribble appears.

‘Damn thing … you’ll have to have bottled.’

I sigh and hand over the money, too tired to question the charade.

I leave the pub, blinking in the sun’s glare off the pavement. The road is so hot that the tar is melting – I can smell it. The air shimmers. My legs still feel shaky, but I have no money left to get a bus. I tell myself that I’m nearly home – all I have to do is get through Hyde Park without Dad spotting me.