The Key to Finding Jack by Ewa Jozefkowicz (i can read books TXT) 📗

‘It was lying by the front steps,’ said an elderly lady.

Lady Abigail stayed at the church long after the crowds had left, and spent hours walking the streets of London shouting her daughter’s name. But Margot was nowhere to be found.

I’d meant to stop reading much sooner, but somehow I’d managed to reach the end of what I’d written. When I looked up, I saw rows of faces staring at me expectantly.

‘That’s sensational,’ said Mrs Emmett. ‘I’m honestly lost for words.’ She was looking at me with an expression I’d never seen before.

‘I want to know what happens next,’ I heard one of the boys in the front row whisper.

‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know that homework is composing your next chapter,’ said Mrs Emmett. ‘If you’re keen, you’re welcome to post your work on the class intranet for others to read. If Felicity decides she wants to do this, you’ll all have a chance to read her next instalment.’

‘It’s a bit weird to have lessons in being a “young lady”,’ I heard Duncan say. ‘Was that actually a thing?’

‘In Victorian England that was quite common in wealthy families,’ said Mrs Emmett. ‘They wanted to ensure their daughters would marry well and the best way to do that was to teach them how to behave appropriately and attractively in society. Of course, things are very different for girls and women now.’

I looked in Duncan’s direction, interested to see how he would take this response.

But I didn’t get a chance to find out, because at that moment there was a knock on the door and Mrs Lyme, the school receptionist, came in.

‘Felicity Chesterford? Could you come to Mrs Singh’s office?’ She was trying to keep her voice steady, but I could sense that something bad had happened.

Three

I followed her along the corridor to the head’s office and, when she opened the door, I saw Dad. There he stood in his work clothes, but they were wet and his hair was plastered to his forehead.

‘What are you doing here? How come you’re soaked?’ I asked.

He looked down at his drenched clothes as if he’d barely noticed them, and then I saw the fear on his face. I’d never seen him scared before. He was always in control – it was part of his job as a barrister to be logical and never emotional. I didn’t know what was going on.

‘It’s Jack,’ he said. ‘There’s been an earthquake in Peru, near Lima. It happened early this morning. We didn’t want you to hear about it and worry. Mum and I haven’t been able to get hold of him yet, but I’m sure we will.’

‘What?’ I laughed in disbelief. Time slowed down.

Suddenly, something in my stomach jolted. It was that feeling you get before you’re going to be sick. I pelted through the door and into the nearest toilet, where I retched until there was nothing left in my stomach. Afterwards, I slumped against the door and breathed in greedy mouthfuls of air. The strip lights on the ceiling multiplied before my eyes.

I knew that I couldn’t go back to class. I returned to the head’s office where Dad was waiting for me. I took his hand in the way that I’d done when I was much smaller, and together we walked to the main doors, both feeling bewildered. I could see through the windows that it was still raining heavily. It was as if the world knew the awfulness of the news we’d been delivered.

‘Do you want to get the bus?’ I muttered to Dad.

‘Let’s walk,’ he answered quietly.

After signing out at reception, we left, passing the blur of brick that was the new primary school, and the fields where we’d played football with Dad when we were younger. I focused on my feet, black smudges against the squelchy green and brown. Raindrops nestled in my hair and then trickled their way slowly down the back of my neck.

‘He’s going to be all right though? Isn’t he? They’ll find him and he’ll be all right?’ I asked Dad desperately. Of all people, Dad would know what to do. He’d dealt with some very tough cases. Surely, he would be able to make this OK too.

He took a long time to answer – unbearably long.

‘I don’t know, Flick,’ he said eventually in a voice that didn’t sound as if it belonged to him at all. ‘The truth is that I don’t know.’

My chest contracted. We walked on and on through the streets until eventually the rain stopped and we reached our scratched red front door. I noticed I’d been clutching Dad’s hand so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

‘Mum’s home,’ he said. But for some reason, instead of ringing the doorbell, I got out my keys.

I made straight for the stairs. There was only one place I needed to be. I ran up all three flights without bothering to take off my shoes. When I reached the top floor my feet stopped at the threshold of his room.

I’m not sure what I expected to see. Jack’s room greeted me in silence. Dust particles danced. I’d always come in without knocking, but today it felt wrong. I had to stop my hand from rapping on the doorframe.

There was something about his room that I’d always loved. It wasn’t the size – although, apart from the living room, it was the biggest room in the house. Jack had the whole top floor to himself. Dad said that an artist had lived in the house before us, and he’d converted the attic into a studio, with a skylight and a window overlooking the street and the river beyond, and a little seat on the ledge where he could look out and ponder the world.

The place was messy but cosy, with Jack’s stuff still lying around. There was the soft smell of chocolate and washed sheets mingled together, and the spotted rug that always flipped upwards like a curl of hair.

‘Howdy,’ I said into