The Key to Finding Jack, Ewa Jozefkowicz [top e book reader TXT] 📗

had already used it as a hiding place for one of his treasures: a beautiful, fine gold chain with a small key attached. It was the key he had always worn around his neck. I didn’t know he’d parted with it when he went travelling, but here it was, separated from him, lying on a bed of cotton wool. A scrap of paper was tucked beside it.

For S.F. to keep until I’m back, it read.

I’m not sure how long I sat there staring at the tiny key, rubbing it between my thumb and index finger. It could have been minutes or hours. Time seemed to hang suspended now that Jack was missing. It stretched before me like an invisible elastic band, ready to snap at any moment. The more I examined the key, the more certain I became that it would lead me to my brother. If only I could solve the riddle of who Jack had chosen as its temporary owner. I wasn’t sure why – it was just a feeling I had.

Carefully, I put the key back beneath the flamingo lid, and slid the box into my pocket. I had no idea who S.F. was, but I had to make it my mission to find out.

Four

‘It’s only ten months,’ Jack said as he was packing his rucksack one night in late September. He’d been working double shifts at Sutty’s shop since his exams ended in June, to save enough money for going away. ‘In fact, it’s less than that. I’ve worked out that it’s exactly 294 days until I come back. Look – I’ve scanned in a copy of my return flight so you can pin it on your noticeboard. And who knows, if you’re lucky, Dad might fork out for a flight so you guys can come and see me in the Easter holidays. Wouldn’t that be ace?’

Dad was on better terms with Jack since his A-level results, so it was possible that he might pay for us to visit him. I was keeping everything crossed that he would.

But somewhere, beneath the excitement surrounding Jack’s trip, I knew that it was the end of how things used to be. He would return from his travels and then he’d go to uni and only be home in the holidays, and after that… well… he would probably move out for good. The thought of it made me so sad that I put it away in a locked chest in my mind and refused to open it again for a very long time.

I pictured myself at Jack’s age and the choices I might make. I decided that if I took a gap year after finishing school, I probably wouldn’t go travelling. Instead, I would spend time writing, without anyone disturbing me. I would start with my collection of riddle tales and later, maybe, I would write a whole book. I imagined finding a detective agency that might take me on as a part-time assistant, giving me real-life inspiration for my writing. Or working for a newspaper with a team of investigative journalists, provided they found me a spot on the crime desk.

I helped Jack fasten his backpack and checked under his bed to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, while he drew a mini countdown of dates for me.

‘Look,’ he said proudly, ‘every day you tick off means I’ll be a day closer to home again.’ And this is what I focused on to stop my mind wandering too far into the scary future.

I’d been carefully ticking the dates off every morning, but today, the date of the earthquake, I called ‘The Day That Everything Changed’.

I didn’t go to school on Friday. I’d spent the night lying on Jack’s bed, unable to fall asleep. So much had changed in the last twenty-four hours that I half expected the 10.15 p.m. to New York to no longer appear in the skylight, but there it was – bang on schedule. Seeing that tiny flashing light made the breath catch in my throat. What if Jack and I never sat here again watching it together? And then I thought about all the unsolved riddles, all the unspoken conversations, all the advice not given – of everything that wouldn’t happen if Jack didn’t come home. I hadn’t even managed to tell him that I’d decided to become a writer. I felt sick.

In the middle of the night, I went down to get a glass of water from the kitchen. I found Mum sitting there alone. Smiling sadly, she beckoned me to her.

‘I can’t sleep either, pet,’ she said, giving me a squeeze. ‘The whole thing seems so surreal, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, like it’s happening to somebody else.’ I’d had this feeling ever since coming home from school, and in a strange way, it was a relief to hear that Mum felt the same.

‘Here,’ said Mum, handing me a cup of herbal tea. ‘We need to get some rest so that we can speak to the police tomorrow. That’s all we can do for now.’

In the end, we fell asleep together beneath a heavy throw on the living-room sofa.

We were awoken next morning by Dad speaking on the phone to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, giving them as much detail as we had on Jack’s whereabouts. Then he tried to get in touch with the Peruvian police, but the phone lines were down.

We’d just managed to eat a slice of toast when a Detective Inspector Pickles came round – Dad had reported Jack missing the previous night. When I first heard Pickles’ name, I thought how it would have made Jack laugh. He sounded like a comic book character. But it turned out that DI Pickles was as thorough as Sherlock Holmes. He sat down at the kitchen table with us, and scribbled in his pad as we talked. His questions seemed to be never-ending.

Who was Jack travelling with? He was on his own. ‘A lone traveller.’ When he put