The Key to Finding Jack by Ewa Jozefkowicz (best classic books to read TXT) 📕

Amazon jungle. There are even sources that claim it was shared between a group of wealthy merchants living in the capital, Lima.’

‘But how did they manage to get in without a key?’

‘Easy. The thief made a replica. You need a piece of clay to use as a mould and then you can make another key. The priests all knew the guard and I was reading somewhere that it’s most likely that one of them managed to sneak the original gold key out when he was taking a break. It was a case of knowing him well enough to predict his behaviour.’

‘Sort of like what we’re doing with Jack?’

I hadn’t thought about it that way. ‘I suppose… Anyway, this legend is so famous in popular culture that there’s now an Inca Gold Bank and an Inca Gold Monument. And there are other things dedicated to the key itself.’ I wondered whether Jack would have tried to go into the jungle to find the treasure. Was that the ‘surprise’ that he’d mentioned?

‘Lots of useful facts. Have you put all this up on the tree?’

‘Yeah.’ Earlier that morning I’d completed a whole branch of Jack’s tree that was dedicated to Finny, and to the Inca gold.

‘So the mission for today is to speak to Simon, right?’

‘Exactly. Let’s see if he’s at Sutty’s after school.’

That morning through double maths, I couldn’t concentrate. Mr Rox was off sick so we had a supply teacher who’d set us a whole page of mind-numbing equations from our brick of a textbook. I was exhausted from lack of sleep and I hid behind its open pages, my head on the desk. The numbers swam before my eyes and morphed without warning into the figures that Mum had taken to studying on the screen – the growing list of the dead and injured in Peru. And that horrible gnawing question at the base of my skull, which caused the drummer to spring into action.

Where was he? Where was he? Where was he?

‘Where are you?’

It was only when I felt Keira nudging me that I realised I had asked the question aloud.

There was a titter of laughter from the boys in the back row.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Miss Killian, the supply teacher. She was young, probably not much older than Jack, and she looked petrified. She’d probably never yet come across a student who had lost the plot.

‘Yes, fine,’ I muttered. The blood rushed to my cheeks.

‘Do you want to get some air? Or maybe see the nurse?’ she asked.

I could only manage a nod. I stood up and walked out of the classroom.

The empty corridor stretched before me and I felt a surge of relief. I sat on the steps leading to the second floor and stared vacantly into space. I had no intention of going to see Nurse Minton, who gave out paracetamol for absolutely everything, from sore throats to, in Keira’s case, a broken wrist.

I thought about going to Sutty’s to find Simon. I could probably sneak out for half an hour without anyone asking questions. They would think I was with the nurse, and before they realised I wasn’t, I would sneak back.

I was about to go when a wall display caught my eye. It was of the sixth form trip to India the previous year. It had been organised in partnership with a charity called Rolling Earth, which built schools in parts of the developing world. I peered at the photos – there he was. Jack was standing in front of a colourful and bustling marketplace with his arms slung around a couple of friends.

In a burst of memory so powerful that he could have been standing right next to me, I saw him as he returned from the trip. I’d just recovered from a stomach bug and was lying on the sofa watching films and feeling sorry for myself. He’d been dropped off by one of his friend’s parents and strolled in looking browner than ever. Mum and I gave him a big hug and bombarded him with questions, because we hadn’t been able to speak to him. We knew that we wouldn’t be able to contact Jack for most of his trip, because the village where he was staying was so remote that it didn’t pick up phone signal. We’d only received a quick message as he arrived at the airport, to say that they had landed safely. Remembering this made me feel slightly better about losing contact now. Maybe he couldn’t get to a place which had a decent connection?

That day we sat him down on the sofa and asked everything that we’d stored up over the past ten days. Where did you stay? What were the people like? Was the food incredible? Jack answered all our questions, but I could tell there was something on his mind.

It was only later, when we were sitting under his skylight waiting for the 10.15 p.m. to New York, that he told me.

‘We spent most of the trip in a “bamboo hotel” near Kochi, but we each got to spend a day with one of the local families who lived in this tiny village in Kerala. It was the most incredible experience. My family were the Lagharis. They had eleven kids and ran a small farm. They had so little but their house was always immaculate. The older kids looked after the young ones and everyone was happy. And they had this amazing school.’

‘Amazing, how?’

‘Get this – they saw how important it was for their kids to get a good education but at the same time, they needed as many adults as possible to work the land. So their solution was to get the old people in their community to teach. They figured these people couldn’t do hard, physical work any more, but they had many years of knowledge. There were some who had even been to school outside the state. And you could tell that they loved teaching. They only taught a few