The Secret Key

by Lena Jones

  ‘Have you seen these?’ She’s holding one of the water bottles in her hand and passes it to me. I take the bottle, realising how thirsty I am.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask.

  ‘Go ahead …’ Brianna nods. ‘I’ve had plenty.’

  I open the bottle and swallow the cold water in one long gulp. I get a brain freeze, but feel so much better. I look at the empty bottle with a twinge of guilt. Maybe I should have saved some to take home to Dad.

  Brianna hands me a flyer. ‘Look, they’re handing out these leaflets with the bottles.’

  ‘So? They just want free publicity, don’t they? Handing out bottles of water to thirsty schoolkids – looks good in the paper.’

  I look round and, sure enough, there’s a photographer taking snaps of the bottles and all of us glugging them back. I hope my picture doesn’t appear in the paper.

  ‘Read here …’ Brianna goes on. ‘Alpha Aqua has recently built a world-class water-purification centre in London, providing jobs to thousands of local yadda yadda …’

  I frown, but my mind is already lighting up, hearing what Brianna is subtly trying to tell me. Casually, I say – ‘You think it’s too much of a coincidence?’

  ‘A coincidence?’ Brianna puts her hands on her hips. ‘All of London is hit by a water shortage of biblical proportions, right after a London company has built the largest water-purification centre in the Northern Hemisphere?’

  ‘You’re right …’ I nod. And then I remember. ‘Alpha Aqua … AA! Like the pencil found at the scene of the hit-and-run!’ I think for a second. ‘Can you look the company up on your phone?’

  ‘Sure.’ Brianna smiles, taking out her smartphone. For the time being at least, she doesn’t seem to be bothered about being seen with me. I take a moment to look around the playground, shifting my brain into top gear. Words appear, stitched in golden letters on to the backs of people’s blazers as they move through the crowd …

  Just what is it all about? My mind can’t quite piece it all together.

  ‘Oh, look!’ Brianna shows me her phone, which has a news story on the screen. ‘These Alpha Aqua guys are going to be giving a press conference at the Barbican Centre conservatory today.’

  I look at the story – the press conference is at ten. I feel the excitement pumping through my veins and turn to my new-found friend.

  ‘Want to go?’

  Brianna looks up at me, startled. ‘What, now? With you?’

  I feel cross for a moment, then stop myself. I want to give her the benefit of the doubt. She might not have meant it to come out the way it sounded. ‘Sure.’ I hesitate. ‘With me.’

  ‘I don’t know if I should …’ But she’s grinning lopsidedly – I can tell she wants to come. ‘What about Liam? Wouldn’t you normally ask him to go with you?’

  ‘He’s … busy today. Come on – we can do some proper investigating.’

  She says nothing for a second, takes a shaky breath, then nods.

  I know I shouldn’t be sneaking out of school again – Dad warned me – and sneaking someone else out with me is twice as bad. But I’m having too much fun, and yes – I want Brianna to be my friend.

  My bin-escape-route isn’t going to work today – not when I’ve already used it so recently – so we’ll have to leave before the school gates close and we’re trapped, which means we can’t go to form class. I go first, walking out of the gates and a little way down the road. Brianna follows after, so we don’t look so suspicious. People are still coming in and out of the school gates, so nobody notices us go. As soon as we’re sure that nobody is following us, we start to run.

  ‘I … can’t believe … I’m doing this!’ Brianna says between gasps, grinning from ear to ear.

  We get on the tube and ride the Central line to Liverpool Street. The carriage is as hot as a sauna – everyone else is silent, cooling themselves with electric fans and newspapers. I see the headlines, and they’re all about the red slime.

  ‘Water Crisis – Prime Minister Calls for Calm.’

  ‘Top Scientists Search for Algae Cause.’

  ‘“I Can Stop the Slime!” Says TV Psychic.’

  Me and Brianna chat all the way, looking over the pamphlet for Alpha Aqua and wondering what we might find at the press conference. Brianna wishes she had brought all kinds of gizmos. I wish I had just brought a convincing disguise so I can pretend to be a journalist. I have a badge for the Wall Street Journal, which I made especially for the purpose, but it’s back on my desk at home. Brianna laughs when I tell her this. The more time I spend with Brianna on her own, the more the CCs seem to fade away.

  We reach the Barbican by half nine, the huge concrete complex looming over us. The Barbican is many things – lecture halls, cafés, shops, art gallery, flat blocks – but we’re heading for the conservatory, a huge glasshouse filled with tropical plants, cacti and big ponds with koi carp as long as my arm. It’s usually only open on a Sunday. Me and Dad used to go there a lot after Mum died, just to get some quiet, bringing packed lunches and eating them under the canopy of creeper vines.

  We get the lift up to Level Three with a TV crew carrying cables and tripods. In the hall, journalists are milling around, sipping takeout coffees.

  ‘Follow me.’ I grab Brianna’s wrist and pull her through the crowds. If we stay still for too long, or look too surprised to be there, someone will spot us. I know the way to the conservatory, but take us the other way. I can see a security guard on the other side of the room, barring entry.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Brianna asks.

  ‘I’ve got an idea.’ I say. The idea isn’t based on very much. In fact, it’s based on just one thing – a smell. There’s no café on Level Three, but from somewhere I can smell freshly baked pastries. We weave through the camera crews and reporters and come out on the other side of the crowd, go down the corridor, turn once, and there they are, just like I hoped – three long trestle tables covered with trays. There are people unloading boxes of tiny pastries on to the trays, ready to be served to the guests.

  ‘Oh yum,’ is all Brianna manages to say before I pull her on, further down the corridor, out of sight of the catering staff.

  ‘Hey! I was just looking!’ she protests.

  ‘I know, but we can’t be seen.’

  ‘Do you have a plan?’ She’s grinning again.

  ‘Sure do. First things first – take off your tie and blazer, and take out your earrings.’

  She does as I say, and I do the same. I fold everything up and stash it in a cupboard.

  ‘Let me take a look at you …’ I check Brianna over from head to foot and do up the top button of her shirt. ‘There – you look just like the catering staff now.’

  ‘Eh?’ Brianna frowns, looking down at her clothes – black skirt and tan tights, white shirt – then smiles slowly.

  ‘Agatha, you’re a genius.’

  I shrug, enjoying the compliment. ‘It’s a possibility.’

  When we get into the centre of the conservatory, the stage has been set up with a lectern bristling with microphones. We’re both carrying a tray of pastries on one hand, trying to look like we know what we’re doing. After we’ve seen the caterers leave with the first round of trays, we go over to the tables. Brianna has spotted a couple of spare aprons stashed in a box, and we put them on, completing our disguises. We grab a couple of trays and follow the caterers.

  The hall is now empty, with just a bouncer on the door to the conservatory. For a moment, I’m sure he will stop us to ask for our security passes, but we walk confidently towards him and he waves us through. We don’t say anything, but Brianna and I exchange a look, and she mouths, yes!

  We walk on into the conservatory. If the day is warm outside, it’s even warmer in here. The air is fuggy and smells of soil. Around us is an oasis of green – palm trees and climbing plants on every side. I want to stay close to Brianna, but if we stay too close it will look strange. We walk through the crowds that have gathered in a
clearing in the middle of the conservatory. There’s so much to think about, I keep forgetting to stop so people can get a pastry.

  ‘Hey, kid, slow down!’ The voice makes me freeze, but it’s just a man wanting to get some food.

  I survey the scene – a dozen cameras are dotted around, some from the balconies that rise on each side of the room. They peep out between hanging vines and brightly coloured flowers. There are press photographers on the ground, with two rows of chairs taken up by reporters. Each of them has been given a paper bag, with the same bottles of mineral water and the same pamphlet. I read through the pamphlet already, but the language was so vague, I couldn’t make out much. There are phrases like ‘enabling synergy’, ‘paradigm shift’ and ‘holistic approach’. Just jargon.

  One phrase stood out for me, though – ‘The Face of Tomorrow’.

  Before I can think about much else, there is a smattering of applause from the front of the hall, which spreads through the room, as a man in a dark suit steps on to the stage and up to the lectern. His movements are careful and controlled. Over the PA a voice says – ‘Please welcome the CEO of Alpha Aqua, Mr Patrick Maxwell!’

  I look back to the stage, where Mr Maxwell is waiting for the applause to die down. Most of the cameras are trained on him, while a couple sweep the audience. I can’t say why, but I don’t like the feel of him. Although not very tall, Maxwell has broad shoulders and a thick neck like a rugby player. His face is angular, framed by a well-trimmed beard. There’s a hungry look in his eyes.

  ‘Thank you all,’ Maxwell begins. His accent is measured, middle class and southern. I don’t recognise the man, but his voice is strangely familiar.

  ‘I would like to thank the Barbican for allowing us in here today. What beautiful surroundings! I would also like to personally welcome everybody watching this broadcast. I’m here today on behalf of my company, Alpha Aqua, with some news relating to the crisis that has affected us all.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it’s affected him much, does it?’ whispers Brianna, passing by me again with her tray. I really should be moving around more, offering pastries, but I’m trying to take in everything about Maxwell.

  ‘Of course I don’t need to tell any of you about the crisis, which has brought the capital to a standstill – a crisis that shows no sign of abating. You don’t have to read the paper or watch the news to know what’s happening.’

  I look around the room. Everyone is focused on Mr Maxwell. Normally, in a gathering of this size, there would be some whispering, some shuffling and fidgeting. But here, it’s as though a very powerful magnet has been placed in the middle of the room.

  ‘So it’s with some relief – and great pride,’ Maxwell continues, ‘that I have come here today to announce a solution to this crisis.’ He pauses for effect – murmurings ripple through the crowd. Flashbulbs are going off, but he seems not to notice.

  ‘I am here to announce the future, but I must begin by talking about the past. Two years ago, my company invested in a small laboratory that was pioneering water-purification techniques. With the support of Alpha Aqua since then, the laboratory has been working in secret …’

  He talks about the purification centre – a giant factory to the north of London. My eyes wander over the crowd, watching their reactions to Maxwell.

  ‘With the advent of this crisis in our own country I authorised a payment of one billion pounds to ramp up production immediately.’

  Another pause, and another round of hushed whispers. Someone hands him one of the branded bottles, and he unscrews the lid, slowly takes a sip of the water, and continues.

  ‘Under each of your chairs you will have found a bag containing an information pack and a bottle of water. A bottle like any other – like the bottles of water that are being fought over, right now, in the street … Except there is one difference. All the water in these bottles originated from polluted London water, and was purified in our plant.’

  There were mutterings from the reporters, and a few people say ‘yuk’ under their breath.

  ‘As I speak, Alpha Aqua is producing millions of bottles of fresh water every hour, from our north London plant. Within the week we will begin construction of our own water-pumping system, replacing the corrupted pipes already in existence, to provide fresh Alpha Aqua water to every home in the capital … for a reasonable price.’

  The room bursts into chatter, and there is another frenzy of flashbulbs. Maxwell smiles thinly. I let the sound from the stage fade into the background. I’ve found out a lot in a short space of time, and I’m still catching up. The more I focus on the man on the platform, the more uncomfortable I feel. I look around for Brianna. I can see the back of her head, and she is in some kind of heated discussion with one of the catering staff.

  Uh-oh. I think. Time to go.

  We get out of the Barbican by the skin of our teeth – ties and jackets in our hands as we run down the stairs to ground level. The head caterer spotted us both as the speech started, but kept quiet to avoid a commotion. In fact, if he hadn’t been so worried about his reputation, we’d have been thrown out long before Maxwell had said a word.

  Brianna had realised that she couldn’t talk her way out of the situation and had dumped the half empty tray on the head caterer, running back through the crowds to the exit, in the direction I was already going. I glanced back for a second, and I could have sworn I saw Maxwell looking over the crowds, right at us, as we hurried out of the room.

  ‘Are you taking those with you?’ Brianna laughed. For some reason I hadn’t thought to ditch my tray.

  ‘Oh you know – just something for the journey home.’

  ‘More like the police station at this rate,’ Brianna quipped, halfway through pulling the apron over her head, still running.

  ‘Oi!’ the bouncer shouted as we raced past him.

  Back on the street, we look around but found nobody was chasing us. Brianna gasps for breath, her always-perfect hair a mess.

  ‘That. Was. Awesome.’

  I smile. ‘It was pretty fun, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Come on, then.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Back to St Regis – I don’t want to get you into any more trouble.’

  ‘I thought I was the one getting you into trouble?’

  ‘Well, you gave me an adventure – the least I can give you is a good alibi!’

  Brianna is as good as her word. When we finally get back to St Regis and are escorted to the headmaster’s office, Brianna has a bandage wound round her head (the bandage was in her school bag – I’m starting to admire her more and more).

  ‘And would you two care to explain where on earth you’ve been?’ the headmaster begins, his anger disarmed by Brianna’s ‘injury’.

  ‘Well, sir, we were walking to school together when I tripped over this tree root in the middle of the path and knocked myself unconscious!’

  I’m not surprised to discover that Brianna is a pretty good actor – she even manages to make her voice sound shaky, as though she’s suffering from concussion.

  ‘Agatha called an ambulance and went with me to A & E.’

  The headmaster frowns.

  ‘And why, Miss Oddlow, if you were capable of phoning an ambulance, could you not call the school to let us know where you were?’

  I scramble to think of an excuse – mobile phones are not my field of expertise. Luckily, Brianna chips in.

  ‘She’s out of credit.’

  This seems to do the trick, though the headmaster still has some doubts about Brianna’s injury, eyeing the bandage with suspicion. I think we’re rumbled, but Brianna winces in pain and wobbles a little on her feet.

  ‘Both of you go to your next classes,’ the headmaster sighs.

  We go our separate ways outside the office, with one last grin passing between us. I go back to my lessons and to my own thoughts. It’s been an exciting morning, but what have I really learnt? I don’t much like Patrick Maxwell, that’s for
sure, but that’s not much to go on. Lessons go by in a haze as I think about everything that’s been going on.

  Finally, the bell rings for the end of the day and I march away from St Regis, the sky full of red, the air like the inside of an oven. My mouth is parched.

  Liam and I haven’t spoken all day. We were in different classes, and I hadn’t seen him at lunchtime so perhaps he has already gone home. I walk and walk, grateful to be moving. I’m heading back to Hyde Park, but I realise I really don’t want to go home – I want to revisit the tunnel under the Serpentine.

  I’m impatient to get back to investigating. There’s another emotion too – I’m angry with the Gatekeepers’ Guild. I was a hapless bystander at the attack on the professor, but that has got me caught up in … whatever this is. The Guild brought this danger to my door, but now they won’t tell me anything more and they are nowhere to be seen. If they really think my life is in danger, surely they should be around to protect me?

  As I march along Upper Brook Street, I become aware of footsteps following close behind me. I walk faster, but they match me. Adrenaline rushes in, and my heart starts to knock against my ribs. Someone is on my tail.

  ‘Agatha, stop!’

  I jump – it’s Liam. In my relief I feel the tension drain out of me, as if someone has pulled the plug.

  ‘Hey. I thought you’d gone home.’

  ‘No,’ he says flatly.

  I want to tell him about me and Brianna going to the press conference, and about dressing up as waitresses, but for some reason it doesn’t feel like the right moment. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Liam?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I know that you’re annoyed. I get it. And maybe it isn’t fair to ask for this, but I really need your help.’

  He sighs. ‘I dunno, Agatha. Everything is just –’ he shrugs – ‘crazy right now.’

  ‘I know.’

  A smile flickers over his face, then comes back to stay.

  ‘Oh, Agatha – life would be dull if it weren’t for you. What is it you want exactly?’