Read The Report for Free Online

to sit.” She moved him toward a chair near the escalators. “You will not serve this shelter by collapsing,” she said kindly. He wondered why she didn’t take him to his desk, but when he looked over, he saw Constable Henderson, still in uniform, slumped there.
    Clare gave him a cursory exam. His pulse and blood pressure were fine; his temperature was up a bit.
    “Warden Low,” she said, though he heard her voice as if from a great distance, “you have a fever. It’s not high, but I suggest you go home. The deputy warden can finish the night.”
    This was correct procedure, but he’d never left his post early. He looked around the hall. In the yellow light of several dim bulbs, the cement floor and walls of the shelter looked damp, sickly, feverish, themselves. Bill Steadman, his unofficial warden, was sitting on the floor, shaking his head so slowly, Low thought that he must be asleep. Then he realized the man was wide-awake. Several wardens brought up a few of the curious from the platforms below. There wasn’t much to see—all the dead were gone. There were just the seven dirty stairs leading up to the landing. These were blocked by police barriers, so the group huddled to the right to peer up the first nineteen steps. Not much to see there, either. Just more concrete stairs, with a wooden insertion on the edge of the tread soaked with fluids he didn’t want to think about.
    “Where is Hastings?”
    “Outside. The police are taking statements.”
    He nodded. “Check on Steadman there, will you? I’m afraid he’s in some kind of shock.”
    “Not much of a remedy for it,” she said, “but I’ll see what I can do.”
    He thanked her, then picked up his coat and squeezed by the police barriers. In a few hours the shelterers would have to leave by the emergency exit half a mile down the tunnel, but he hugged the right-hand wall of the stairwell and stepped quickly, leaving the shelter the way so many thousands had come and gone safely before that night. At the top he skirted a second set of police barriers and joined the disorganized crowd. No one saw him, or he was sure he’d have been asked for a statement. There was Hastings, talking to a constable. He started walking but stopped in front of St. John’s. He almost shook his fist at the dark cross against the sky, but it was a gesture too full of defiance for the defeat he felt. Instead he sat on a step. He thought about going back—he would put something right before morning—but he knew it would be impossible to look at the staircase again. Just the thought of it made him gag. He stood, stumbled, and nearly fell. Then he shoved his fists in his pockets and aimed for home.
    Later the events of March 3, 1943, would be examined and reexamined, but mainly regretted, for innumerable reasons, yet one stood out above all: not a single bomb had fallen on the city that night.

Eight
    Laurie thought the would-be filmmaker had been sitting strangely. Had he needed to use the lavatory? All through the interview it had looked to Laurie as if the boy were about to spring out of the chair. What was this? Some new, ill-fitting garment that didn’t allow one comfort in sitting? But when Barber stood to leave, Laurie looked at his trousers and thought them fine, if a bit worn.
    It certainly was odd to have been contacted by someone named Barber, though it was clear he couldn’t be from the family Laurie remembered. His skin was too dark. Laurie had talked to him for the better part of the afternoon, just long enough to determine that the boy knew very little about angling. Laurie had neither agreed nor disagreed to participate in the film project. He told Barber he needed time to think, and that’s what he was doing. He always thought best on a riverbank.
    The Test was overstocked this year, and, despite the good weather, Laurie wasn’t enjoying the afternoon. He wanted to be in Scotland, angling alone. Instead he had various club members all around: Clarkson on