Fires of London (The Francis Bacon Mysteries) by Janice Law

for half an hour at a time and waking up in an instant. Arnold looked tired. He had twenty years on me and the long nights told on him. “Take a nap,” I said. “I’ll watch for a while.”
    “Dear boy.” He leaned his head on my shoulder and was gone in an instant, leaving me to survey the cratered city. Skies silent now, smoke on the breeze from the dockyards, a dirty fog coming off the Thames. A few hot red spots, the work of incendiaries, but a quiet night, considering. Before dawn, the all-clear sounded and we descended the nearly vertical steps from the spire. Down below, the usual scene—mud, pools of water, broken glass by the truckload, steaming ruins, exploded gardens. The usual detours for ruptured mains, cratered roads, electrical cables. The usual ambulances, police cars, fire engines. The usual stunned residents gaping at whatever was left; the usual workers beginning the daily trek through our ever-altered landscape.
    Arnold had headed home, and I was within a half dozen blocks of the flat when I approached a terrace that had taken a direct hit. It appeared that the wounded had already been taken to hospital, for a warden and several Heavy Rescue Squad workers were standing around looking exhausted, cigarettes drooping from their blackened fingers. The top story of one house had folded up like a concertina onto the lower floors. Everything was smashed but still cold and smokeless, so there was a suspicion that an unexploded bomb was concealed in the rubble. Hence the conference.
    When they saw my tin hat in the gloom, they waved me over. A sharp yapping bark greeted me: how often dogs signal bad luck. This was a terrier like the rat killers that haunted my father’s stable. It was running back and forth before a mound of rubble topped by a thick and heavy timber.
    “Someone still in there?” I asked.
    “Might be. That’s Jeremy’s dog.” This from a large, muscular chap, his face totally blackened, a dirty bandage on his right arm. He was the Heavy Rescue Squad leader, one of the construction specialists called in to shift rubble and to either make ruins safe or supervise their demolition.
    What could I do but ask if they needed a hand?
    Another consultation. Six of us, they decided, might be able to lift the timber. I went through the gate, over a toilet tank and part of a bureau, avoided a framed picture, glass perfectly intact, of Queen Victoria in the Jubilee Year, and a thorny and vigorous gooseberry bush. The squad leader, whose name was Bill, lined us up, cautioning us on the treacherous footing—a mix of shattered wood and crumbled brick.
    “On three, lads. One . . . two . . . three . . . ”
    Muscles straining against the immovable timber. Too heavy, I thought, my lungs already protesting. Then scrapes and rattles as our boots shifted on the rubble and a shout of encouragement from Bill. Timber up. “Bring it to me, step at a time. Swing the front, Robbie. Wait, wait. Now. Watch the damn dog. Let her down.” A soft thump from the timber. The dog dived toward the cavity newly opened in the mess of brick and timber before raising an eerie howl. Strange how effortlessly expressive animals are, while we hairless beasts must struggle over canvas and paints and the English language.
    The local warden switched on his torch and I followed suit, holding our lights so that the demolition men could do their work. Wall fragments edged with shattered teeth of brick. Another sizeable timber requiring my participation—how we conspire in our own ruin. Another desperate howl from the dog. And then, out of the gray plaster dust, a muscular arm, bloodless and white. No matter how often you see rescue attempts, the moment of recovery always hits you. Sometimes a surge of hope, sometimes, as now, the sick anticipation of horror.
    We all got into the act, hauling bricks, sweeping away the dust and plaster, lifting bits of lath. The face, always the face first. No sign of life. Hands reached out to clear