Free The Boy in the Smoke by Maureen Johnson

1949, where the record stopped abruptly and was replaced with a single typewritten page. The scan captured something of the tone of the event—the official Eton stationery of the time, the red looking rusty from age and the blue slightly dusty. The paper itself had browned just a bit. And the text was typed in the centre of the page, very deliberately, very terse. The typewritten letters were just a bit uneven, as if they couldn’t quite get out the words:
    Student deceased following accident on river, 6th May. All further records located at Eton Police Station.
    Stephen set the tablet down on his bed and looked out at the sunny day and the distant view of the sea just over the trees. Someone was kite-surfing with a bright rainbow-striped kite. He touched the glass of the window, and it was warm under his fingers. Such a thin piece of glass separated in from out.
    Peter was real. The girl, real.
    All of it was real.
    Thorpe came for visiting hours the next day, while Stephen was taking an agonizingly slow group seaside walk. He had been eyeing the sea, longing to run in and swim for miles. He missed his swimming and rowing and feeling the water, and it seemed like a good, normal thing to feel.
    Thorpe met him outside, and they walked around a deserted part of the gardens.
    “Did you find what you needed?” Thorpe asked.
    “How exactly would this work?” Stephen said. There was no need to answer directly and verify or deny anything.
    “You’d be moved to London, where I’d brief and train you for four weeks. From there, you’d go to the police academy at Hendon for formal training. Between that and a few other courses we want you to go on, you’d be training continuously for eight months.”
    “And after that?”
    “And after that, we assess. And if all has gone to plan, you begin work and start to build your team.”
    “Build it how?”
    “Find more people like yourself. We’ll help you locate them. There’s a lot to learn, but you’re more than up to the task. Do you agree?”
    “Do you believe this?” Stephen said. “Do you think this is real?”
    “My belief doesn’t come into it.”
    “But do you?” Stephen asked.
    Thorpe paused and considered his reply.
    “I believe what I’ve heard on good authority,” he said. “Frankly, in the work I do, you learn to expand the bounds of your credulity. The world is an odd place. I don’t know what I would do in your shoes, but I can tell you the offer is absolutely legitimate. The question is—do you want to go back from where you came, finish up the year, go to Cambridge, or would you like to see what all this could mean? It’s an offer that will only be made once. What is your answer?”
    There was really only one answer to give.
    “When do I go?”
    “Now, if you’d like. The doctors here feel you’re fine to leave. We have someone in London you can follow up with. You’ll have a flat. It’s nothing too fancy, but very well-located. For this first part, you’ll be with me, working at Thames House.”
    “And my family?” Stephen said. “What will they be told?”
    “The hospital will inform them that you’ve discharged yourself.”
    “What do I tell them after that?” Stephen asked.
    “Whatever you want, aside from the truth. I’d suggest you simply tell them you are joining the police.”
    The sun came out from behind the clouds, as if on cue.
    “In that case,” Stephen said, resisting the urge to smile, “I’m going to need my phone.”

IV

THE BOY IN THE SMOKE
    It was a typical December day in London—dark, vaguely rainy. Constable Stephen Dene walked quickly, head down, through the confused crowds clinging to the outer regions of Harrods, all of them moving in confused, pointless patterns with their green signature Harrods bags. The lights that outlined the building were already illuminated, even through it was only two o’clock.
    The uniform was fairly warm and comfortable. It was still new and despite two ironings still