Red Rainbow by G Johanson (best e reader for academics txt) 📕

As the group went to applaud the second song (Ca c’est Paris), they found themselves so exhausted that only a few could even achieve any real sound with their clap. This caused a panic, muted by their tiredness, and one called out, “Gas.”

“Wouldn’t I be affected if it were gas?” Florence said, clambering down from the stage to walk down the aisle amongst them. “I’m hale and hearty and not even a member of the master race. Unless there’s another race above that you didn’t know about. The true elite. I’m sorry my show had to be cut short, but you don’t seem to have the stamina to make it to the end.” She looked back to the stage. “Go. I’ll see you later. A cappella it is, gentlemen. A final lullaby...”

Deveral somehow made it off the stage. She’d not been focusing her energies on him but had still drained him badly. He only got as far as the wings, sat on his haunches as she sang the last song of the evening. She’d planned for four, cutting her set short as they wouldn’t last beyond three. She brought forward Goodnight to you all, an apt finale. Even with the piano man out of action, she had some accompaniment in the form of gunshots, four in total, which clearly did no damage as she carried on singing. Deveral forced himself to make it back to his quarters, clinging to the wall for support. He returned to her once the slaughter was complete and gave her a staggered ovation. He had a bouquet of chrysanthemums and black roses for her, which he had intended to present to her. It fell limply from his hand before she reached him.

“You did good.”

“You still want me to do bad?” she said. This was now the last-last chance saloon.

“I can’t be alive when they find them.”

That was all she needed to hear, Florence wrapping his arm around her shoulder and leading him back to his quarters. He did not want her to feel guilty – not that it seemed she was capable of guilt – this was run-of-the-mill to her. He chose this and wasn’t backing out. Better to die benefitting an ally than give them the satisfaction of executing him. She still hungered, the black widow orgy not even touching the sides. Her appetite was infinite.

Chapter 2

Red and Green

Hilaire Poirier had intended to meet an acquaintance in town. And so she did, just not the one she’d planned on meeting. Hilaire’s return to Paris last year had been lowkey through necessity. She was a wanted woman, her death warrant doubtless stamped. She returned with the alias of Ida Freche. With no ID card. She wore glasses now, she’d cut her blonde hair short, she took over the vacant Freche home (father Francois was missing, ‘son’ Jacob had given her permission to stay, the home no use to him now that he was heading to America). Her Resistance group was no more, but she still wanted to do something, albeit on a smaller scale than her earlier exploits. She had manoeuvred herself on the periphery of a Communist group who wouldn’t let her fully in as she was unknown to them. Lisette was her contact that she’d planned to meet, a young Communist that wanted to believe she was legitimate but still kept her at bay from her leaders. Hilaire had no choice but to be patient and jump through as many hoops as they wanted. All she wanted to do was help them, which meant they made the rules.

Hilaire was due to meet Lisette in Montparnasse when she locked eyes with Florence Cahen – she knew that Florence had been married a couple of times but couldn’t remember those names. It was nigh on 40 years since Hilaire had last seen her, yet she was in no doubt that it was her. The height, the cadaverous chic, the outré apparel (a dark sequinned dungaree skirt with a garish neon latex blouse underneath) and the blatant big wide brown wig – it could be nobody else. Florence smiled at her and got in the first jab as they reached each other.

“Still rejecting glamour, I see.”

“I don’t wear things I can’t pull off, no,” Hilaire fired back pointedly. She was trying to be anonymous, something Florence could never achieve. Though Hilaire had dressed dowdily for years, well before the war made her a wanted woman. Hilaire was being kind by keeping the comments to her clothing. Florence’s face had been haggard back when they first met – addiction was very ageing – and the lines and wrinkles were a whole other level now. There was only a year’s difference between them, Hilaire 61, Florence 60, yet even as unattractive as Hilaire felt with her long locks shorn, she knew she looked at least twenty years younger than Florence. As Florence looked to be around 90, this wasn’t such an achievement.

Florence laughed. “My goodness, you really are the same. Has time stood still for you, Hilaire? It’s good to see you.” Florence embraced her, Hilaire acquiescing to her hug and kisses on both cheeks without enthusiasm.

“How would you speak to me if it was bad to see me?”

“Come with me. Let’s catch up.”

Florence took Hilaire to a restaurant that was situated inside an art gallery with views of several pieces below them. Hilaire found some of it okay, some of it Emperor’s new clothes bollocks, particularly the sculptures. Florence insisted she was paying, which was just as well as Hilaire wouldn’t have entertained paying the exorbitant prices. Hilaire was as interested as Florence was in catching up. She knew Florence would have tales to tell. Florence had already lived a life the last time they met back when they were enemies before coming to an organic truce that saw neither of them want to fight anymore. Hilaire had seen her at her lowest and had practically let her