Red Rainbow G Johanson (i am malala young readers edition .txt) 📖

a different statement in this handwriting, something she could not help him with. She did not choose what she wrote. She could not forge for them as he wanted her to. She didn’t need to, Patience having played her part in providing this valuable resource, a long example of this dead man’s handwriting for a hired gun to work off. One problem solved, and finding a forger was already sorted in his head. The next challenge was drafting the statement. How could he set them up to appear, if not responsible, at least complicit with Florence? A strange and implausible alliance that, and hard to make appear convincing. A bit harder than a drinks campaign, that one.

Interlude I

Milice

Saturday lunch with their mother and sister was a tradition for the Varon brothers that lapsed a little during the war, the odd one missed now and again. The surviving brother, Boyce, observed this scrupulously since Beau’s recent passing. He brought a mutual colleague and friend with him each time, Faucher appreciative of the gesture and of Mrs Varon’s fine cooking. None of them were very expressive, grieving stoically, but being invited to fill the empty chair was an honour left unspoken. Faucher didn’t say much in general, confident with being silent for long periods. Boyce liked him all the more for this and wished that more people were like him. Faucher expressed himself better physically, instigating and breaking up rucks, Faucher always keen to wade in when there was trouble, always prepared to clatter heads together. He’d been kept busy these last few years.

Such was the lot of the Milice. It was not a popular or easy job, hence why those drawn to it were men cut from the same cloth as the Varons and Faucher. Patriots with a calling. They’d been there back in the SOL days, aiding the New Order, muscle for the Vichy administrators to count on, providing those administrators stayed aligned to the correct course for France.

They were not fair-weather fascists – these beliefs went back a long way. The Nazi invasion offered opportunities, their status elevated while remaining true to themselves. Politics had been an evening and weekend avid interest for the Varon brothers. The Occupation offered them the chance to work fulltime in a job they loved, doing something they fervently believed in, establishing the Far Right in France as something beyond the fringes and sidelines. The defeat by Germany was not a negative; it was transformative, reviving long-dead Gallic spirit, an opportunity for a new breed of Frenchmen to shape the future of their great nation.

The country had been going to the dogs for so long it was only something as drastic as invasion and occupation that could revitalise it. Liberal tolerance and conservative complacency were out of place in what was to come – they were not there yet, much more work was to be done, which was why Boyce and Faucher would only stay for the meal and then leave. It was a new dawn for those willing to embrace it (and only those that fit certain criteria) and dark days for those opposing it.

Mrs Varon asked the boys (Boyce was 35 but would always be her boy, Faucher turning 30 next week) what they were up to, meaning their work. Boyce would not tell her about Florence Pascoe – it was better she did not know about the theatre massacre, which they put down as macabre and misinformed gossip whenever they heard it mentioned elsewhere. They were looking for her and also for Patience Condeh. Boyce said contemptuously, “What does it say about our city that it’s so hard to find a Negress?”

“I see plenty of them,” Mrs Varon said, echoing his tone.

“That’s my point, Ma, they don’t stand out like they should.”

His mother understood. Father had been quieter, sharing the same views but much more private about them. Mother was less inhibited, thinking nothing of making her feelings clear out in public in ways that could not be misinterpreted that generally had both boys sniggering. The conflict, nearly always one-sided, was entertaining, watching their mother put interlopers in their place. Beaulene was different to the rest of the family. She was only 16 and still saw the good in everyone, a huge failing. Boyce teased her about this and just in general. As their mother went to sort out dessert, he said to her,

“Casimir still sniffing around?”

Beaulene half-smiled and rolled her eyes, as much of an answer as he was going to get to this oft-repeated question. He knew that she’d severed contact, which had been minimal in the first place. It had been over a year ago that word had reached them that their sister was seen walking to school with a boy with dark features. Dark hair and brown eyes were fine – this described most of the Varons, but they had white skin whereas Casanova Casimir had a dark complexion. Casimir was French, as it turned out, but the brothers decided it wasn’t a good look for her to be seen with him and let her know. Beaulene had assured them it was perfectly innocent, that they were simply headed the same way to school and that it would be rude not to talk to him. They gave her a choice: she could be rude by not talking to him, or they would be rude on her behalf and have words with him. Wisely, she picked the former.

After dessert, Boyce ordered Beaulene to go to the shop and buy him some cigarettes while he sat and waited for his food to digest. She complied without question. After she had gone, Mrs Varon said, “Go easy on her. She’s been having a hard time lately.”

“We all miss Beau. She’ll feel worse if I don’t give her a hard time, if I start acting differently. We’ve just got to keep going.”

“Some boys have been picking on her about Beau’s death. They say you’ll be