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

alone to speak to them, an option after Florence had led her to their home. Shit, she realised they actually weren’t that far from the apartment. Hilaire talked herself out of going back previously, realising that the apology she’d planned on behalf of Florence was insufficient. ‘Sorry she stole some of your lifeforce’ – it was a bigger deal than spilling someone’s drink at the bar. If they never forgave her for that, then fair enough. It had been done to Hilaire on a couple of occasions, so she knew precisely how invasive, debilitating and humiliating it was.

“You can find empty properties too,” Hilaire said, their stakeout of the funeral trap proving that.

“Squatting is a tad low rent for me.”

“Even the Love Phantom’s love nest is slumming it for you. We all have to make sacrifices...”

“I’ve never had a problem on that score.”

That was the understatement of the century, Florence well aware of what she was saying. That was why Hilaire believed her when she insisted there had been no survivors at the theatre – she could err on the side of greed, never temperance. For the Nazis to have eyewitness accounts detailing the manner of the deaths and her involvement suggested they had access to paranormal resources, a medium?

“If my brother could see me now. He views squatters and paedophiles at the same level,” Florence said, amused by the residence that Hilaire picked for them. This was the second property they tried. Both were unoccupied, Florence selecting them by this criterion. This one was dusty with the occasional cobweb. Presumably, nobody had been here for a while.

Hilaire understood that this was hyperbole to make a point. She still had to ask why he would think so poorly of squatters. She learnt that Lionel Cahen owned property after property in America, chiefly in Arizona. He had allowed Florence to stay at one of them during a rare amicable moment, though she commented that he may have done so to give him the satisfaction of evicting her, Florence managing a couple of weeks’ stay before the inevitable.

“I still say we should go and see them. They’re five minutes away – well, Patience is, the other two aren’t there.”

“We shouldn’t really be on their doorstep. Look what you did to my neighbourhood,” Hilaire said, Florence’s actions surely increasing the intensity of the hunt for her. A quiet night in was what they needed.

“I’m guessing you won’t be going back to work, so I won’t get the chance to enjoy my morning strolls, so you needn’t worry. Unless you want to promenade together? No? The Love Phantom has a Resistance group, we have put up the most resistance between us. It’s a waste of our talents not to do something. Collaboration doesn’t have to be a dirty word.”

“I’m amazed you fucking know it.”

Florence creased up with laughter. “You should be on the stage! You’re genuinely hilarious. I bet you’ve never made a single other person laugh in your life, but I find you so entertaining.” She actually sounded sincere, and Hilaire believed her as she could see from the tears in her eyes how amused she was.

“I’m not taking stage tips from you.” Hilaire laughed at her own line there. Florence was so annoying (and ethically very, very suspect), but she entertained her back even if she did pretend otherwise.

“There’s a place we could go back to, my arena of triumph. Provided you’re not scared of ghosts. I was so good one appeared and watched. I’m not even joking. I know it sounds made up, even for us. Ghost at the theatre – now that’s passé. It was at the end of my three-song set when I was in a euphoric state where you doubt yourself, but I know what I saw. I didn’t tell Meyer about it. He was in his own vicarious triumph excitedly preparing for death mode. She didn’t appear for long, went for a seat in the upper circle. She enjoyed the show.”

“What did she look like?”

“In a word, fuckable. Beauty and class. Kitted out nicely too, what I could see of her, nice set of jewels, hair up top, strappy evening dress looked like from the top part.”

“I don’t think that was a ghost. Not exactly. If it’s who I’m thinking of, she’d be an admirer of your work, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried. Isn’t that a nice happy ending for Deveral? If his ghost does walk the theatre, he won’t be lonely.”

Hilaire didn’t correct her. The less Florence knew about the old unofficial shadow member of her past group, the better. Associate was maybe a better term. ‘Evelyn Whitegrave’ (a fake name she invented) only appeared when she was unhappy with their choices and concerned for her son, who looked older than her adopted visage, one of thousands (millions?) she borrowed. It was the form of a dead woman without the same contents as the ill-fated original. Something much more powerful lurked within that shell now.

Hilaire responded to Florence’s badgering about visiting the ‘neighbours’ by promising to go and see them alone. She was not to come and join her no matter what. If she did that, Hilaire promised to wash her hands of her for the rest of the war and their lives.

“What if they try and hurt you?”

“You can beat them. I can beat you. Don’t worry, I can handle myself.”

Florence informed her when the Love Phantom returned. His strumpet was still missing, but he was the relevant one. Hilaire walked around, looking at her watch to see how long she had before she had to get back home to make the curfew. 7:47 – she’d have to leave by quarter to nine to be safe. Getting them to let her stay that long, or to even open the door to her, seemed unlikely. She ditched the ‘sorry about your lifeforce’ bit. She’d apologise, but too long had passed to make the visit solely about her contrition. It would come across as too delayed.

Hilaire caught a