Red Rainbow by G Johanson (top books of all time TXT) 📗

to both the Love Phantom and Marcella for bringing Florence to their door. Both could not have been kinder in response. The Love Phantom said he was pleased the spirit had led her to them as it meant it kept her out of Florence’s clutches. She was better off with them, the Love Phantom joking that she would also stay trim with the starvation rations (he’d supplied them well with more to come). Marcella was less effusive, but the little she said was more revealing than his patter. Patience was welcome with them and was under her wing.

Marcella returned to her job, heading off early each morning to go to provide the entertainment in the backroom of some dodgy sounding establishments as the voyeurs had their dinner. Patience didn’t envy her. Marcella was out some evenings too, skating very close to the curfew, leaving Patience alone for a long time each day. The Love Phantom, and more so Marcella, encouraged her to occupy her time with writing. A spirit had led her to them. It was her choice, but it was suggested it could do no harm seeing if any spirits had something to channel through her that might save 87 lives. The pressure was minimal for they understood that she had no control over what came through and no awareness of who was writing it.

Several sessions later, Patience had filled up half a pad. She’d write all night if they wanted her to, her gratitude tremendous. All she asked was that they didn’t make her read it. The Love Phantom came round for a flying visit after dinner having picked Marcella up. Marcella made him some sandwiches while he pored over the pad. He flicked through the pages and pages of text and said, “Rest that hand, Patience, jeez. I get the secretary in to type one paragraph!”

“I’d do that if I could,” she smiled. “Anything I can do to save those 87 lives.”

“I feel the same. I still shouldn’t have worded it like that to you. It’s not on you. Florence is to blame. It didn’t need to be done. It achieved so little. I’m on about her.”

“I know.” He had been nothing but pleasant to her, Patience realising his dissatisfaction was aimed at Florence.”

“Don’t do any more, not unless you want to.”

“I don’t mind. Is there anything good in there?”

“Give me two hours and I’ll tell you. Can I take it with me?”

“Whatever you like, yeah. Is it legible?”

“Mixed. There’s some in, I think Russian, maybe Greek, not sure. Plenty of French and English. She’s done well, Marcella,” he called through to the kitchen area.

“That’s good. Good enough to avoid the other option?”

The Love Phantom was quick to reassure Patience, who thought she’d hidden any anxiety from her face at the idea of what this other option was. “We’re having a group discussion about Florence, about what to do. All options are on the table.”

The Love Phantom headed to his work flat (as opposed to the fuckflat, as the other was intended as) after finishing for the day. He grabbed his radio, his watch and his record player and placed them in his car and drove back to his office a third of a mile away. This was a sufficient distance that Scrambler could not wreck them. Scrambler was first to arrive, carrying with him a bag of potato chips that he was keen to share. The Love Phantom took a few to be polite and offered Scrambler some nibbles that he had laid out. Scrambler took a handful and sat down. He kicked off his shoes and put his stockinged feet up on the coffee table.

“Are they socks with holes, or holes with scraps of material in them? Take some of my socks,” the Love Phantom said.

“Your socks will be that thin they won’t last a day for me. Best give me two.”

“That was the plan,” the Love Phantom chuckled.

“Pair!”

The Love Phantom fetched the socks from his bedroom and rolled them into a ball and threw them to Scrambler, who punched at the missile, knocking them onto the floor. Based upon this, the Love Phantom opted to hand him a prototype of the new drink they were currently tweaking. Scrambler sniffed at the bottle and muttered, “What does it matter what it tastes like? You could flog this gunk even if it rots your teeth.”

“It does.”

“I meant instantly.”

“So did I,” the Love Phantom said dryly.

Scrambler downed the drink and then impersonated the silent Jekyll for all he was worth. Once he was done with the overacting, he sat back down again and said, “Yeah, it’s all right – if you like cats’ piss.”

“Fantastic, just the market we were aiming for. You’ve even given us a free marketing slogan. I’ve tried too many variants of it. I can’t tell if we’re there or not.”

“Go for it, pal, what have you got to lose?” Scrambler folded his arms and changed tack completely, jumping from playful to morose. “I wanted to come early because I didn’t want to say this in front of the others. You cannot even think about doing anything against her. Not just ’cause she’ll crush you...”

(The Love Phantom had told them all – save Plague, who he only communicated with via notes or coded phone calls – how standing up to Florence had seen him taking a knee.)

“...but ’cause she’s done a great thing. I’d kill to have that body count. Sabotage is fun but taking them out is key to winning this.”

The Love Phantom did not want to have to go against Florence. It was easier said than done, battling an apex predator. Working with her was a better option, not to commit further crimes but to offer the prospect of turning her over, a delaying tactic that they would not see through. She was too disagreeable to play ball. All they needed to do was appease the Germans somehow. The end game was in sight, the priority now minimising or preferably delaying reprisals