Her hand reached blindly under the bed for the whisky bottle. She ripped off the cap and poured the amber liquid down her throat straight from the bottle. It burned. Burned her so raw inside that there was no room for blood or tears or soft soulful eyes that reached from hell. The whisky scoured her clean.
A knock sounded at the door, startling her. She took another quick swig from the bottle, spilling some, but the knock came again.
‘Go away,’ she shouted.
The person knocking didn’t listen. Rapped once more. A voice called out, ‘Romaine, open up. It’s me.’
CHAPTER FIVE
FLORENCE
Dear God. She’s drunk.
The realisation hits me the moment my sister opens the door. Romaine stinks of drink. Her eyes are muddy and out of focus. She is swaying slightly, as though she’s been punched. I walk into the shabby little room, closing the door firmly to shut out the smell of bad drains that spirals up through the heart of the house. I put down the bag I am carrying, reach for my sister and wrap my arms around her.
It isn’t an embrace. No, nothing like that. It is a holding of Romaine together, my arms acting as girders to prevent the broken pieces of my sister falling apart. I hold her tight to my chest. Breathing for her. Aware of the intense heat within the slight figure, a furnace burning inside her. We stand there on the bare boards with no sound. No sobs. No murmurs.
Minutes pass. The noise of a car driving too fast filters up from the street. Somewhere in the house a child is crying. The minutes stretch. The last time I held Romaine like this was when Chloé was born and I’d agreed that my sister would be godmother, despite Roland’s disapproval.
‘She’ll make trouble,’ he’d stated. ‘Romaine always makes trouble. Always has to fight against the rules.’
‘But no one on earth,’ I’d argued, ‘will love our child as much as Romaine will.’
So he gave in. That time.
Why did Romaine turn up at the party today looking the way she did? She must have known all the children’s mothers would be there. Why did she do it? Except to provoke. Was it Roland she was trying to provoke? I gently rub my head against the short damp curls. One day she will push him too far.
I cannot protect her forever.
It is as though my twin is tuned into the thoughts inside my head because a sudden shudder runs through her. She regains control and steps back, away from the circle of my arms. She retreats to the open window and stares out at the empty black sky and the spill of silvery moonlight over the rooftops.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
There is a stillness to her now. It makes me even more uneasy than her earlier collapse.
‘What happened?’ I ask. ‘You were happy enough at Chloé’s party.’
Slowly Romaine turns to face me. ‘Happy enough? Is that what I was?’
I am so tempted to walk over and shake her. ‘What happened?’
‘I had a flashback.’ She shrugs. As if it is nothing. ‘I saw Karim.’
Dear God. We both know it isn’t nothing.
‘We agreed never to mention his name again,’ I remind her sharply.
‘I know.’
‘Why do you do this?’
‘I’m sorry.’
We face each other across the stiflingly hot little room and neither of us speaks. I am aware of the single candle flickering on the wicker table. Of the shadows slinking up the walls. Of the black mould that has colonised the corners of the ceiling. Of the zinc bucket in the centre of the room. How in God’s name can my sister live like this?
How much longer is she going to keep punishing herself?
I am the first to look away. I bend down to my large leather bag on the floor and lift out its contents. ‘Look, Romaine. Look what I’ve brought you. Isn’t it exquisite?’
I hold up an evening gown. It is a simple column of finest midnight-blue silk with a weighted hem, a low-cut back that is all the rage, and slender beaded sleeves of chiffon that shout Coco Chanel. It cost the earth in the Chanel salon on rue Cambon, a quick dash across the street from the Hotel Ritz, but I know its understated glamour will appeal to her. In my other hand dangles a pair of navy satin evening shoes.
I am rewarded with a smile from Romaine. ‘You expect me to fly the model aeroplane with Chloé tomorrow wearing that?’
I laugh. Keep it light-hearted. I spin the gown around full circle as though it is dancing. A scent drifts through the dismal room, the fragrance of gardenias, and I recall that I was wearing a corsage of white gardenias the only time I’ve worn the dress. At the Bal Tabarin nightclub in rue Victor-Massé. A giddy night of champagne cocktails and a tango with Scott Fitzgerald before his American wife, Zelda, came and laid claim to him with her blood-red talons and a glare capable of skinning any Frenchwoman at twenty paces.
‘Don’t be absurd, Romaine. It’s for you to wear tonight.’
The smile freezes. Somewhere outside a cat is yowling.
‘Darling,’ I murmur, ‘don’t look so horrified. I’ve come to invite you to Monico’s Club this evening. You’ll love it. Horst Baumeister has insisted that I invite you.’ I frown uneasily. ‘He has taken quite a shine to you, it seems.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Don’t be difficult, darling.’
Romaine comes closer, too close for comfort. The smell of whisky grows stronger. Her amber eyes stretch long and narrow and she studies me from under her thick golden lashes.
‘It’s Roland, isn’t it?’ Romaine says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He made you invite me.’
‘No, of course not. Horst requested it. These Germans like to have their way.’
‘I have a meeting to attend tonight.’
‘Tomorrow evening then.’
‘Tell Roland the answer is no. He may want to climb into bed with a Nazi bastard but I don’t.’
‘That’s not what—’
‘Florence, don’t you realise what is happening in Germany?’ Her voice is low and intense. ‘Haven’t you heard what that murdering bastard Hitler is doing? Not just in Germany, but in supporting General Franco’s Nationalist Fascists in Spain too. He has unleashed the full force of the Luftwaffe’s Junker and Heinkel aeroplanes to bomb the hell out of Spain’s Republican troops. And they’ve formed the Condor Legion to—’
‘Stop it, Romaine.’
Romaine raises her hands, as though to ward me off. ‘Don’t you care that they terror-bombed Guernica? You know they did. The Condor Legion, they call them. It was market day. Nearly two thousand people killed on the orders of Von Richthofen. So don’t tell me to stop it.’
I sigh, struggling with the desire to walk out. ‘It was a legitimate military target and the number of deaths has been grossly exaggerated for propaganda purposes.’
‘You are blind, Florence. Their panzer tanks will be rolling into France next.’
‘That is why, my chère sister, Roland is working with the Third Reich’s envoys – like Horst Baumeister – to hammer out a peace agreement between our two countries.’
‘You can’t trust the Germans. Hitler breaks every treaty he signs.’
I attempt a smile. ‘We have to try.’
‘No.’ Romaine shakes her head vehemently, sending her curls in all directions. ‘Tell Roland I will take no part in his Nazi arse-licking. I have no wish to dance with Horst Baumeister.’
I make no sound, but I feel a flicker of anger in my throat. That is all. Something shutting tight. I walk over to the bed and lay the dress on the counterpane, a dusky pink brocade one that I gave her last Christmas. With care I spread out the chiffon sleeves and the light from the candle shimmers on the blue silk like moonlight skimming the sea at night. Very precisely I place the shoes beside it, then I turn and face her.
‘Do it, Romaine. Do it for me.’
Neither of us breathes. Romaine remains mute. Just a faint shake of her head, but her gaze flicks to the dress. Time seems to stumble to a halt in the silence.
‘I have forgotten how to dance,’ she murmurs at last. ‘It has been so long since . . .’
I step forward. I slip an arm around my sister’s slender waist, drawing her close. I lean my head against hers and take hold of her hand. We stand there, cheek to cheek.
‘Dance with me,’ I whisper.
Slowly we begin to dance.
CHAPTER SIX
The meeting room was situated above one of the busy pavement cafés in the Place d’Estienne d’Orves, where Parisians gathered to nurse their wine, burn through their Gauloises and berate their new prime minister, Édouard Daladier, leader of the Popular Front coalition. They had no patience for his timidity. He had shown no backbone when dealing with the industrial strikes that were sweeping the country or in facing down the threat to European peace presented by the rearmament of Nazi Germany. Everyone was jumpy.
‘Meeting room’ was rather too grand a description for the place. It was, in reality, a storeroom stacked with tea chests and dusty cardboard boxes on which a white Persian cat liked to laze and listen. The evening was warm, the air sluggish. But the window was kept firmly shut, locking in the heat and the cigarette smoke, to avoid any secrets leaking out into the street below. Because that’s why they were here, five men and two women. To exchange information and prepare for their cell’s next move. They made an odd, disparate group – a union foreman, a shop owner, an engineer, a barber and someone calling himself a finance official. Though as far as Romy knew, finance officials didn’t usually go around with a gun tucked under their armpit. Plus herself, of course, a pilot.
Then there was Léo Martel. Romy was never quite sure how her boss at the airfield came to fit in here. He was an intensely private individual, not given to pouring out his soul, but it was he who had recruited the six of them, he who coordinated with other secret cells hidden within the city. It was after she had worked for him a while that he had taken to talking to her about the Spanish Civil War, about the morals and principles involved. He described to her the terrible time that the partisan army was having against Franco’s Fascists who were backed by the Germans and the Italians. She loathed the dominance of dictators and was excited to be recruited to fly planes down south to the Republican forces.
Romy asked no questions about the others. Each was known only by their first name. They trusted Léo Martel. As soon as everyone had taken their usual place in the circle of chairs, he leaned forward, his strong hands on his knees, and regarded each face in turn.
‘It has begun,’ he announced.
There was an intake of breath.
‘I have just heard the latest news from Spain,’ he continued. ‘The Republican Army of Spain has crossed the Ebro River on the bend between Fayón and Benifallet. They are up against the powerful Fiftieth Division of the Nationalist Fascist army, but they caught them completely by surprise.’
Manu, the barber in the chair next to Romy, whipped the beret off his shiny bald head and tossed it in the air with delight. ‘Allez-y, mes braves! Mes petits.’
They all knew who the petits were. Twelve new divisions of the Republican army had been formed in Spain. These included the Quinta del Biberón, the ones that Manu feared for. The baby-bottle call-up, that’s what they were dubbed, because conscription was widened to include those as young as sixteen years old. Romy tried not to think of it. Fresh-faced Spanish youths, the pride of the country, getting their limbs blown off by Nazi planes.
‘Allez-y, mes petits,’ François, a trade unionist, echoed under his breath.
The civil war in Spain had taken a punishing toll on its people over the last two years, and now Franco’s Fascist army under General Dávila was seizing more and more swathes of Spanish territory, as it tried to force its way eastward through Republican bastions to reach Valencia on the Mediterranean Sea. This battle of the Ebro River would be crucial. Everyone in the room understood its importance. It would stem the tide of Nationalist victories and prevent a wedge being driven through Republican-held regions, cutting them in two. But it all hung on a knife-edge, on whether Lieutenant Colonel Modesto could hold his fragile Republican army together.
‘How did Modesto’s troops cross the river?’
It was Grégory, the engineer, who spoke. His hands flew through the air, sketching angles and junctions, as though building bridges.
‘The commandos of Fourteenth Corps slipped across the river at night and silenced the enemy guards. They fastened lines,’ Martel informed them, unable to keep the excitement at the Republican advance from his voice, ‘for the assault boats to follow.’
‘How many?’
‘Ninety boats. Ten men in each. Nine hundred men as a spearhead. They have pushed forward twenty-five miles as far as Gandesa, using pontoon bridges for supplies and reinforcements.’
Was this the breakthrough that would turn the tide of the war? Romy thought about the rifles she had delivered to Spain yesterday, and prayed to a God she had long since lost faith in that they would save the life of some raw-boned sixteen-year-old on the banks of the Ebro River today.
Diane, the dark-eyed woman seated opposite Romy, rose slowly to her feet. She started to hum El Himno de Riego, the Spanish national anthem, in a powerful contralto voice. It matched the strong mannish features of her face but was at odds with the stylish, flimsy twists of tulle and satin that she wore as a hat on her sleek dark hair. She was a milliner. More to the point, she was milliner to the wives of two government ministers who loved to talk. It had taken Romy many months to discover that she was an expert code maker, as well as a hat maker.
The financier, Jerome, a strange, thin, oily man, grinned up at her, showing long wolfish teeth, and said, ‘Sit down, Diane. You embarrass us.’
But the woman continued to the end of the anthem and only then did she resume her seat and ask Martel, ‘Do we have more planes to send to them?’
‘Yes, we do.’
She turned to Romy. ‘You ready for this, girl?’
‘Of course. I’ll fly as many as we can get hold of.’
Everyone’s eyes sought out Jerome. Except Martel’s. His gaze remained on Romy. She could feel it heavy on her skin and she wondered what he was seeing. It was Jerome who secretly raised the funds needed to buy aircraft to supply the Republicans. No one asked how. Diane always joked that she didn’t want to know where the bodies were buried each time Jerome handed over a cheque. He would laugh his weird laugh and assure them that there were people throughout Europe who understood the need to fight Fascism. If it wasn’t stopped, it would rampage across the whole of Europe. And what then?
‘Well, ma petite,’ the financier stroked the waxed ends of his moustache with sensual pleasure, ‘button up your flying helmet.’ He slapped a hessian bag down on the tea chest in front of them, yanked open the drawstring neck and tipped out thick bundles of franc notes into a pile with all the flourish of a magician producing a flock of doves from his hat.
Martel whistled through his teeth. ‘What did you do, Jerome? Rob a bank?’
Again the weird strangled laugh. ‘Something like that. We all know that this war in Spain is providing combat experience for the latest technology by the German military, despite the fact they signed the French-British embargo on any munitions or soldiers going into Spain. The Nazi Condor Legion is going to be bombing the shit out of those poor bastards on the Ebro River. They are going to need every aircraft we can get to them.’
Romy nodded. ‘I heard when I was down there that the Condor have just poured in more Stuka bombers to reinforce the Fascists.’
‘And the International Brigade? Are they there too?’
It was Grégory who asked.
‘Yes,’ Martel said at once. ‘They are there.’
‘Which division?’
‘The Forty-fifth. Under Lieutenant Colonel Hans Kahle. The Fourteenth Marseillaise Brigade is there too.’
For a split second no one breathed. Grégory’s younger brother was in the International Brigade, which was made up of th
ousands of volunteers from all over the world, fighting on the Republican side.
‘And the Garibaldi Brigade?’ Grégory whispered.
‘Yes. The Garibaldi is pinned down at Ebro. I’m sorry, mon ami.’
There was a long silence. Romy wanted to go over to Grégory and take his strong hand in hers, but she didn’t. Instead she leaned forward and gave him a half-smile of encouragement, the kind of smile that was no help at all.
‘With luck your brother will come out of it unscathed,’ she stated. ‘You heard what Martel said. The Fascist troops are on the run. Your brother will soon come home to you.’
Gregory pushed back his chair, its feet scraping across the wooden floor with a squeal that set nerves further on edge, and he hurried to the door.
‘Grégory.’ Martel’s voice was suddenly sharp. ‘A warning. Before you leave.’
Grégory paused, one hand on the doorknob, but he didn’t turn. Did not face their pity.
‘There has been a killing,’ Martel said.
‘Where?’ Romy asked.
‘Here in Paris. Over in Montparnasse. Two members of another group within our network. They were leaving a restaurant together. A bullet in the head. Silent and efficient.’
‘A professional killer?’
‘It bears the marks of it.’
Grégory spun around, his face contorted by grief. ‘I would take a killing like that for myself if it would bring my young brother home from Spain in one piece.’
He opened the door jerkily and slammed it behind him, making the dust motes dance in the air.
A bullet in the brain. An assassin stalking the streets of Paris.
It concentrated the mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Let me walk you home.’
Martel fell into step beside Romy, slowing his stride to hers. The street was dark and almost empty. To her surprise he threaded her arm through his and held it there.
‘I’m not heading home yet,’ Romy pointed out.
‘Then I’ll walk you to wherever you are heading.’
‘There’s no need, boss.’
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