The Collaborators by Reginald Hill

struck her also that she was feeling rather holier-than-thou for someone who had lain awake all night debating just what she would agree to in return for hard information about Jean-Paul.
    But it had all been a waste of time. She was running out of hope. That was the point she was trying to steer away from in this idle chatter with Miche.
    She didn’t realize she was crying till Miche said, ‘Hey come on. No weeping. Not outside anyway. You’ll get icicles on your cheeks. Let’s get you home. Tell you what, why don’t I use my influence and see if I can dig you up some proper fuel, and perhaps a kilo of best steak so you can all feast your faces tonight?’
    He dropped her in the Rue de Thorigny promising to be back within the hour. He meant it too. Miche the Butcher had a soft heart. But he was even softer when it came to resolution.
    As he drove along the Rue Montmartre toward his well-stocked, well-fuelled apartment, he saw a familiar small but exquisitely packed figure, swaying along beneath an explosion of golden hair.
    ‘Arlette!’ he called. ‘Arlette! How’s it going?’
    She looked in surprise at the impressive car pulling into the kerb, then recognized Boucher.
    ‘Miche, it’s you. God, you’re doing all right, aren’t you?’
    ‘Not bad,’ he grinned. ‘Long time, no see.’
    In fact he hadn’t seen Arlette since she’d put him up when he came back to Paris last June. They’d parted in a quarrel. He recalled throwing some very nasty names at her, not because she’d needed him out of her room so that she could ply her trade, but because he realized her new customers were Germans.
    Well, he’d been a patriot then. Still was, only the Marshal had changed the shape of patriotism.
    ‘Fancy a drink?’ he said.
    ‘Why not? My place or yours?’
    Hélène was at his place. She was dancing tonight and liked to have a good rest. He’d been quite looking forward to disturbing her. On the other hand it would probably be a kindness not to.
    ‘Yours,’ he said. ‘Hop in.’
    Janine had watched him drive away: assertive, positive, athletic. She’d felt envious. What must it be like to be a man and be able to adapt your environment to your needs instead of having to mould your needs to your environment! These men could do anything! Finding a lost husband, or providing food and fuel within the hour, it was all one to them.
    But as she shivered hungrily to bed that night, she made a bitter adjustment to her conclusion.
    Promising to find a husband; promising to provide warmth and nourishment; promising to come back from the wars safe and sound and soon; it was these resounding promises that were all one to them. All vibrant with sincerity, and all completely vain.

2
    It was an April evening, but the wind that met Christian Valois head on as he cycled back to the family apartment in Passy was full of sleet. He carried his bike up the stairs and into the apartment with him. Cars had practically vanished from the streets. There was little petrol to be had and, in any case, you needed a special Ausweis from the Germans to use one, so bikes were now pricey enough to attract the professional thief.
    As he took off his sodden coat, the phone rang.
    The line was poor and the female voice at the other end was faint and intermittent.
    ‘Hello! Hello! I can’t hear you. Who is that?’
    Suddenly the interference went and the voice came loud and clear.
    ‘It’s me, your sister, idiot!’
    ‘Marie-Rose! Hello. How are you?’
    ‘I’m fine. Listen, quickly, in case we get cut off. Are you coming down this weekend? Please, you must, it’s my birthday, or had you forgotten?’
    She was seventeen on Saturday. Seventeen. A good age, even in awful times. But could he bear to go to Vichy? His parents had urged him frequently to join them, or at least to come for a visit. So far he had refused. But Marie-Rose’s birthday was different. Despite her youthful impertinence his sister adored him and he was very fond of