Love in Revolution by B.R. Collins Read Free Book Online

talk to you.’
    ‘Tell her to come and talk to me herself.’
    They swapped glances; then, without a word, the smallest one detached herself and made her way back to Ana. I couldn’t hear what she said, but after a few seconds Ana met my eyes and glided over, graceful as a dancer. She had something in her hand: a little flag of greyish paper, held between finger and thumb as if it might rub off on her skin. She said, ‘Esteya Bidart.’
    ‘Ana Himyana,’ I said. Miren shifted nervously beside me.
    ‘Your father was the last person to see him alive, wasn’t he?’
    I shrugged. I didn’t ask who she meant by him . ‘He’s a doctor, Ana. He sees lots of people who are ill. Some of them die.’
    She tilted her head to one side and tugged at the tiny pearl in her left ear. ‘And Leon Bidart is your brother, isn’t he?’
    ‘Half-brother,’ I said. I could feel the blood already mounting in my cheeks. Most people had gone home before Leon took his shirt off, but someone must have told her . . .
    ‘He writes for the Clarion , doesn’t he?’
    ‘Er . . . yes,’ I said. ‘Sometimes. Teddy – the editor – is a friend of his, so –’
    ‘Did he write this ?’ With a quick movement she thrust her hand out, and the scrap of paper fluttered and then went limp again.
    I took it from her and looked down at it.
    The picture was of the Bull serving, his face a grimace of concentration, and there was a blurred shape in the foreground that must have been Angel’s shoulder or head. It wasn’t a great photo, but it showed the Bull clearly enough. The headline was: DEAD PLAYER LOST LAST GAME .
    Distantly I heard the bell ring, but I didn’t move.
    Dead hero of the bourgeoisie Pitoro ‘the Bull’ Toros was defeated in his last ever game, by an unknown peasant boy, the Clarion reveals. In a dramatic prelude to the champion’s unexpected death on Sunday, he was challenged to a pello game and was vanquished in front of a crowd of local fans . . .
    I looked into Ana’s eyes and swallowed. ‘He might have done,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. But it’s true. Why shouldn’t he write it?’
    ‘?“Hero of the bourgeoisie”?’ Ana said. ‘It sounds like your brother, don’t you think?’
    . . . a symbol of hope for those fighting against oppression . . . the King, who expressed sorrow for Toros’s death, may well be uneasy at this salutary reminder of the strength of the working classes . . .
    ‘You’re not wearing anything black, are you?’ Ana said. ‘I suppose that means you don’t care about the Bull. Or is it just that you’re a Communist?’
    ‘I said I don’t know whether Leon wrote that. It might have been Teddy.’
    A cool, low voice said, ‘Well, Esteya, I hope it was Mr Edwards. Otherwise your brother would be guilty of a reckless, selfish act.’
    We turned to look. Sister David was there, holding the bell. She held out her hand for the paper, and the bell’s clapper made a little clanking noise as she moved. ‘Esteya, please give that to me.’
    I handed it to her. She took it and read it, briefly, as if she was already familiar with the contents. She said, ‘So you think there is no reason why your brother shouldn’t have written this, morally speaking?’
    ‘Well – he, the Bull, he did lose his last game –’
    ‘I notice that there is no signature,’ Sister David said. ‘We can hope that your brother, not being a foreigner like Mr Edwards, would know better than to write anything so . . . seditious.’ She handed the paper back and gave me a long look that I couldn’t read. ‘Unfortunately Mr Edwards is being interviewed by the police.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Please say pardon , Esteya, not what . Mr Edwards, so I am told, was escorted from his home early this morning to answer a few questions about this article.’
    ‘But –’ I felt the pit of my stomach drop.
    Sister David glanced from me to Ana, and then back again. There was something in her eyes: not quite sympathy, not