Lowe Cabala

1. Auflage 2011
ISBN: 978-1-907133-59-6
Verlag: Dog Horn Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 144 Seiten

From gothic fairytale to humorous pop-culture satire, five of the North's top writers showcase the diversity of British talent that exists outside the country's capital and put their strange, funny, mythical landscapes firmly on the literary map. Over the course of ten weeks, Adam Lowe worked with five budding writers as part of the Dog Horn Masterclass series. This anthology collects together the best work produced both as a result of the masterclasses and beyond.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Lowe, Adam

Leseproben

Elsbeth Schultz

by Rachel Kendall

The girl standing on the platform is weary, but nervous. It is in her pretty, dark eyes. It is in the way her long fingers tug at the braid that falls over one shoulder. She is dressed in a shabby dull grey and obviously feels a little intimidated by the hustle and bustle around her. There are people hurrying past to board the train and she is motionless for a moment, undecided, perhaps, of which direction to take. Finally, with one small suitcase in each hand, she follows the crowd towards the town square.

The marketeers are shouting. The girl walks past stout-looking men selling fruit and veg, old crooked women selling fabrics, a man wavering on a unicycle, a group of young men who seem to stop talking and watch her in silence. When she narrowly avoids stepping in a nest of horse manure on the cobbles, they don’t laugh. They just stare. She must look so out of place, so obviously a country girl. She holds her head up and walks past them. When the hot spicy aroma of bratwurst hits her, she remembers that she hasn’t eaten since breakfast and stops to buy a small loaf of vollkornbrot at the nearest bread stall. She counts out her money as though it’s all she has. When she asks the baker if there might be somewhere to stay nearby, he eyes her suspiciously for a moment, lets his gaze journey the length of her, and then points to a hotel behind him. There is a wooden board clinging to the outside of the hotel by the thinnest filigreed strand.

Die Schwarze Dahlie

She thanks him, despite his rudeness, and takes the crooked path towards the hotel.

On the way she passes a stall of trinkets, framed portraits, masks. White like ivory they are, half-closed eyes sunken into the face, mouths slightly open. All are different, perfectly smooth, glowing like angels. The portraits come in different sizes, showing various people framed in black. Some are children, all share the same angelic serenity.

The girl says these are beautiful. Who are these people?

They are the dead.

This one died in the river. This one was found in a ravine. This Bavarian beauty fell from a window. But they’re all anonymous. The woman tries to offer a locket, pushes it into the girl’s hand. She doesn’t want money. It seems important to her. But the girl is disturbed by the idea and walks quickly away leaving the locket behind.

The Black Dahlia Hotel is a tall building, black on the outside so it looks charred. The door and small window frames are painted white. The windows barred. The girl goes to knock but the door opens and a woman steps out with a small dog on a lead. She looks at her askance, heavy-lidded eyes dark, her step swaggering as though she’s just stepped out of an opium den. She takes off, barely looking at the girl, being led, it appears, by the dog.

Inside it is warm and silent, except for the ticking of a grandfather clock beside a small curved desk. A large woman sits behind it and squints at a newspaper. She doesn’t notice the girl, who looks around at the staircase ahead and the door to the left, which stands open. There is a subtle scent of incense, something deeply exotic. She puts her bag down on the counter and the woman looks up.

Mein Gott!

She shrieks, gasps, her hand goes to her swollen bosom which is heaving now like an ocean with every hard-pressed breath. The girl gasps and steps back. Her bag drops to the floor, the newspaper falls, and a man comes in through the open door. He stops in his tracks when he sees her, for just a moment, a hair’s breadth of a second, and then he is running over to the landlady.

Are you alright Frau Kellerman?

She is leaning on the counter, her eyes open wide in fear. The man, who is young and well-dressed, takes her by the arm. Frau Kellerman’s gaze does not leave the girl’s face as the man escorts her through the open door and for a moment both are out of sight. The girl looks around at the pictures on the walls, theatre posters and photographs. The man returns, picks her bag up off the floor and hands it to Louise with a big smile. Are you okay? Oh yes, is she—? Oh yes, he says, with a wave of his hand to trivialise the matter.

Since her husband passed away, you know,

she’s become a little nervy.

So, you would like a room?

For how long?

The girl has no idea. She shakes her head and for a moment looks quite lost.

I’m looking for work and a place to live.

So I only need a room until then.

He slides a large book over to her and with a flowing hand she signs her name—Louise Fischer. He unhooks a key from the wall behind him and places it into her open hand. The fob that sits heavy in her palm bears the number 32.

My name is Alaric. If you have any

problems you can come to me.

He is still watching as she disappears from view at the top of the staircase.

Room 32 is quite sparse, the window small. A narrow bed with a metal frame and thin mattress covered by a single thin sheet. A small wardrobe with no hangers inside. A cabinet beside the bed with a small lamp, minus a bulb. The pages in the bible beside it are grey and rumpled like dirty sheets. It is cold. She sets down her cases and then kicks off her shoes. The motion sends a couple of cockroaches running. She shudders, sits on the bed. Stands up again quickly and throws back the covers. No bugs. She climbs in without removing her clothes. She doesn’t care that her dress will get crumpled or that she ought to be washing her stockings so they are clean for tomorrow. She is suddenly so tired from the journey. She wraps her arms tight around her body, pulls the bed cover up to her chin and closes her eyes to sleep.

She dreams of her parents. Of their farm. She sees her mother plucking chickens and remembers their stall at the market, how she always liked the smell of the cattle, the way the animals pushed at each other clumsily, the comforting scent of dung and mud and the shouts of the gruff farmers who always smiled at her. She remembers their faces in the car and the car going out of control and the tyres screeching or the brakes squealing and her father, maggoty and black knocking on the car window with knuckles that leave a smear of glaucous dust behind on the glass.

She wakes with a start. The dream fades to black but the knocking continues. It is dark in the room, but for a faint glow through the window from the street lamp burning below. The light sends shadows of the window bars stretching along the thinly carpeted floor.

She climbs out of bed. She shivers. Her shadow stretches across the wall. She is pacing. The noise continues, its intensity growing and coming, she thinks, from behind the bed. She sits and listens, her face anguished in the light. With the knocking another sound begins, a murmuring of low voices. So, the noise comes from the bedroom next door. There follows silence, and then, an almighty grunt, and a vagitus, a spasmodic cry through clenched teeth. Louise stands and goes over to the window, trying to forget the sound as it whittles down to laughter.

She looks out between the bars. She can feel the cool draught of air sliding along the window sill, where the glass has become thicker at the base, distorting the view slightly. Below, the marketeers are packing up. She can hear their bellows and grunts. But her gaze is caught by the church bell tower opposite. It rises high above the sleuth of rooftops and chimneys in a grey sky almost tinged with jaundice. Half way up a gargoyle sits with wings folded neatly onto its back and a snake, writhing and black, spews from its gaping mouth. Louise shudders and strides over to the bedroom door. She throws it open. Across from her, a small man is looking out through the slit of his own open door. His brow is deeply furrowed and his mouth set into a thin, hard line as his hand moves furiously inside his workman’s trousers. He turns to her as she gasps in disgust and quickly slams the door closed, a look of revulsion on his face. Louise feels as though she’s been caught peeping. This place, this hotel with its verminous clientèle and its insects and its cold, dirty rooms, is trying to leave its stain on her, she thinks. She is more alone than ever.

With a heave, she pushes her suitcases under the bed accompanied by the further scurrying of brown legs. Then she locks the door behind her and descends the stairs. At the bottom she can hear Alaric and Frau Kellerman talking quietly through the open door. She finds them both sitting at a table drinking whiskey. Alaric stands up when he sees her. Frau Kellerman gives a little groan and her hands flutter as if she’s trying to dismiss something. Alaric draws out a chair and motions to Louise to sit. As she does he grabs a glass and pours from a pitcher of water. It’s as though he’s the one running the place.

Louise looks to the landlady.

Are you okay Frau Kellerman?

The Frau snubs her. Looks at her kind of disdainfully. Wrings her hands. Alaric sighs and hands a copy of the Deutsche Zeitung to Louise. She looks at the date—January 1919.

This is two months old.

Alaric nods and urges her to continue.

The body of the murdered woman found on Jan 15th has now been identified as 22 year old

Elsbeth Schultz. The police are currently questioning witnesses.

Louise looks up, first to Alaric, then to Frau Kellerman who both look to her for a reaction. Alaric points again to the newspaper, showing her something else. A picture, of the deceased girl. Black hair piled high on her head, a heart-shaped face, a small, pretty mouth and black eyes you might lose yourself in. Louise could almost be her twin.

Do you see why Frau Kellerman is so upset? You gave her such a fright....