Dead drop, p.1
Dead Drop, page 1
DEAD DROP
F. C. Malby
Published by Linen Press, London 2022
8 Maltings Lodge
Corney Reach Way
London W4 2TT
www.linen-press.com
© F. C. Malby 2022
The right of F. C. Malby to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. All the characters, incidents, events, organisations, and places portrayed in these pages are either drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Readers are requested to bear in mind that portrayal of any kind of dialogue, opinion, view, subject, habit or character trait may not necessarily be the standpoint of the author or the publisher and does not in any way imply advocacy.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Cover art: Arcangel
Cover Design: Lynn Michell
Typeset by Zebedee
Printed and bound by Lightning Source
ISBN: 978-1-9196248-7-7
About the Author
Author photograph by Diana Moschitz
F. C. Malby graduated with a first-class joint honours degree in Geography and Education. She has travelled widely and spent eight years living in Central Europe. She worked as a photographer and a teacher, teaching English in the Czech Republic, in Badjao communities in the Philippines and in London. She writes novels, short stories and poetry. Her debut novel, Take Me to the Castle, set in the Czech Republic, won The People’s Prize. Her debut short story collection, My Brother Was a Kangaroo, includes award-winning stories, many of which have been published in literary journals and magazines worldwide. She is a contributor to several anthologies, including In Defence of Pseudoscience: Reflex Fiction Volume Five (Reflex Press), Unthology 8 (Unthank Books), and Hearing Voices: The Litro Anthology of New Fiction (Kingston University Press) alongside Pulitzer prize winner, Anthony Doerr.
PRAISE FOR F. C. MALBY’S WRITING
MY BROTHER WAS A KANGAROO AND OTHER STORIES
‘The stories will resonate with you long after finishing.’
– Avril Joy, Costa Short Story Award winner
‘F. C. Malby is one of those writers who makes you sit up and pay attention. She’s a natural storyteller, a gifted wordsmith, and fearless in taking her imagination to the dark side when the story requires it.’
– Dan Coxon, Fiction Editor, Litro Magazine
‘Malby’s writing is restrained, understated and elegant. Her shorter fiction pieces are stunning, creating a sense of beauty and poignancy in just a few hundred words.’
– Maureen Scott, CEO, Ether Books
‘Deeply moving and attuned to the subtleties of human relationships, F. C. Malby’s stories make us realise we’re only one step away from a completely different world.’
– Ashley Stokes, Editorial Director, Unthank Books
‘F. C. Malby’s short story collection is a sensual experience. She has the ability to create scenarios, using sights, smells and sounds which transport the reader straight into the depths of her worlds … Malby has a knack for capturing salient moments and bringing them to sumptuous life.’
– Shirley Golden, Editor, Flash Flood Journal
Readers’ Reviews
TAKE ME TO THE CASTLE
‘Such a wonderfully addictive book with beautiful characterisation and imagery. You really feel like you are watching history unfold – so well written. I cannot wait to read F. C. Malby’s next book – certainly an author on my ‘must read list!’
‘Malby navigates these difficult waters with ease and you are transported into not only an emotional quagmire, but a moral one as people make life decisions that have far reaching effects on the lives of others. Brilliantly done.’
‘Lovely portrayal of people dealing with massive national and personal change in Eastern Europe. Well researched and clear, but most of all her characters are extremely real and believable. Difficult to put down at times and I keep thinking about the characters, even now! Great insight into the human condition and subtlety shown in her writing. Get it and read it!’
‘This book is “un-put-down-ably good” which from me is the highest accolade I can offer! Only a few amazing stories like “Eyes of the Dragon,” by Stephen King, and “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin” have had me similarly engrossed enough for a single-day read through. Take Me to the Castle has a wonderful pace. Malby masterfully draws you in deeper to their world and their lives; like slowly peeling layers off to reveal a masterpiece. You find yourself building connection and empathy with every page turn.’
THE BENCH
‘This is minimalist writing at its best.’
‘A compelling yet quietly unsettling short story of expectations, loss and memories.’
BIRD
‘What an exquisitely beautifully told story. It’s a treasure, pure poetry.’
‘I rarely give any writer five stars, but this story deserves them all.’
For Toyin, my fellow traveller on this writing journey
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
About the Author
Praise for F. C. Malby’s Writing
Map
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgements
Sources
Chapter 1
I hear the roll and clunk of the train’s wheels on the steel tracks below, feel its vibrations in my toes and through my thighs as it leaves the platform. The wind rushes into the tunnel from Stephansplatz, its caress warm as it whips down the steps to the underground platform and fills the void.
The Vienna spring brings with it cherry blossom and azure skies, the blues becoming celestial in the late afternoon light. Most count the short, hot summer months. I count the winter months until spring, and then when the leaves turn to a deep, burnt amber, I begin again.
As I reach the top step, a body lies on the pavement, feet contorted, laces undone, socks pushing through holes in the soles. A red, woollen hat rests on the concrete slab by his head, hands clutch an empty bottle of Kaiser beer. Not a soul stops to look. A body littering the pavement is a familiar sight on this part of the underground. It’s not always clear whether the person is alive or dead.
I am here for the note. Stepping closer to avoid the people coming up the steps behind me, I spot a corner of paper in his top jacket pocket and pull it free. Without reading the words, I slide it into my jacket. Checking the pocket on the other side of his jacket, I feel something hard and rough and pull out a brooch shaped like a star. I count the spokes, ten of them, and run my fingers across its surface. It lacks the pearls, but at a guess it would have been handcrafted by Hapsburg jeweller, Rozet und Fischmeister. I slip it into my pocket. An unexpected treasure. Reaching down and taking his wrist, I feel for a pulse. I should have checked it first but this is new territory for me. All signs of life have drained away and death was recent. A touch of heat still lingers on the skin, rough and calloused. I pull the hat down over his face. The beer bottle, I suspect, will have been planted to make this look like a natural event. He should have been alive when I reached him.
I stride across the concrete slabs towards the front door of the cathedral. The façade is a gothic foray of limestone circles, arches and towers, the outer layers charred with the fires of change. Digging my gloved fingers deep into the right hand pocket of my coat, I feel the star brooch as it clinks against a few loose coins. I lift them out and slip them into my left pocket before entering the cathedral. I pull each fingertip of the gloves and slide them off my hands. It’s too warm to be wearing gloves at this time of year. I touch the stone arch as I enter the building, feel history seep through my fingertips, and pass through the interior door, leaving the light behind. I feel the weight of the wood panelling as it swings back towards my body.
It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. My lungs fill with incense. I think of priests preparing for sacrament, imagine
Omama brought me here when I was six years old. It was beautiful, haunting, like the Grimm’s fairy tales she used to read. I arrive for prayer each morning before work. It fills a gap in the empty spaces of my days, and sometimes, my soul. Morning Mass is in progress. I turn right and go into the side chapel to pray. It wouldn’t be right to sit through Mass, not now. I gave up using rosary beads a long time ago and don’t genuflect when I reach the statue of Mary. I’m alone when I enter the chapel, leaving behind the tourists circling the area at the back, gazing up at the organ pipes and looking through the stained glass window. Others are part of the congregation closer to the front. Some are down on bended knee, demonstrating a reverence I wish I shared.
Judgement can be crippling, but here in the sanctuary I feel a rare acceptance. Echoes of a hymn hang in the silence of St. Eligius’s Chapel and a shaft of light pierces the high window and falls on the altar dedicated to St. Valentine. Fresh flowers have been arranged to the right and the nectar gives off a sweet scent. I kneel down with my left hand in my pocket, check the position of the star, and close my eyes. I confess to my theft, glance at my watch and rise from my knees. Tomorrow is a new day, Omama used to say, but I always manage to tarnish it: a harsh word, an unsavoury thought, a brooch slipped into my pocket. I walk towards the flowers and pick a single bloom, twirl it between my fingers, and leave the building.
The smell of fresh espresso from Café Aida mingles with the scent of spring. The corner rooms of converted rooftops rise above the turrets and spires, reminding me of glasshouses and art studios. The copper-roofed domes have turned a marine shade of grey-green, the metals oxidised by humid air - a natural artist at work.
I turn left down Kärntner Straße, passing Swarovski and designer jewellery shops, guards standing a metre from each entrance. The windows of Café Gerstner are filled with miniature pralines and pink macaroons, waiting to be chosen and packed up in mint green boxes with gold-swirled lettering and the Gerstner crest: a coat of arms for the keeper of deer, its origins found in the Yiddish name Hirsh from the blessing of Jacob to his sons. A name is important, so, too, are its origins. High on the wall to the right at Number 16 is a mural detailed in gold leaf of several figures who watch people pass on the street below. It’s too high for most to notice, but I notice. I turn left and push through the glass door of Café Heiner, clutching the gold handle. I smile at Ulrike, who is wrapping individual slices of Nusstorte and Sachertorte for a customer. I could encase these slices in my sleep – remember each tuck and fold, and where the sticker is positioned to seal the cellophane packaging – and construct the boxes blindfolded. Any action repeated over and over becomes completely automatic like cleaning your teeth, following the same underground route each day, or taking something exquisite, something which doesn’t belong to you.
I pass one of our regulars on the red velour bench to my right with a Melange, a slice of Sachertorte and a copy of Der Standard.
‘Gruss Gott,’ I say.
He nods in return.
Greet God holds a familiar warmth for the Viennese. I pass the coat stand with its wooden swirls, hats dangling elegantly from the top hooks, and climb the stairs following the spiral up towards the next glass door which can swing either way. It confuses our customers.
Most take a window seat overlooking the street and the mural, except for the gentleman who comes in every Tuesday for a Kleine Brauner and a slice of Pflaumen Streusel. He sits in the corner seat, surrounded by deep pink, velour benches and flowered wallpaper from the late 1940s. He glances at the glass case wrapped around the kitchen. It draws in customers with elaborate tortes, all layered and topped with fruit, cream or swirls of chocolate. His face is a picture of lines and curves, his eyes twinkling as he orders the Streusel. I pass him a paper from the rack. He usually reads the local paper cover-to-cover in the time it takes him to drain his coffee cup and lick the last dusting of icing sugar from his lips, a wiping away of the final flurry of snow. He only speaks to the waitresses, rarely acknowledging other customers, and he tips generously. My tips are always larger than Katerin’s.
‘Liesl, you’re early. Come and give me a hand.’ Hans has been working here for barely a month but he appears to know everything about the place. He picks things up quickly, including girls.
‘Yes,’ I say with a smile, and I hang up my jacket in the back room, relieved not to have to peel off layers of clothing, along with gloves, hat and scarf. With my body blocking his view, I take out the scrap of paper and the star and slip them into the front pocket of my jeans. I pull my tunic down over the top.
‘How was your weekend?’ he asks, as I move back into the café.
‘Good. I went to the Albertina. They’ve got a new exhibition.’
‘You saw the Van Gogh exhibition?’ he asks, his eyes widening.
Hans appears to share my love of art; a chameleon, moulding himself to suit the company he keeps. It makes most people feel comfortable around him, but it gives me a sense of unease. I don’t know much about him, only that he’s from Graz and has worked in London and the south of France, somewhere I can’t recall. Maybe Nice, I forget. I suspect this is all I’ll ever know. He’s one of those people about whom you know everything and nothing: every piece of superficial detail, his need for an espresso before midday, his ability to retain historical facts and twelve-digit figures, his collection of mainly blue tops, and nothing about his family, his fears or hopes.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘that’s the one. How did you know?’
He smiles. ‘Because it’s the only new exhibition on at the moment. What did you think of it?’
He asks too many questions for this time of day, but I answer, hoping it will curb his flow of enthusiasm.
‘Good.’
‘Just good? Any favourites?’
‘Rain in Auvers. I find the lilacs pleasing. It makes sense to me.’
He nods and I wonder whether he understands. I take my apron from the peg and go to serve the two ladies who arrived after me and are now sitting by the window. I haven’t seen them here before. I recognise a face anywhere if I’ve seen it once, and I can tell you the eye colour of anyone I’ve met. Hans has hazel-coloured eyes, mine are ice blue. My parents, apparently, had brown eyes. I inherited mine from my paternal grandfather, although I’ve never met him. I saw some old black-and-white photographs. I’d like to have been a photographer or a gallery curator. I slipped into the art world through the back door.
‘What can I get you?’ I ask.
‘Do you have any fresh Apfelstrudel?’
‘We do,’ I say, pointing to the picture on the menu. ‘It’s here.’
‘We’ll take two slices and a Melange.’
I collect the menus as they fold away their glasses. They must be tourists. Locals don’t look at the menu, their personal tastes committed to memory. Although smaller than some of the more renowned cafés in the city, our history as the Royal Bavarian Court supplier to Emperor Franz Josef I draws in the more discerning tourists.
‘Liesl, are you all right? You seem tense.’ Hans’ hand on my back makes me jump.
‘Yes, I’m fine. Can you heat some strudel? I need two slices for the ladies by the window.’
‘Yes,’ he says.
I catch the beginnings of a frown as he turns away. I don’t know why he is working here. He’s smart and something doesn’t quite fit, but he’s charmed the rest of the staff. The café is beginning to fill its seats with elderly locals, a few tourists with museum pamphlets, children pressing their noses against the cake counter, and couples leaning in towards each other over steaming cups of coffee. The mirrored panelling on the side wall makes the place appear larger, duplicating customers in a kaleidoscopic spread of faces across the room: a Warhol painting of local life. I pull out my notebook and head towards customers who have waited longest, a family of four, all neatly dressed and could be Viennese. They look at me expectantly, like a nest of new starlings waiting to be fed.
‘Do you know what you’d like?’ I ask, then slip my hand into my pocket and clutch the star and the note. Still there. This is the fifth time I’ve checked since I left the cathedral. An image of the body invades my mind and I try to ignore it along with a growing sense of unease.
