Steinhagen - The Hanging Artist

An Abaddon Books Publication

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abaddon@rebellion.co.uk

First published in 2019 by Abaddon Books, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.

Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley

Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley

Head of Books and Comics Publishing: Ben Smith

Editors: David Thomas Moore, Michael Rowley and Kate Coe

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Cover: Sam Gretton

Design: Sam Gretton, Oz Osborne and Gemma Sheldrake

Copyright 2019 Rebellion. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-78618-159-6

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Dedicated to my godmother, Judith Coolbaugh Peters, the best there is or ever was my eternal gratitude for continuing to gift me all the detective stories, and all the love.

you have been entrusted with a given task, you have the strength to carry it out (neither too much nor too little, you have to make sure you dont waste it, but without undue concern), you have the necessary free time and you are not lacking the desire to work. So what is the obstacle that stands between you and the completion of this extraordinary undertaking? We should not waste time looking for obstacles, perhaps there are none.

Excerpt from Franz Kafkas diary,

16 January 1922

CHAPTER ONE

AN UNEXPECTED WEDNESDAY

FRANZ KAFKA AWOKE one morning from unpleasant dreams, to find himself face to face with an enormous insect that was attempting to take his temperature; the insect, howevereither confused as into which end the thermometer was to go or set upon giving Franz an abrupt and rude awakeninghad the thermometer nowhere near Franzs mouth.

Franz recoiled, and was surprised to find he had the strength to recoil. When last he checkedthe night before?he had been too weak to do anything except close his eyes in what he thought would be his final slumber, but here he was, awake and recoiling from the insect with the thermometer.

Insect.

I didnt mean to awaken you, it said. I do hope youll forgive me.

Franz took in the insects domed brown belly, divided into stiff arched segments; and its numerous legs, pitifully thin compared to the rest of its bulk, which moved in various unsettling directions all at once. At the moment, one leg wielded the dreaded baton-sized thermometer while two others poured water from a battered ewer into a glass tumbler.

Ill forgive you so long as you change the destination of that thermometer, Franz said.

Said. He hadnt croaked, hed said. His clear voice surprised him more than the fact that the giant insect tending to him also possessed the power of speech.

Franz assumed he was deep in a dream, although it was unlike any of the dreams hed endured his forty years of life: bright, sunny, calm, and courteous. He ruled out dream and tried to adjust his thinking to reality.

The room, a regular human room, only rather too small, sat in stillness between four antiseptic walls. Beyond the bed was a spindly chair meant for visitors and a shabby wardrobe missing its knobs. Next to Franz was the bedside table, to the surface of which a small electric lamp had been screwed. The lamp and the table stood in front of the rooms sole window, its shadeless panes clear and giving onto a view ofwhere?

Youre still in the sanitarium, the insect said, offering Franz the water. Franz, reacting from instinct, grimaced and turned away before it could touch his lips. You must be thirsty, the insect said. Drink.

The insects voice was soft and unrefined, crude but not unpleasant, like velvet gravel running down a sluice. Its head was a brown sphere of exaggerations: shiny black eyes the size of dinner plates and a mouth resembling a complicated gardening tool, which made scissoring motions when it spoke.

You can manage this now, the insect said, pressing the water upon on him. Trust me.

Franz nearly trusted the thing, but aggressive memories of pain kept him from taking the water. His throat was raw and dry, a convulsive hell useful only for producing spasms of red hot knives followed by blood, neither of which could be considered joyful.

Trust me, the insect repeated.

Franz did not.

The insect either rattled or sighed, or perhaps its rattle was a sigh. You need fluids, Herr K, it said.

Franz bristled at the informality of the address. Kafka, he said. Herr Kafka.

I apologize for the liberty, the insect said.

Forgiven, Franz said. And swallowed.

Nothing.

No fiery pain, no convulsion, no cough.

And no blood.

Which was encouraging.

And suspicious.

He swallowed again.

Nothing. A pleasure, actually.

And he was thirsty as hell.

He snatched the tumbler from the insect and drank as hed never drunk before. The water was gone in an instant. More, he said.

The insect handed him the ewer. Might as well cut out the middle man, it said.

Franz put the ewer to his lips, the pewter delicious to his formerly swollen tongue, and gulped the water down without taking a breath.

Finished, he belched.

The insect took the ewer from him. You shouldnt try to run when youve just learned to crawl, it said, but Im sure allowances can be made in your situation. It placed one of its stick-like legs on Franzs forehead, and Franz shuddered at its touch. I apologize if my touch is a bit brusque, I have a tendency to be a bit heavy-legged, it said, discarding the thermometer with another leg. You are as a cool as a cucumber, it said, assuming cucumbers are cool, that is; I havent felt one. But it seems a nice enough saying.

The mention of a cucumber sent pangs of hunger bouncing around Franzs freshly-watered but otherwise empty stomach, which gurgled like a drained sink. Franz excused himself.

Ive heard worse, the insect said, and usually coming out of myself.

Franz settled back into the pillow. Whatever was happening to him was happening too fast, and it was catching up to him. He looked at the solid white walls and ceiling, the crisp white counterpane on his bed, the dark blue piping on his cheap, store-bought yellow pajamas. The linens felt like linen, the pillow felt like pillow, the air smelled like air (with just a hint of carbolic), and the June sunlight that lazed through the window was definitely sun-like.

But was it June?

Yesterday had been June, but Franz wasnt sure today was June. He seemed to have a vague understanding that he had been cured of his disease, butif that were truecould such a thing have happened overnight?

Today is the fourth day of June, the insect said, again anticipating Franzs questions. Unless you only wanted to know what day of the week this is, in which case its Wednesday.

And the year? Franz asked.