Hokey Pokey by Kate Mascarenhas

Author:Kate Mascarenhas [Mascarenhas, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781789543841
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing

PART THREE

THE REGENT HOTEL,

BIRMINGHAM, 1929

1

Carlo Merlini woke in the darkness of his suite. It was glade-like in his bedroom, because of the green suede which covered the walls, and he thought he might have been dreaming of wolves. Cancelled performances often made him sleep fitfully, as though, having anticipated hard work, his body refused to adapt to the new circumstances. But he suspected – this time – something else had startled him into wakefulness. A noise? He could hear nothing now; the bedroom was too far from the corridor for him to be troubled by the other guests, and the rain on the window panes was soft.

“Tuono?” he muttered to himself. If there had been thunder, it had ceased. No, it wasn’t thunder that would put him on edge like this. He couldn’t shake the feeling someone else had been in the room. The bedroom door was open, and the darkness in the gap was pitch. Merlini sat up in bed, with the cautiousness of someone who has read too many cheap ghost stories, trying not to catch the attention of shadows. Berenice had a key, of course, though he was not expecting her.

He cleared his throat. “Vroni?”

The name was loud in the quiet of the suite. No response came. Normally Berenice’s perfume preceded her. There was a scent in the room, but it wasn’t her. Merlini sniffed: what was that? Decaying leaves? The thaw had made the hotel damp, perhaps. If only he had one of Berenice’s stray kreteks to hand. Burnt cloves would have sweetened the atmosphere.

Merlini’s wristwatch lay on the carpet next to the bed. He squinted at the faintly reflective figures: two in the morning. The bars and the kitchens would be long closed. A pity. He had no appetite for food as such, but light and conversation would have been welcome. They were the remedy for a tingle in the skin, and an over-fast pulse caused by ghostly visitations. He might prevail upon Berenice for the night instead, except she was displeased with him again. Iva Pacetti had been on the wireless and he made the mistake of praising her singing. Berenice threw a vase at his head. It wasn’t enough for her to excel in her own right. It wasn’t enough for her to be the best. He mustn’t notice any measure of talent in another soprano to avoid offense. But Merlini accepted Berenice’s caprice. This was their way; an explosion of temper, a retreat, until one of them flattered the other enough to reconcile. From past experience he knew he should leave her longer to cool. For now he had no alternative to his own company. He would start by drinking a glass of water, and maybe some knock-out drops to send him back to sleep.

The chloral hydrate was in the bathroom. He walked there now, switched on the electric light – a fat white pearl too bright to gaze on directly – and faced his reflection above the basin. He yawned. Grabbed the tooth mug.

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