The Siege of Reginald Hill

by Corinna Turner

  Gingerly, I tried to bring my arms forward—such pain shot down them and through my shoulders that my stomach churned again. Holding them still, I simply tried to relax them, concentrating on flexing my fingers instead.

  “Smarts a bit, does it?” said Hill evenly.

  “It doesn’t take a very highly developed knowledge of anatomy to know that arms aren’t meant to stay in that position for so long.” What was I really getting at with that remark? I could barely think, my mind paralysed between pain and fear. Except this wasn’t really pain. This was nothing. A mere twinge.

  Part of my mind gibbered—no, no, no, no—and I fought to stop it overwhelming me. But… This isn’t supposed to happen anymore! This isn’t supposed to happen to me! Not now…

  Not for over ten years. But I’d accepted it, back when I first accepted the Lord’s call. Just because I’d got used to the—apparent—fact that it would no longer be necessary didn’t change that.

  This is what you signed up for, Kyle. Maybe not the new priests, but you—this is exactly what you signed up for. So don’t whine. Just deal with it.

  Yes… Lord, I won’t refuse you now. But…but for pity’s sake, stay with me!

  I focussed on Hill again as he spoke.

  “Ah, I can see you standing there, making up your mind to be brave and true. I’ve seen it so many times. Well, I’ll let you in on a secret. The majority of you most terminally insane ordained or consecrated types always did hold firm. I imagine it’s those gruesomely graphic lessons they gave you during your, what do you call it, ‘formation’? Those weeded out any faintheart who somehow managed to get that far without fully grasping the realities of what they were doing. Only the really strong ones got as far as this. No, we never broke many.”

  “Then why did you even bother with this viciousness?”

  Hill smiled unpleasantly. “Oh, I always knew exactly how to increase the rate of apostasy, but the other members of the High Committee, in their collective dimness, believed that high numbers of gruesome deaths would best crush superstitious behaviour.”

  “Clearly they never studied Church history.”

  Hill barked another laugh. “Indeed. Martyrs don’t crush superstition, I told them a thousand times. Apostates walking around alive, claiming to believe but not prepared to truly live it—or die for it—are what cause superstition to wither and die.” He sighed regretfully. “But no, they never would listen to me.”

  “Well, if you’re looking for sympathy about that, you’ve come to the wrong store.”

  “I don’t need sympathy from anyone.” Hill’s voice was sharp. “But aren’t you going to ask me how I would have done it?”

  “Done it?”

  “Increased the rate of apostates so exponentially.”

  Uneasiness curdled my insides. “I’ve got this feeling you’re going to tell me whether I ask or not.”

  “Clever boy. So I am. Well, as you know, the traditional format of a Full Conscious Dismantlement is that the condemned gets a final chance to make the Divine Denial once they’re on the gurney. If they don’t make it, they get the paralytic, and then they can’t make it. Their last chance gone. But if they do make it, they walk out, free, all charges dropped. Highly attractive, yet less taken up than you might expect. Received wisdom was that the condemned’s dread of not being able to make the denial once they wanted to would lead many to apostatise.

  “Of course,” Hill rolled his eyes, “the reality was that at that point they still didn’t want to make it, so most didn’t. And my dear colleagues were happy with that, because they wanted to ensure high numbers of gruesome executions, and the system did that very well.

  “I, on the other hand, could see quite clearly that the way to increase apostasy to…well, I would posit about one hundred percent, in fact…would be to administer a different drug that paralysed sufficiently to allow successful dismantling, while still permitting speech, and then allow the victim to make the Divine Denial at any time during the procedure. Life—perhaps slightly maimed, but life all the same—still their prize, if they made it soon enough, or later on—the still greater inducement—a quick, clean death.”

  A lump of ice had just dropped down the back of my collar and was running slowly down my spine. Surely such a drug simply…didn’t exist?

  “I,” Hill went on smugly, “even commissioned such a drug. It took some time, but at least a decade before your sister blew everything out of the water, the serum was available. But it was not to be. At least, not until today. You, dear Kyle, get to be the test subject for my new, improved, one-hundred-percent-rate-of-apostasy system.”

  He beamed as though he’d just told me I’d won a prestigious award, but a buzzing filled my ears and a fog damped my mind, and for all I could tell, that was what he had just told me.

  “I…I don’t understand…”

  “Oh, I think you do. You’re going on that gurney for Full Conscious Dismantlement, and when you want it to stop—when, not if—then all you have to say are four simple little words. There. Is. No. God. And the pain will be gone. I’m only offering you the second prize for saying them, I’m afraid, but I have my reasons—not least my little cinematic debut to think about.” He gestured to the camera, now mounted on a tripod nearby, recording everything for poor Margo.

  The ice reached my stomach, freezing everything up to my Adam’s apple. My arms and legs and neck grew long, so long, I teetered a million miles above my body…and my distant legs were spongy, insubstantial…

  My knees struck the hard floor, my palms smacking down in front of me. I pressed my spinning head to the cold concrete and tried to breathe. Was I about to faint? Lord I…I don’t want to faint…please… I’d wake up on that gurney…

  From the rushing sensation in my head and my sharpening wits, blood was returning to where it needed to be. After a few more moments, I dragged myself up into a kneeling position, clasped my hands and responded to the situation in the only possible way. I prayed.

  Lord, I entrust myself entirely to you. Please save me…or keep me firm. Somehow, enable me to stay true to you… Please, I beg you…

  But was it even possible? Possible to hold out throughout an entire… What would happen if I broke? If I gasped those words, rejecting my Lord and God?

  Oh, I’d surely regret them with my next breath, repent, an Act of Perfect Contrition would fill my mind…but I wouldn’t get a next breath, would I? Hill would be waiting. Hill would see me dead or unconscious the very instant the last word left my lips. He’d make quite sure Margo could see that I’d had no time to say Sorry, Lord, I didn’t mean it, forgive me. This was his revenge: he wasn’t content to merely kill her brother, he wanted to damn her brother. Evil, evil man.

  Whether I would actually be damned… Well, God was very forgiving. If I had really, truly tried my best…maybe not. But the very possibility would be unimaginable torment for Margo and my family. And the thought of leaving this life with the last words on my lips words of apostasy rather than words of praise… Unbearable.

  There was only one thing I could do. One thing to spare Margo and save myself. Hold firm. Somehow.

  I pressed my forehead to my clenched hands and prayed harder. Lord, Lord, please be with me. Keep your weak servant faithful. Keep me close to you. Help me, Lord…

  “Have we finally rattled the bold Father Kyle Verrall?” Hill’s mocking voice penetrated my mind. “Not afraid, are we?”

  I dragged my eyes open and focussed on him once more. “I’m flesh and blood, with nerve endings, just like you. Of course, I’m afraid.”

  “Really? But won’t your God save you?”

  “Yes.” I looked at the camera, not at Hill. Hear me, Margo. “He will. No matter what.”

  Hill sighed. “Still so brave. Well, we had better get started. I hear your dear sister actually forgave Lucas Everington, after he tortured her. Apparently, I exceeded her capacity. Yours too, I imagine.”

  “If you’ve read her blog over the ye
ars—which you have,” I pointed out tiredly, “then you know perfectly well the only reason she didn’t is because you lot left the room too suddenly. She’s said she forgives you often enough since.”

  Hill snorted. “Like I care.”

  That thread of bitterness. Like he cared about nothing. Nothing truly worth caring about.

  An odd surge filled my heart as I looked at him, sitting there in that chair: so old; so evil; so broken; so…alone. A warmth. A caring. A…love. I loved him. Just another poor sinner who needed my care.

  I pushed up off the concrete and got to my feet. My legs still felt like sponge cake, but somehow I stood straight. I headed for Hill, not wobbling too much, and Croft raised the nonLee a fraction. But I just took Hill’s hand between the two ice blocks that were my own and pressed it tightly.

  “Whether you care or not,” I told him, “I do forgive you. And I’m very sorry that you’re sick—I’d surmise very—and I pray with all my heart that the Lord will heal you—and heal that poor soul of yours too.”

  Hill’s eyes, as I looked into them, were a surprisingly pleasant shade of blue. Yes, nothing God made was inherently evil.

  He stared back, motionless, for several long moments, then finally yanked his wrinkled old hand from mine. “You think I need your imaginary friend to heal me?” he sneered, more genuine emotion in his voice than I’d ever heard. “Science is all I need. And that…” He poked my chest hard with one bony finger.

  Poked it right over… “You want my…liver?” I hazarded. Is that what he meant by ‘having his reasons’?

  “And I’ll have your heart while I’m at it; my old ticker isn’t too good these days. But absolutely no need for any superstitious nonsense, you see,” he said nastily. “A simple transplant will do. Except you and I, you know, are a rather rare tissue type.

  “Oh,” he shook his head dismissively, “nowhere near as rare as the precious Jonathan Revan. But rare enough that this whole ‘voluntary donation only’ business doesn’t work well for us. Easy enough in the good old days. A few extra Borderlines of our tissue type would simply fail, who might otherwise have passed. Shortage dealt with. But not now. Not after what your sister did.” His tone had become truly vicious. This whole subject seemed to have rattled him.

  So…Hill had seen what must have appeared the most glorious opportunity to steal what he needed while simultaneously wreaking the most horrible vengeance imaginable on my sister. Well, he’d always been cunning. And economical.

  “We’re going to need you to get on that gurney now, Kyle.” Hill’s voice was smooth again, faux-pleasant, that glimpse of genuine emotion locked away once more.

  No more stalling. Apparently, celibate or not, I had a date with Lady Destiny. I swallowed hard. Hill’s eyes watched, watched every betraying movement of my body, savouring my fear. What must it be like to be him? I couldn’t really imagine it. To believe the things he believed—or to pretend, even to himself, that he did? To have done the things he’d done? How could he repent? Accept that much guilt? What would it take?

  And just what could I do for him, now?

  Oh. A familiar verse slipped into my head. I rejoice that I can suffer on your behalf, and in my own flesh I supplement the afflictions endured by Christ, for the sake of his body, the church.

  Of course.

  Lord… Lord, I offer all the small sufferings of this last night, and all the great ones still to come, for him. For his conversion. For his salvation. I offer every second of this terrible death. For him. Let me take my chances with Your mercy; I trust in You. I offer this all for him.

  So… Oddly, I actually felt calmer now. Giving this horror a good purpose, beyond simply not giving in, had steadied me. From this moment on, every pain I suffered helped someone who needed it, needed it desperately.

  Lord, stay with me.

  I walked to the gurney. Forced myself to sit on the cold edge. The gleaming metal dazzled me. Is this what surrender is, Lord?

  Would it be enough? Could one death, however horrific, really be enough to help Hill? Or would it still be for nothing? Nothing but Hill’s revenge…

  Well, one single death had already saved Hill’s soul outright, if he would only accept it. One Infinitely Perfect, Utterly Innocent Life laid down for him. I couldn’t match that. I could only offer my small, insignificant, sinful life in the hope that it might help Hill to accept that Ultimate Sacrifice…

  “What peculiar thoughts are going through your peculiar mind, Kyle Verrall?” Hill’s bemusement, when I looked at him, seemed genuine.

  No doubt he hadn’t actually expected me to walk to the gurney by myself. “Quite honestly, I don’t think you’d want to know.” Struggling inside myself for willingness, willingness to make this sacrifice with a generous heart, not merely grudgingly, I lifted my legs up onto the gurney and lay down. Closed my eyes.

  Lord, be with me.

  Lord, will it be enough? If it is not, if despite all, he continues to lock you out, what will become of him?

  A strange feeling of dread swept over me that had nothing to do with my predicament. An utter aloneness. A sundering. A loss so searing and absolute that the full pain of it would have obliterated my physical mind…but some merciful hand shielded me and it only brushed past. Even so, a couple of tears sprung from my eyes and trickled away.

  “Dear me, not getting weepy already, are we, Kyle? We haven’t even got your skin off yet.”

  I started and opened my eyes. Hill’s chair now sat right beside the gurney, his face close to mine.

  “I’m not crying for me, I’m crying for you, you fool!” The words flew out before I could edit or soften them.

  Hill stared at me. And stared at me. And stared. It took my fuddled mind ages to realise that he was trying to figure out whether, contrary to the evidence of his eyes, I was having him on. I closed my eyes again and prayed for him. That glimpse of his soul’s future had only stoked my determination. While I still had life and breath, I would do everything for this poor sinner that my Lord had granted me the grace to love. Everything.

  Hands touched my limbs, adjusting their position, fastening the restraints around them. My heart sped up even more, pounding away so fiercely it hurt.

  For all my resolve to turn this to good, I’d never been so scared in my life. Actually, it was clear I never had been scared in my life, not really.

  Not on that Salperton Road as I faked my death. Not as Joe and I sat in that lorry, watching red and blue lights approaching. Not when I stepped foot on EuroBloc soil with a dog collar around my neck the very first time for the Liberations. Not as held my sister’s hand and waited for the EuroArmy to burst into the Citadel.

  Nor on that day during the drought when I’d been limping morosely along after crashing my bicycle on route to the neighbouring village—twisting my ankle and busting my tyre—and I suddenly heard chuckles and cackles circling me in the surrounding grass and realised a pack of hyenas were sizing me up for their dinner.

  No, I’d never been scared before. Just slightly nervous.

  Now I was scared.

  Hands were cutting my clothes away; inserting tubes and needles into various parts of me to keep me alive and sanitary throughout the ‘procedure’. I knew all the details from seminary, but I tried to turn my mind to the Lord instead. Knowing what they were doing right now wasn’t important. Distracting myself from the fact that the Menace, alas, still stood there, almost certainly ogling me, was. Stupid thing to worry about, in the circumstances, but my cheeks grew hotter and hotter as I lay so helplessly exposed.

  When they cut my Angelic Warfare Confraternity cord from around my waist and whipped it away, I felt three times as naked. I hadn’t taken that off since the last one fell to pieces. Come to think, a new day had dawned, hadn’t it? Reciting the daily confraternity prayers for chastity helped keep my mind off things for a few minutes.

  “Well, I think they’re nearly ready, Kyle.” Hill’s voice. “Are you going to smile for the cam
era? Say a few brave words for your sister? I promise not to cut them out. You’ll give the lie to them soon enough, after all.”

  What could I say to Margo? To my poor, poor sister who’d already suffered such heartbreak recently? I wasn’t going to say, this isn’t your fault, because that ought to be so beggaringly obvious I didn’t even want to dignify it with words. Perhaps I should just say nothing. Refuse to play along with Hill’s sick games.

  No. He might well leave it in. I drew a few steadying breaths, fighting for calm. Opened my eyes. Looked at the camera.

  “Margo, I love you,” I said softly. “Mum, Dad, I love you. Bane, Luc, Polly, Javi, Lizzie, Joey, I love you. Everyone else, I love you too. I even love Mr Hill, here, and Major Wallis and Jonas and Croft and these other people whose names I don’t know. I forgive them for what they are about to do and so must you. And I forbid any of you to worry about me, not one iota. My life and soul belong to the Lord—He alone will decide my fate and there is nothing Mr Hill can do to thwart Him.” The mere thought brought a slight snort of laughter from me.

  Then I focussed on the camera again, sobering. “Well… goodbye, then. I’ll see you all again—in the Lord’s time. I love you…” I closed my eyes, turned my head away. I was done. A few moments could never be enough for all I wanted to say, so I wouldn’t babble. I wouldn’t speak to the camera again, either. I’d wanted to, this time, but I wouldn’t play along with Hill any further.

  All the same…my words had stirred another deep, deep thankfulness in my heart. That Hill had me. Not Bane—again. Not Mum or Dad. Not—and I could barely even bring myself to think of it—one of the children. Thank you, Lord. This was better. It would be horrible for Margo, for them all, no mistake, but…better than that.

  “Well, I think it’s time to get started.” Hill’s voice remained calm, oozing confidence that I’d eat every word before the end.

  Lord, please prove him wrong. Please…

  I couldn’t help peeping from below my lashes as hands touched my arm again. The Dismantler was attaching a tube to a cannula needle they’d already inserted and taped in place. Lifting the camera from the tripod, Jonas quartered the room, taking would-be artistic close-ups of the trays of instruments and other equipment.