The Siege of Reginald Hill

by Corinna Turner

  How do I get through to you, Mr Hill? How do I pry open that little chink in your armour—armour un-breached all the long years of your life—and allow the Holy Spirit to slip in?

  No one else had ever managed it, evidently. Was it pure arrogance to think I could? No. Just pure necessity. I was here, I was the only one here who cared and Hill was running out of time. I might be Hill’s last chance and that was simple truth.

  Problem was, I knew an awful lot about Reginald Hill, but I really didn’t know the man at all. So that was probably the first thing to change.

  “Would you like your family to visit you, Mr Hill?” I asked him, shifting my head on the pillows so I could see him better. I used English, since it was my (earthly) native tongue as well—though more as a courtesy than anything. Hill might rarely have cause to speak Latin, but he understood it fluently. “I’m sure that could be arranged. Your wife is still alive, I believe? And you have three children?”

  For men as powerful as Hill, a third child was the ultimate status symbol. Look how rich I am, I can afford the Third Child Permittance.

  Hill snorted perfectly audibly this time and looked at me in exasperation. “You think my family are going to visit me? They can’t wait for me to fall off my perch. But I make it my business to disappoint them. Don’t be fooled by my wheelchair.”

  He nodded to where it had been parked out of the way in the window bay—well out of his reach. “I just don’t have the energy to get around under my own steam, what with my heart and everything. But a little recuperation and I’ll be up and about again, and they’ll just have to go on waiting. I bet they wrote the eulogy years ago. Too bad.” He snorted again, very derisively.

  The fact that he still had time eased a tight ball of anxiety inside me, but…what he said about his family, was it true? All priests had heard those dark thoughts reported in confession—in situations where family relationships had gone very wrong indeed or financial troubles were becoming overwhelming—but those were just unbidden thoughts that flitted through people’s minds, causing them to recoil in horror—and take it to confession. I’d only met a handful of people who hated a parent enough to truly wish their death and some great horror had been behind the sentiment in every case.

  But then…how many people had a parent like Reginald Hill? Yet his children were no paragons of virtue. They’d shown little interest in politics, but their lifestyles were toxic and selfish. From what I’d read in the press—who knew if it was true?

  “What about your grandchildren? You have several, don’t you?”

  “You’re behind the times, Kyle. Like my children in their day, my grandchildren made great props in photographs—a role my great-grandchildren now fill—but were otherwise of little interest to me.”

  “Do you not…love them? At all?”

  Another snort. “I felt some wisp of emotion when my children were born, I suppose. But they wore it out years ago. I mean, first they drool and throw up, but that at least is the nanny’s problem. Then they start talking and they whine and follow you around asking stupid questions. Then they get sullen and rebellious. Then they go out with unsuitable partners and misbehave and get incriminating photos plastered over the media. Then they start popping out more drooling specimens of humanity.”

  Hill glanced at the window as a large African songbird flitted past. “No, I do not love them anymore, whatever that word really means. So long as they behave themselves sufficiently and smile in photographs at important occasions—and above all, pose no threat to me—then I will favour my family above other human beings and see to their comfort and advancement, since I wish the continuation of my own genes—for what that’s worth. I have long since concluded that there really is no other purpose behind registering and breeding, whatever all that foolish talk of love.”

  A cold, quiet horror gripped me at his loveless words. If he was unable to love even his own family, his situation was even graver than I’d realised.

  My legs and stomach were aching much more fiercely. Okay, I was feeling the drop in morphine, this time. No matter. I must concentrate on Hill. “No threat to you? Is that why none of them followed your footsteps into politics? Did you actually discourage them?”

  “Of course.” Hill’s flat stare suggested that I asked childishly stupid questions. “They carry my genes, and naturally I chose a registered partner with top genes as well—including intelligence. It would be highly imprudent to allow them to compete with me. How many kings throughout history have been toppled by their own sons?”

  “Or daughters,” I murmured, since Hill had two.

  “Historically, usually sons. Granted, my daughters are the more likely threat in my case. My son is an imbecile. Or acts like one. But then, perhaps he just likes being alive.”

  I frowned. “I don’t see the connection.”

  Hill stared at me. “Are you serious?”

  I stared back, equally puzzled. “Yes.”

  Hill’s brow crinkled. “I’ve seen your IQ scores, so it can’t be stupidity,” he muttered at last.

  “What can’t?”

  “Anyone”—Hill’s voice grew very harsh—“anyone who threatens me—or disobeys me—I eliminate. Do I need to make the connection any plainer?”

  Cold goose bumps broke out up my arms. “You would kill your own child?”

  “If necessary, yes.”

  “Could you truly do such a thing? Do you feel nothing for them?”

  “They are my children, Kyle. Mine. I had to dispose of two previously—one before birth, a contraception failure—the other just after, for imperfection. If I had to dispose of another now, tell me: exactly what is the difference?”

  I closed my eyes and huddled close to the Lord, so distressed that nausea actually built in my stomach. What was wrong with me? His words seemed to sear my soul…yet I’d heard similar crimes confessed before. But…never from someone I truly loved…

  Lord… Lord…please reach him. Please break in. Please…

  When I thought I could open my eyes and move again without retching, I reached out an aching hand and knocked another five bars off the morphine.

  Hill’s needs far exceeded mine.

  MARGO

  Wrapping my hands around the fat earthenware mug, I breathed in the nice coffee steam, trying to settle my surging emotions. The bright geometric pattern painted on the mug was cheerful but hardly matched how I felt. If only Bane was here. Or that Georg could sit down and chat for a few minutes. No chance of that. He never let his guard down when on duty. One reason Eduardo sent him, no doubt. That and his undimmed eagerness to throw himself between me and any deadly threat.

  But Unicorn was busy with security and my other bodyguard—currently off-duty—was a younger woman not in my circle of close friends, so I would have to sit here and stew by myself.

  How could Kyle just lie there looking at me with his placid green eyes and insist I forgive Hill instantly, completely, like it was the easiest thing in the world? I knew what Hill had done to him.

  And it wasn’t just the physical suffering. Hill had been out to damn Kyle, not just kill him. The emotional-spiritual-psychological anguish Kyle must’ve gone through! The terror he must’ve felt, at the thought of falling. Hard to even imagine how deeply my devoted brother must have suffered.

  Yet… I frowned at the wall, which I’d automatically sat facing so I could at least pretend no one was staring at me. Yet the accomplices had also sworn blind that the whole torture-murder had, by the time of Bane’s arrival, descended into pure farce, with Kyle singing, laughing, humming and assuring them how much God—and he—loved them. No wonder the hospital staff hovered over Kyle as breathless as though caring for the incorrupt body of a saint.

  Or for a living saint.

  I rubbed my wrinkled brow. Was my big brother now…a saint? Bane had said Kyle seemed in a pretty strange state of mind when he’d arrived. Calm and joyful, those were the words he’d used. Vibrating on a higher plane—you know I
always make that joke. Well, it’s no joke now. Just overflowing with love.

  Was Kyle still overflowing with love to such a degree that even Reginald Hill got the benefit of it?

  - Can you love Hill right now?

  - Yes.

  Well, I can’t, Kyle. I know I should forgive immediately, and I suppose I do want to. So the intent to forgive is there. But I can’t love him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I just can’t.

  The very thought of what he’d done…it made me cold all over. Oh, Hill didn’t believe in actual damnation, but he knew Kyle did. It wasn’t the action of a bad man or a nasty man, it was pure evil. How could I love pure evil? How could Kyle? Like loving the devil.

  But…did God love the devil? Strange thought. He must do. God loved everyone and everything. Kyle was only doing as He did.

  To truly forgive, one had to love. Had I ever forgiven Hill, really? Had I patted myself on the back for forgiving Lucas so fully, felt that I’d got this forgiveness thing sorted, and simply mouthed the words about Hill? Maybe one never had forgiveness sorted; maybe each time was just as hard and gruelling as the first time. But I hadn’t worked at it. Not with Hill.

  So how had Kyle, once almost torn apart by his inability to forgive, managed it so effortlessly? A shiver of awe ran down my spine.

  Exactly what had happened to my brother on that gurney?

  KYLE

  “Kyle? Are you awake?”

  I opened sleepy eyes. Margo and a vaguely familiar-looking Sister sat beside the bed. Doctor Fathiya, read her name tag, her white teeth matching her white habit and contrasting with her dark skin as she smiled at me. Probably in her early sixties, her air of calm competence might have reminded me of Croft—but for the kindness in her eyes.

  I smiled back, then directed a look around the room. The sun struck effortlessly through the thick red curtains—now closed for shade—casting a half-circle of intense brightness that extended from the window bay, but reached neither bed. Even with the drapes, it threw the rest of the room into shadow, relieved by the electric lights. I’d been asleep for several hours. Hill still lay opposite, sleeping or ignoring everyone. Someone had turned the morphine back up. Bother.

  Wait until they’d gone? But I couldn’t shake a feeling of…of urgency. I had to get it down at least a bit. I raised a hand and lowered it five notches.

  “Father Kyle, please don’t touch that…” Doctor Fathiya reached towards it.

  I fended her awkwardly away with my three-fingered hand. “Please, Doctor, it really is set too high, I assure you.”

  She studied me thoughtfully, but, thank God, withdrew her hand. “Perhaps you have a very high sensitivity. But if you are in pain you must raise it again. Or click this and it will deliver a top-up dose if it is safe.”

  I smiled meekly, and she seemed satisfied.

  “Now, Father Kyle, how do you feel? Your sister tells me you were awake earlier and very with it.”

  I shrugged. “I couldn’t honestly say I’m at my sharpest, but I feel fine. Things ache a little, nothing more. Thank you for putting me back together.”

  She waved my thanks away. “You’ve our head surgeon to thank for the knee operation. We’ve fitted a good knee brace around your joint, which should allow your torso the sort of movement needed to prevent bed sores, but it’s still very important that you don’t move the leg around at all. The skin was straightforward. The hands…”

  She drew rather a deep breath, her fingers checking the fastening of the upside down lapel watch she wore pinned to her habit in an automatic gesture. Clearly she was here to talk about my hands. “Well, we did what we could for them, closing up the wounds as neatly as possible. But I expect you’re wondering why we weren’t able to replace the missing digits?”

  I blinked. “Actually…I just…assumed they were gone and that was that.”

  Doctor Fathiya winced. “Well…unfortunately that does seem to be the case. I believe you’ve been on this continent long enough to know that the window for preserving transplant-compatibility in nerves is considerably shorter than in the cold climate of Europe?”

  I saw Margo’s lip quirk involuntarily at that—she found the summer heat of Rome oppressive, especially when pregnant—but I nodded.

  The doctor hardly needed to expand, but she did anyway. “Well, when you reached the hospital, the nerve damage was already extremely severe.”

  “They brought you absolutely as fast as they could,” Margo put in. “Eduardo did look for a helicopter, but they’re just too expensive and rare. By the time the closest one had reached you, stopping to refuel en route, Bane could have driven you to the hospital twice over! So they simply put their foot down. But…it wasn’t quite enough.”

  Doctor Fathiya nodded. “When you arrived, an immediate attempt might actually have been possible, if the donor material had been to hand and the patient fit to undergo immediate surgery. Alas, neither was the case. Once it was safe to operate on you, even with our efforts to retard the decay, the nerves had gone completely past viability. I’m so very, very sorry, Father Kyle.”

  “Why are you apologising?” I tried to keep the exasperation from my voice. “You did everything you could, I’m certain.”

  “Yes… I’m just…sure you must be so very disappointed.”

  “Oh, I’m content to keep the hand I was dealt.”

  Margo winced, clearly too emotional to cope with such humour, but the doctor’s lip twitched. Hill, just sipping from a glass of water, choked and began to cough and laugh alternately.

  “Are you alright, Mr Hill?” I asked, when the choking threatened to outweigh the laughing.

  Lips thin with disapproval, Doctor Fathiya whisked over to his bed, sat him up and had him merely laughing again in no time.

  “You are quite insane; you know that, Kyle Verrall?” For all his chuckles, Hill’s eyes were narrowed; malicious.

  There wasn’t much I could say to that, so I simply shrugged. Sleep dragged at my eyelids, for all I’d not been awake long. Doctor Fathiya noticed, and brisk fingers checked my readings and tucked me firmly in. Obediently, I closed my eyes…

  Beeping. Aches and pains. Rather more pronounced. Had they left the morphine alone? Good. Even if it didn’t feel good.

  From the waist down, I was one big ache. My chest twinged. My hands throbbed. I’d only knocked five bars off, though.

  I opened my eyes. The sunlight caressed Hill’s bed now, soft and golden-red, but still glinting off the tubular metal frame. Evening. No Margo. Dinner time, no doubt. No nurses in sight either. Just guards in the doorway, and Hill. I quickly lowered the machine five more bars. How often did they check it? Ah well. I was doing what I could.

  Hill gazed grimly out the window—the heavy red curtains had been drawn aside again. They framed the crucifix hanging above the window bay very nicely, in fact.

  I opened my mouth…then shut it again.

  Oops. I’d almost asked if he’d learned whether he had any chance of getting a transplant here—but I knew the answer to that. Children and mothers were top of the transplant list, older individuals last and strictly in order of health—and thus likely transplant success. Hill had a weak heart, making him a poor candidate of his age for transplant—even leaving aside the minor issue of him being a mass murderer/torturer/minion of the devil. No, Hill would’ve had little chance of qualifying for an organ even if he’d had the good fortune to be of a tissue type common in Africa. To even mention the subject would be cruel.

  “I hope you are being looked after, Mr Hill.”

  He turned a disapproving look on me. “I can’t say that I’ve ever been all that enamoured of African cuisine.” But after a moment, he shrugged. “All things considered, I can’t complain.”

  “I should think not,” I couldn’t help muttering.

  He just smirked—rather wearily.

  “I can’t help wondering, Mr Hill, why you’re so happy to remain here.”

  “Did I say I was happy?”

/>   “Well, you’re not asking to be released.”

  “I’ve always had an aversion to wasting my breath.”

  “Then don’t you think you’d better let them treat you?”

  “I don’t need anything other than a bed and some R and R. I dare say everything will resolve itself soon enough.”

  Resolve itself… Belatedly, the cent dropped. Or a cent. Of course Hill didn’t want to be released. What had Margo said, that the EuroGov would only want him back so they could stage a nice, showy, face-saving execution? Hill must be downright desperate not to be released! Just playing it cool.

  “You can relax, Mr Hill. The Underground has a long-standing policy of not releasing prisoners back to blocs that may use capital punishment on them. As you should be perfectly well aware.”

  Hill’s lip curled. “I will admit to a certain curiosity as to whether you sanctimonious prigs decide to make an exception in my case.”

  “I’m quite certain that no exception will be on the table. If it were, I would oppose it.” As the injured party, my plea would carry considerable weight, not that the issue would arise. But to reassure Hill further, I added, “And—of even more weight in any such discussion—so would my sister.”

  Hill’s eyebrow rose. “Would she?”

  “Yes,” I said very firmly. “Without question.”

  “Your faith in her is touching. And from the looks she’s been directing my way, possibly misplaced.”

  Had Margo been glowering at him? My heart sank. But how could I possibly raise the subject with her again after being so big-footed before? “Doing the right thing has more to do with will than emotions. Or it should do.”

  Hill gave a faint snort. “Strange to say, I would agree with that. Emotion should not enter into any important decision-making process. Only reason.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “though one can take that to extremes, you know. You do.”