The Siege of Reginald Hill

by Corinna Turner

  “I didn’t hear that!” Hill spat the words, turning to stare at the window.

  He really didn’t want me thanking him, did he? Too late.

  Kyle’s eyes were still closed. I glanced at the clock and headed briskly for my room.

  Our parents would be up. I could give them an update.

  KYLE

  By the time I opened my eyes, Margo had left. She must’ve thought me asleep. I’d woken when she first spoke but felt it tactful to keep a low profile.

  I looked across at Uncle Reginald. I needed to thank him too. Even though I felt little joy, personally, at finding myself recovering, thankfulness filled me on Margo’s account. On all my family’s account. It made me especially happy that Uncle Reginald had allowed himself to perform a good action.

  “Uncle Reginald?”

  He shot a glance my way and spoke—grumpily. “I thought you were awake.”

  “Will you accept a thank you from me?”

  “If you must.”

  “Thank you, then.”

  He shrugged.

  “Why, though? Why did you do it?”

  “You heard what I just told Margaret.”

  “Yes. And I don’t believe it. Well, I believe the first part. But you were in a wheelchair when we met. You haven’t got out of that bed since you arrived. You barely eat, picking at your food. You sleep…well, less than I’ve been sleeping, but a lot. You expect me to believe that you don’t need that transplant and maybe need it more badly than you’ve been letting on? So why?”

  Uncle Reginald stared out of the window, chewing his lips. Finally, he let out a long breath and began to speak. “A couple of years ago, my doctor told me I now needed a liver transplant. A somewhat less surprising diagnosis after the passing of those extra two decades, though probably also due to that nasty toxin they made me work with...

  “But with Sorting no more, this was—at my age—a far more serious matter. My heart had been a bit temperamental for a while—but not bad enough to be worth the risk of a transplant, either above-board or black market. But it was bad enough to make me ineligible for a legitimate liver—and it was getting worse.

  “Well, you know the public mood about black market organs, nowadays. But, my doctor gave the opinion that I had time—time to start a campaign.”

  “You really thought you could…?”

  “Ah, no, I wasn’t delusional. I had no expectation of bringing back Sorting. But I thought I might shift public opinion just enough—even for a short time—that an appropriately discreet black-market transplant—or even two—wouldn’t end my political career.

  “But as a result of my campaign—or rather, your sister’s counter-campaign—public opinion did shift, as I’m sure you recall. The wrong way. Retirement—and the black market—became my only option.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “Because my doctor had made a miscalculation. A transplant was no longer a viable treatment and, like that cascade you are so lucky to have avoided, other health problems were…snowballing.

  “So yes, crazy boy. I needed your organs. Two years ago. But they’re no good to me now.” He still stared out of the window, avoiding my eyes. “Well, I can’t hide it for much longer. I’d say I now have…a couple of days to live.” A grimace crossed his face. “Less…maybe.

  “So,” he looked at me at last, his face pale, “tell me exactly what good Margaret’s tears—or my six hundred thousand eurons, for that matter—will do me now? Tell me that? Why should I not keep your heart beating, if that takes my fancy more?”

  I looked back at him, my mind buzzing with dismay. A couple of days? No, he clearly believed he had even less time than that and modern diagnoses, especially with some conditions, were very accurate. Oh, no, no, no. If I’d died…others could have kept trying to get through to him. But once he died… Game over.

  Oh Lord, help me! Help him.

  Uncle Reginald managed a strained, ironic smile. “Father Kyle Verrall, lost for words? Well, this is a first. If I’d known telling the truth would silence you, I’d have done it a day or two back and saved myself some inane chatter.”

  “I’m just…I’m really sorry. I had no idea things were that bad. Why on earth haven’t you accepted treatment from the doctors here?”

  “Because I’ve exhausted all treatment options already, and I prefer not to have my condition public knowledge.”

  “This is bad. This is very, very bad…” I tried to get my thoughts together, to plan.

  “It’s good for you, crazy boy. It just saved your life.”

  “I know, but…so little time for…for you to realise. About God.”

  Uncle Reginald snorted. “Oh, here we go again. See how fast you can make me regret saving you, why don’t you?”

  “It’s important, Uncle Reginald.” I spoke very, very intently. “It is the most important decision you will make in your entire life. The very most important. And so far, you have consistently chosen wrong and you clearly have no idea how awful the consequences of that are going to be in just a few short days—”

  “Listen to me, Kyle Verrall!” Uncle Reginald’s tone grew equally intense. “I don’t expect to see anything after my heart stops beating. I don’t expect to sense anything or experience anything. I will be gone as though I’d never been. But I assure you, if, contrary to my expectations, I see God, I will believe in His existence. When I see Him. Understand?”

  I shook my head, opening my mouth, but Margo walked back into the room before I could speak. Nothing about Margo’s and Uncle Reginald’s earlier exchange suggested three-way conversations had suddenly become a good idea, so I bit my tongue.

  Lord, please keep Uncle Reginald alive as long as possible?

  “I told Mum and Dad how much better you are.” Beaming, Margo sat in the chair beside my bed. “They’re so relieved. Oh, you won’t know—they called last night…”

  The happy warmth in her voice as she recounted our parents’ joy made me glad to be alive. Though tiredness tugged at me again. Not that utter, life-sapping tiredness of before, just a deep, healthier tiredness, like after over-doing it an awful lot on the football pitch.

  Okay, I wasn’t thinking about football. Nope.

  I tried to listen to Margo instead, but her cheerful voice soon faded to background noise…

  Chattering, giggling, shuffling…

  “Shhhh… Uncle Kyle’s sleeping. You can see him, but you’ve got to be quiet.”

  A high-pitched squeal. “There he is!”

  “Polly! Shhh!”

  A younger voice piped up, “Where’s Uncle Kyle, Mummy?”

  “In the bed there. Shhh.”

  “Oh, good grief.” The cold—horrified—mutter came from across the room. “It’s an infestation.”

  “Hang on, hang on,” Margo was saying. “Before we go in, you need to listen to me for a moment. Are you all listening? You see that other bed and that old man in it?”

  “Yes, Mummy.” A deafening chorus.

  “Well, picture a line down the middle of the room from the window to the door. Can you picture it?”

  “Yes, Mummy.”

  “You are all to stay on Uncle Kyle’s side of that line, is that clear? Because that old man is very evil and he wants to hurt you. You are not to speak to him. If he offers you something, he is lying. He doesn’t have sweets or chocolate or…or ponies, or whatever he says. It’s all lies. You stay on Uncle Kyle’s side of the line. Is that absolutely clear?”

  “Yes, Mummy.”

  “Alright, we can go in and see Uncle Kyle. But you must be quiet because he’s asleep.”

  “You were just talking really loud about the old man, Mummy…”

  “Shhhh!”

  Smiling, I opened my eyes. Like Margo or Bane would allow any of the children to be in this room unsupervised!

  Still, sensible warnings. The fact that Uncle Reginald no longer wanted me dead hadn’t changed his feelings about Margo one iota. Nor Bane, no doubt.
And much as I’d like to believe he wouldn’t hurt children, I wasn’t that naive. Okay, so even from the earliest days of his political career he’d always paid others to do his dirty work for him. But one didn’t need to be a martial arts expert to harm an unsuspecting child.

  “It’s alright,” I said, as they approached with, well, a suggestion of quietness. “I’m awake.”

  “See, you woke him up, Mummy.” But Polly hung back beside her mother, staring at my half-hands.

  “You woke him up, shrieking like that!” Luc was also looking, his eyes wide and his face tight. He’d understand better than any of them what my loss meant to me.

  Javi came right up to the bed and peered solemnly at my poor hands. “Do they hurt, Uncle Kyle?”

  “Not much. No need to worry about them.”

  Lizzie climbed up onto the chair beside the bed and took hold of my closest half-hand in her tiny ones, examining it with four-year-old straight-forwardness.

  “Lizzie! You’ll hurt him,” protested Margo, but I waved her back with my other hand. Much better the children touch my strange hands and not be afraid of them.

  Finally, Lizzie looked up at me, her eyes very big. “Are they really gone, Uncle Kyle?”

  “Ummm, I’m afraid so.”

  “But if we all kiss them better, won’t they grow back?”

  “Um…” A lump formed in my throat at this innocent offer. “Well, they won’t actually grow back, but I’m sure it would make them feel much better.”

  Very seriously, Lizzie placed a kiss on both my bandaged hands. Javi reached out and did the same, unprompted.

  “Come on, Polly!” Lizzie urged. “You’ve got to kiss Uncle Kyle better!”

  “I don’t want to!”

  “She doesn’t have to, Lizzie,” I said quickly. “It’s fine. You and Javi have done them a lot of good.”

  Lizzie jumped down off the chair and stuck her hands on her little hips. “But Polly could do them MORE good!”

  “I don’t want to!” yelled Polly.

  “You don’t have to…” But my voice went unheard as Polly, Javi, and Lizzie all talked over one another. Sighing, I finally had time to look for Bane. He stood behind Margo, Joey in his arms, looking tired. But a broad smile lightened his face when I met his eyes, which I returned.

  Luc, still incredibly sombre, ignored the argument and approached the bed at last. He took my hands, one by one, and placed a kiss on them. Not on the injured edge, but on what remained of my anointed palms.

  He looked at me, tears swimming in his eyes. “Can you…can you still…?” He stopped, biting his lip.

  “Can I say Mass?” Somehow, I kept my voice steady. “No. I’d drop Him, wouldn’t I? Plenty I can do, though.” I managed to speak cheerfully. “I heard a confession just the other day, you know. Plenty of work for me still; don’t fret. And…” A cheering thought pushed its way through the black clouds surrounding this subject. “And I bet I can still con-celebrate. With other priests. And you never know. Maybe if I practise a lot.”

  Deep down, I doubted I’d ever want to risk desecrating my Lord and God, however accidentally, but no point worrying about it right now.

  Bane deposited his sleeping armful on the bed beside me. As Joey nestled drowsily to my chest and went right on sleeping, I raised a hand and stroked a wisp of soft two-year-old hair into place, my heart full.

  I’d thought I’d never see them again. Not like this.

  Thank you, Lord.

  Once Margo—who considered Bane deserved a break from childcare—had firmly led away younger, fractious darlings for a nap, I said a belated morning prayer with Luc and Bane. Then—since I wasn’t dying after all—I encouraged them to go out and explore the town. This first ever foreign trip might as well be re-categorised as a holiday.

  And I needed the time to speak to Uncle Reginald.

  “Aah, peace and quiet,” sighed my roommate, as Luc’s youthful voice faded away down the corridor.

  I smiled. “You really don’t like children, do you?”

  “Nannies were invented for a reason. Thankfully no one ever expected me to have more than three.”

  “Nannies?”

  He shot me an unamused look. “Children.”

  “I know, just pulling your leg.”

  “Hilarious.”

  “Okay, well, you know what you said earlier, that you’d believe in God when you saw Him?”

  “Oh, give me strength. You’re like a boomerang. The harder I chuck you away, the faster you come back!”

  “Because it’s important. You’re a very well-educated man, now, aren’t you? You know an awful lot about espionage, national security, interrogation, plus medicine and science as well. Am I wrong?”

  “Of course, you’re not.”

  “Right. But despite studying our habits and activities in considerable detail, you’re not actually very well up on metaphysics, theology, or philosophy. And this notion that one can see God when one dies and change one’s mind, that idea commits an absolute schoolboy error when it comes to metaphysics and human nature.”

  “Does it really.” Uncle Reginald’s flat tone failed to deter me.

  “The statement you just made is the statement of a temporal being, that is to say, a being that exists within time and cannot easily think about things any other way. But God is outside of time. Heaven is the metaphysical state of being in God’s presence. Hell is the state of being cut off from God’s presence. He’s still there, but those in hell have rejected Him, which causes them extreme suffering.

  “But the point is that both states exist out of time, along with God. Without meaning to talk too much in terms of souls and bodies, which are far more closely connected than a simple explanation of this tends to suggest, when you die, the spiritual part of you ceases to exist in time but exists out of time, with God. But, without time, you can’t change. You become unchanging.”

  Uncle Reginald watched me more intently, now, as though the intellectual puzzle caught at his attention, in spite of himself.

  “Do you understand the implications?” I went on. “Whatever you thought about God when you died, is what you will think about God for eternity. Because outside of time, human beings can’t change their mind. We’re temporal beings and it’s just not our nature to be able to do that. So you can’t see Him then and decide you believe in Him and love Him after all. This life, within time, is where our eternity is decided. After we die, that’s it. It’s too late. And it’s nothing about legalism or vengefulness or anything like that. It’s just simple metaphysics. Do you see?”

  Uncle Reginald pursed his lips slightly. “If there were such a thing as a timeless, all-powerful being and if there were such things as souls, then yes, I understand the argument you are making. But neither exist, so it’s hardly something for grown men to waste their time arguing about. When I die, I’ll be outside of time alright—I won’t exist at all.”

  “Oh, you’ll exist.” The memory of how he would exist forced its way into my mind again, and I shuddered. “I’ve felt how you’ll exist—or a mere fraction of it—and it’s…” I choked, unable to continue.

  “And now you’re going spooky on me.” Uncle Reginald sighed. “You’re barking mad, no mistake. Though what that makes me for bothering to save you…”

  That makes you a lonely old man, scared to die alone. The thought darted into my mind like a sunbeam. Yes, if Uncle Reginald seemed a little uncertain of his motive in saving me, well, he probably was.

  Oh, I think he had come to like me a bit, according to his very underdeveloped capacity for love. And no doubt it had felt a waste to let me die. But was there not a third reason, one he’d perhaps not acknowledged or even fully articulated to himself? A very simple reason, namely, that he felt quite sure I would stick to him like a burr and that meant if I lived he could be sure of having company at the last?

  I considered my next line of argument, then hesitated, eyeing the old man in the bed opposite. His head was nod
ding. He’d seemed very…deflated, today. Weary. I suppose having given up the…game…that’d been energising and motivating him, he’d nothing to look forward to but his own imminent demise. That was likely to cut the legs from under anyone.

  How often had some sick or elderly parishioner, who seemed to be doing so well, attained the goal they were so eagerly looking forward to—either some milestone, feast day, or family event—only to fail and be with the Lord within days—or even hours—of reaching it. I’d better let him rest.

  I kept silence, and soft snores soon drifted across the room.

  “Herr Hill?” A German accent drew me from a post-lunch nap. Georg Friedrich stood beside Uncle Reginald’s bed.

  Uncle Reginald raised one eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “What’s your favourite meal?”

  “My favourite meal?”

  “Ja.” Friedrich’s lip twitched. “I’m presuming Full English Breakfast isn’t near the top of the list?”

  An extremely black look crossed Uncle Reginald’s face. “Not for the last decade or so,” he said, very coldly.

  “So what is?”

  Uncle Reginald studied Friedrich for a moment, clearly deciding whether to answer. At last, he said, “I’ll admit to being partial to minted lamb sausages, with mashed potatoes and onions in thick gravy.”

  “Ja? Well, that’s nice and specific.” Friedrich turned on his heel and left.

  When another noisy visit from my nephews and nieces ended with all of them setting off on an afternoon sight-seeing expedition with their mum and dad, I turned my attention to Uncle Reginald.

  He’d done a good job of concealing the true severity of his condition up until now, but to my eyes—either because I knew the truth or because of the crushing effect of losing his motivation to keep going—he looked desperately ill. His skin had taken on a yellowish-grey hue and dark rings encircled his eyes. For the first time, he called a nurse to help him attend to a simpler call of nature, a tremor in his hand as he reached for the call button.

  Lord, help him. Quickly! Give me the words.