The Siege of Reginald Hill

by Corinna Turner

  Uncle Reginald was speaking to me again. Probably just to avoid another Assault of the Psalms, but no matter why. It was a good morning.

  My last morning?

  Probably. That agonising rasp to my breathing was far more pronounced now. I wasn’t sure how I’d managed to reach that morphine button. I’d almost no strength left.

  Lord, let me manage even one more conversation with him.

  Could that be enough? How could that be enough? But what more could I do?

  Father Omwancha brought me Holy Communion again, wonderful man, singing much of the brief bedside liturgy in his strong booming voice. After a time of thanksgiving—and an inadvertent nap—Margo helped me eat my breakfast. Okay, she fed me most of it. When she’d stuffed as much down me as I could bring myself to swallow—not a lot—she slipped off to dress and freshen up.

  With some relief, I turned my attention to the other bed. I didn’t dare try to engage Uncle Reginald in conversation while she was there—he would have no thought of anything other than getting at her.

  “I’ve got a question for you, Uncle Reginald.” Agh, raising my voice even a little was exhausting. Excruciatingly exhausting.

  “Oh, what a surprise.” His tone remained cool and unencouraging.

  “What do you really think love is?”

  Uncle Reginald snorted. “I told you, the other day.”

  “The warm woolly emotion? Alright, then. What makes a person worthy of being loved?”

  “Worthy?” Uncle Reginald stayed silent for some time. At last he said, “I’m not sure anyone’s worthy of the sort of love you define.”

  Interesting.

  “Do you still think love is merely an emotion?” Because he’d just answered the question according to my definition, not his.

  “I don’t know which definition is correct, boy, and I don’t particularly care. I want no part of either of them.”

  “Again, I can only say, how utterly lonely.”

  “I am perfectly happy with my life, boy.”

  “No, you’re not. Happy people don’t seek revenge. Especially not at such a high cost to themselves. Such is the action of deeply unhappy people only.”

  “You’re starting to irritate me again.” Hill’s voice was glacial, his tone one of warning.

  I tried to think of a response, but all this speaking up was making my head swim. As though I couldn’t get enough air. Maybe I couldn’t. I closed my eyes and stayed quiet and still, hoping it would go off.

  It did. A little. But my chest felt clogged. Bubbly. Was it blood? Well, I wouldn’t ring the call button. If the cascade was starting, maybe I could get it all done with before Margo came back…

  MARGO

  Kyle was so pale when I returned—well, more greyish with his heavy tan—and his breathing so rough that I ignored his protestations of alrightness and fetched Doctor Fathiya at once. She questioned him on his symptoms, listened to his chest and diagnosed fluid in his lungs—not, she hastened to reassure us, blood. Not yet. The cells in his lungs were over-producing mucus as they fought their futile battle with the poison.

  She adjusted Kyle’s bed to put his chest in a more upright position and leave most of his lungs clear, gave him some medicine and hooked an oxygen tube under his nose to give his partially waterlogged lungs a little extra help.

  When she’d finished, he still looked very wan. He tried to address me at a normal volume, but winced, grew greyer again and switched to using a very soft voice. And soon dozed off.

  When I returned from a quick visit to the little room, I found the curtains drawn around the bed. I hurried forward in alarm, pausing as I heard Georg’s voice. Oh. Good. I’d mentioned to Georg that I thought Kyle might appreciate a visit, since he was off-duty. Prove to him that the past really was past and all that. He’d been so distressed last night…

  “But you see,” Georg was saying earnestly, “whenever I picture Herr Hill burning in hell, the first thing that pops into my head is marshmallows. And sausages. And some forks. And maybe some bananas. You know how to make Bonfire Bananas? You cut a slit in the skin, stuff them with chocolate, then wrap them in silver foil and bake them in the embers… Ja, ja, I’m digressing. I’m finding it hard to forgive the schwein, anyway. I mean, for this. I put the rest behind me. Like to think so, anyway. Erm…well, for these and any other sins I cannot now remember, I am truly sorry…”

  I stopped in mid step and skipped backwards a few paces, my cheeks heating. Georg was making his confession; that must’ve been why he’d drawn the curtains. Oops.

  Hill watched me curiously. Oh, Lord, don’t let him speak! Panicking, I turned and bolted—my unexpected exit must’ve taken him by surprise, because I was through the door and clean away. Phew.

  Now I just had to forget what I’d overheard. Easier said than done. The image of Georg toasting marshmallows over Hill’s flaming soul was…memorable. To put it mildly.

  And recipes aside, all too relatable.

  Lord, help me?

  I hid out in the hospital chapel for twenty minutes before venturing back to Kyle’s room. I met Georg in the corridor outside carrying a tea tray. He gave me a pained smile, drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders as though entering mortal combat and finally marched into the room. And approached Hill’s bed. I stopped in the doorway to watch.

  “I thought you might like a cup of tea, Herr Hill.” Georg’s voice was tense, but civil.

  Hill eyed him measuringly. “One dash of bleach or two, I imagine?”

  “Not the cup of tea that you deserve, Herr Hill.” Georg’s tone grew cooler. “Just a nice, normal, healthy cup of tea. I’m sure Father Kyle would enjoy a cup too.”

  “Hmm.” Hill couldn’t hide his keen interest in the contents of the teapot. “Yes, then.”

  Georg set down the tray and poured two cups, handing one carefully to Mr Hill and placing the other on Kyle’s bedside table with a glance in my direction. No, Kyle certainly couldn’t drink it without help.

  “I hope you enjoy the tea, Herr Hill.” With that, Georg picked up the tray and trod out of the room again.

  He paused in the corridor, rolled his shoulders as though to relax them, then pulled a face and sighed deeply. “Margo, your brother gives cruel penances.”

  Since even telling him I’d overheard something would break the Seal of Confession, I simply said, “He told you to make Mr Hill a cup of tea?”

  “Do something nice for, actually, ’cause honestly, right now I kind of hate the guy. So I thought for a Brit, several days in here with strange African beverages and he was probably ready to kill for a cup. Well, not that it takes much to make Herr Hill ready to kill, but you know what I mean.”

  Knowing Kyle, there had been an additional clause to the penance, something like: Do something nice for Mr Hill and do it with love, but it was entirely up to Georg what he disclosed.

  “My sympathy,” I said. “Forgiveness is never easy. And this time it’s…” I couldn’t finish.

  Georg’s eyes widened. “Haven’t you forgiven him yet? I thought…you know…Little Miss Forgiveness, that’s what the papers still call you occasionally. I thought you were good at it.”

  My cheeks warmed up like gel heat cubes. “It’s always hard, Georg,” I said, rather lamely. “I swear, I am going to forgive him properly, but…it’s going to take time. A terminal diagnosis or a load of news crews showing up is about the only thing that could speed this one up.”

  Georg grinned—very widely. “Do not say that in your brother’s hearing. Or he’ll whistle up some media before you can say Bless me, Father!”

  KYLE

  Lord help me, the pain devoured everything. My head still swam on and off, every breath pure torture. I tried to breathe more shallowly, but the more shallowly I breathed, the more breaths I had to take.

  The angle of the bed left me more sitting up than lying down, but speaking to Uncle Reginald was impossible. The effort it had taken to attend to Georg’s confession; to give h
im appropriate words of advice. Thank God I hadn’t passed out in the middle and left him riddled with guilt. The last thing I’d want, when I felt so pleased he’d asked me. After all, I was a priest to death and beyond; it was good to be useful. I’d made it through to the Absolution, then slept, and woken feeling worse than ever.

  Well, I wasn’t likely to improve now. Not unless the doctors came up with something clever. I’d overheard Doctor Fathiya telling Margo about other treatment options—things like vacuuming the fluid from my lungs, God forbid!—but that they would gain so little time and were so invasive that short of the lab being on the verge of a breakthrough—they weren’t even close—she judged them not in my best interests. Thank the Lord for that. My lungs hurt enough already. If someone came towards me with a medical vacuum right now, I’d probably scream like a baby!

  But there were so many things I should’ve talked to Uncle Reginald about and now I couldn’t. I’d never even brought up heaven—or hell. I hadn’t even mentioned God’s love! Surely, I should’ve started with that? Well, I suppose I did start with that, back on the gurney, but how could I not have followed up on it? And now it was too late.

  O Holy Spirit, I am only your mouthpiece. I just pray, pray, pray that I have relayed what you wanted and not lost anything in the translation. And that it’s enough.

  I wanted to believe it was enough, but how could it be? Those few little conversations…

  Lord, what can I do for Uncle Reginald?

  I tried to pray, the simplest prayer of all, the rosary, that appeal to our spiritual mother to pray with us and for us, but I’d grown too weak to manage the beads at all now, and I kept losing track with my fingers. Three hands plus one extra finger per decade. It just didn’t make for easy reckoning and pain fogged my mind…

  Oh Lord, I wish I could feel you again!

  No, no, I’m not taking it back. Not sure I can, but I’m not. Uncle Reginald needs it all. Just wishing. But even the thought brought tears to my cheeks. This long, lingering descent into death was so much harder to face without His Blessed Presence enveloping me.

  Lingering? No. Dismantling was lingering. This was quick, clean and comfortable by comparison. It was. I must stop whining and count my blessings. I could still think and therefore I could still pray.

  I pushed away the little voice pointing out that dismantling would be all over by now and once again struggled to pick up the thread of my sputtering rosary.

  “Kyle?

  Margo. I tried to smile at her, but my smile wobbled, along with my state of consciousness. A haze of pain enveloped everything.

  “Kyle, this is absurd! I’m putting the morphine back up!”

  “No, leave it!” My voice came out a mere rasp. “I don’t think I can reach it anymore.”

  “Good! Maybe we can keep it at the right level, now.”

  “Margo!” I tried to reach for her hand…no, I couldn’t. Desperation engulfed me. “Margo, please! Leave it! I need you to leave it!”

  “I’m just supposed to sit here and watch you suffering? Why don’t you want it up?”

  “I do, but…I can’t! It’s the only thing I can do, now, the only thing. Please don’t take this away from me.” My voice wobbled, a sob crowding up my throat. “Please, Margo…”

  MARGO

  Kyle seemed on the point of tears. He was begging me. His distress struck like an unseen hand slapping my face. A hot wash of shame followed. How could I try to override him like this? He was my brother, not my child. An adult. Entitled to make his own decisions, even if they seemed crazy.

  Actually…his pain-glazed gaze clung to Hill as he spoke. So. That was what it was all about. The morphine. The sedation. Or lack of. My brother; not crazy, just saintly. A saintly over-ambitious optimist who would never say damned. And far too humble, far too set on not letting the left hand know what the right hand was doing, to simply tell me.

  Reaching out, I dropped the morphine back to his preferred level. “There. Of course it’s up to you. I’m really sorry. I just hate…I hate seeing you in pain.”

  Kyle smiled weakly. “It’s mutual. I’m so sorry to hurt you like this. Really. I am. But…I just have to.”

  “It’s alright, Kyle.” Okay, it still hurt, but now I’d seen how desperately it mattered to him, now I’d realised why, at least I understood.

  Kyle sunk back into his increasingly out-of-it state of pain and exhaustion. I sat, helplessly, watching his remaining fingers twitch in a slow sequence. Praying, even now?

  Or especially now?

  I should be praying too, shouldn’t I? I reached in my pocket for my rosary. Nothing. Don’t tell me I’d left it in my room? Yes, I had. With a sigh, I got to my feet—and accidentally made eye contact with Hill.

  With immense effort, I mustered a small, polite smile and turned to go.

  “What’s his issue with the morphine?” The cool voice was also pretty polite, as that voice went. “How on earth can he still be worried about addiction?”

  Taking a deep breath—Lord, please guard my tongue—I turned around again. “He’s not worried about addiction, Mr Hill.”

  “Then why won’t he accept an effective dose? Is he a masochist?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why does he choose to lie there in agony? Ah, correct me if I’m wrong? He is in agony?”

  Responses flashed through my mind, angry, sarcastic, bitter, outright lies…but what fell out of my mouth was the truth. “He’s doing it for you.”

  Hill frowned, total bafflement on his face. “For me? What do you mean, he’s doing it for me?”

  “For your soul.” With enormous effort, I bit back, if you actually have one. Hill had one, all right, and ignored it at his peril.

  “I thought you people were adamant that only your imaginary friend can save anyone.”

  “Of course God is the only one who can actually save anyone, Mr Hill.”

  Hill’s bewilderment hadn’t eased. “So how can lying there in agony be for me? What possible benefit can it bring me?”

  I took another deep breath, struggling for the words to explain. “Mr Hill, which demonstrates more love on my part: if I do something for my children that I enjoy, something pleasant, or if I do something that involves a sacrifice, or a discomfort, on my part?”

  “The second. Obviously.”

  “Obviously? Well, you grasp that, which is something.”

  Hill stared at me, eyes narrowed.

  Glancing around, my eyes fell on the crucifix over the window, on that tortured figure hanging in agony on the cross. I pointed to it, my throat tight. “There, Mr Hill. That is how much God loves you.”

  I swung round and pointed to Kyle, so still and quiet, barely conscious, forehead pain-drenched, still struggling to pray. My voice broke. “And that is how much my brother loves you. Though God knows you don’t deserve him!”

  Tears escaped from my eyes—I turned and ran for it.

  KYLE

  “Crazy boy?” That cold, precious voice sliced through the haze of pain gripping me. “I’ve just had a curious conversation with that pesky sister of yours.”

  I dragged my eyes open at last and focussed on Uncle Reginald, trying to smile. Yes…I’d heard the conversation. Rather like overhearing a distant radio, but I’d heard it.

  “Do I correctly deduce from her hysterical ravings that you have some foolish superstitious goal of…what is the expression? Saving my soul?”

  Still smiling at him, I managed a slight nod. I hadn’t meant Margo to find out, but he, he could know.

  Uncle Reginald shook his head disgustedly. “Well, you’d be better forgetting that nonsense, crazy boy. I have no soul. You may as well take the morphine, for all the good it’s doing me.”

  Could I speak? That loudly? But the words burned in me, demanding to be united with his stolen ears. I could muster only Latin, but he’d understand. “You…do have…a…soul… Uncle…Reginald… And it…is…precious…and beautiful…in the L
ord’s…eyes…and…He wants it…with Him…” I fell silent, panting, head spinning with pain.

  “Deranged,” muttered Uncle Reginald. “The whole lot of you.”

  If only I could reply, but it took all I had just to stay…to stay consciou…

  “Kyle? Kyle?” Margo’s dear gentle voice this time, drawing me out of myself.

  I got my eyes open.

  She stood there, smiling a bitter-sweet smile and proffering a phone. “It’s Bane. Here…” Carefully, she tucked the handset between my ear and shoulder.

  “Bane?” Even little more than a whisper made me feel light-headed.

  “Hi, bro. I hear you’re feeling poorly.”

  “Umm… A little… Where are you?”

  “Can Hill hear me?”

  “No.”

  “We’re on the ship. Making port in an hour or two. Then it’s about twelve to fourteen hours on the bullet train.”

  Twelve to fourteen hours? “I think…you’re going to be late by…quite a few hours.”

  “I know.” Bane’s voice was soft. Yes, hence why he was calling. Even he’d accepted that they weren’t going to make it. “I’m sorry, Kyle. I did my best.”

  “Bane, I’m amazed…you’ve got this far…in the time. Don’t apologise.”

  Wind and waves and children’s voices murmured in the background. My heart stretched, trying to reach down the phone and hug them all.

  Were they enjoying being on a ship? What an adventure for them! Children’s attention spans were too short for the reason for their trip to spoil it for them. Luc, that little bit older, might be feeling it more. How many questions he always had for me when I visited. Most about the priesthood, or seminary, but also about Africa…

  “Can you tell us the story about the lions, Uncle Kyle?” asked Javi.

  “No, the one about the hyenas!” Polly grabbed my arm insistently.

  “Let’s hear the one about the miraculous pool!” Luc sat forward eagerly on the sofa. “Can we have that one, Uncle Kyle? Please?”