The Siege of Reginald Hill Read online

  PRAISE FOR CORINNA TURNER’S BOOKS

  LIBERATION: nominated for the Carnegie Medal Award 2016.

  ELFLING: 1st prize, Teen Fiction, CPA Book Awards 2019

  I AM MARGARET & BANE’S EYES: finalists, CALA Award 2016/2018.

  LIBERATION & THE SIEGE OF REGINALD HILL: 3rd place, CPA Book Awards 2016/2019.

  PRAISE FOR I AM MARGARET:

  Great style ... like The Hunger Games.

  EOIN COLFER, author of Artemis Fowl and former Irish Children’s Laureate

  PRAISE FOR THE SIEGE OF REGINALD HILL:

  The Siege of Reginald Hill is a powerful story of sacrificial love—the kind very few are ever called to. Kyle is faced with unbearable pain and suffering, but he handles it in an amazing, almost unfathomable way. ... If you’ve enjoyed the I Am Margaret series, you will love this story.

  THERESA LINDEN, author of award-winning Battle for His Soul

  There are a few stories that I'll never forget even though it's been years since I read them. Henry James' The Beast in the Jungle and C. S. Lewis' The Great Divorce, and now Corinna Turner's The Siege of Reginald Hill. An extremely powerful example of what it really means to love our enemies, this novel provokes a whirlwind of emotions.

  T. M. GAOUETTE, author of the Faith and Kung Fu series

  What an eloquent priestly figure is given us in The Siege of Reginald Hill! No time is wasted by the young priest on his awesome journey to reach the lost sheep. Fr Kyle’s example reminds the reader that our sufferings lead to victory when united with the sacrifice of Christ.

  FR ARMAND DE MALLERAY, FSSP, author of Ego Eimi – It is I: Falling in Eucharistic Love

  The Siege of Reginald Hill is another suspenseful and moving work by Corinna Turner. Fans of I Am Margaret will love the continuation of the story!

  REGINA DOMAN, author of The Angel in the Waters and the award-winning Fairytale Novels series.

  ***+***

  THE SIEGE OF

  REGINALD

  HILL

  U.K. Edition

  CORINNA TURNER

  Copyright 2018 Corinna Turner

  ePub ISBN: 978-1-910806-79-1

  ASIN: B07K5FN98Z

  Also available as a Paperback

  ***+***

  U.K. Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ***+***

  CONTENTS

  1. Kyle

  2. Kyle

  3. Margo

  4. Kyle

  5. Margo

  6. Kyle

  7. Margo

  8. Kyle

  9. Margo

  10. Kyle

  11. Margo

  12. Kyle

  13. Margo

  14. Kyle

  15. Margo

  16. Kyle

  17. Margo

  18. Kyle

  19. Margo

  20. Kyle

  21. Margo

  22. Kyle

  23. Margo

  24. Kyle

  25. Margo

  26. Kyle

  27. Margo

  28. Kyle

  29. Margo

  30. Kyle

  31. Margo

  32. Kyle

  MARGO’S DIARY Sneak Peek

  SOMEDAY Sneak Peek

  DRIVE! Sneak Peek

  Other Books by Corinna Turner

  Acknowledgments

  Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Connect with Corinna Turner

  Boring Legal Bit

  ***+***

  Let no power,

  visible or invisible, grudge me that I should reach Jesus Christ.

  Let fire and the cross; packs of wild beasts; lacerations, breakings and dislocations of bones; cutting off of members;

  shattering of the whole body—

  let all the dreadful torments

  of the devil come upon me:

  only let me win through

  to Jesus Christ!

  Saint Ignatius of Antioch, Letter to the Romans

  ***+***

  KYLE

  No blazing sunset covered the sky now, just starry blackness. As the muzzle of the pistol ground into my spine, the memory of that setting sun’s beauty filled me with three times the appreciation and thankfulness I’d felt earlier. While I took those few steps from the church to the waiting vehicle—shiny and black in the darkness, like a four-wheel drive hearse—I drank in that night sky and all the starlit beauty of the savannah.

  What form would my perception of the physical world take once I was dead? I’d no idea. But it would not be the same. To waste a single glimpse of God’s creation felt, at this moment, akin to sacrilege.

  A hand yanked painfully on my bound arms, rough fingers pushed my head down, shoving me sideways onto the leather seat of that very expensive hearse. The door slammed, tinted glass stealing the world. But not its Creator.

  Him, they could never take from me.

  ***+***

  THREE HOURS EARLIER

  KYLE

  The sun set like a diver disappearing over the horizon. A blaze of red and orange, and it was gone. As I stood there in the church doorway, I still found it hard to believe how quickly it happened, even after all these years in Africa.

  I looked back down the earthen track leading into the village in time to see the girl going into her house. Just after evening Mass ended Sikudhani had come to the church crying about a fight with her brother. It’d taken me ages to calm her down, but she was bouncy enough now and freshly absolved from her own responsibility in the childish row.

  And safely home. So I could snatch a few minutes with Our Lord, say Night Prayer, and go to sleep. Never mind my missed meal; it was Friday, after all. And please, Lord, I wouldn’t have another sick call tonight. When my primary motive for that appeal switched from concern for the sick person to concern about getting into my own bed, there’d been too many. Three nights in a row in the wee hours was positively…zombifying. It was one thing if the congregation fell asleep during a homily, but when the priest giving the homily started nodding over his non-existent notes…

  Well, they’d all been very nice about it, but I’d rather it didn’t happen again.

  I went back inside the church, leaving the doors wide open to admit the breeze, which was cooling blissfully as darkness settled over the savannah. A lion grunted in the far distance. A hyena whooped from over near the recycling area. No doubt someone who lived closer would chase it away.

  I headed up the aisle, my feet scuffing against the wooden floorboards. Most of the houses in the village were modern, made of strong, heat-repelling breeze blocks, with waterCool roofs that provided hot water and air conditioning all through one simple, natural process. But the church, formed of five circular huts, was constructed in the traditional way. Not that ‘hut’ really did justice to the skill and artistry involved.

  I passed through the small porch-cum-foyer hut and entered the big nave. The raised sanctuary stood exactly central, sheltered under an intricate canopy of carved and interwoven branches, and along the far wall stood three small hut-chapels—the central one the Blessed Sacrament chapel, with a Lady Chapel on the right and the Chapel of Reconciliation—where I’d spent my evening so far—on the left.

  A dense thatched roof topped it all off, its small, discretely placed
waterCool panels less effective than the standard full-roof set-up, but enough—along with that thick thatch—to keep the church significantly cooler than outside. Thank the Lord.

  This had been my parish for six years now, and I rarely gave it all a second glance. But when I did, a wave of admiration for the craftsmanship invariably struck me—and a stab of homesickness for the priest holes and concealed sanctuaries of my childhood, growing up in the EuroBloc. Before my little sister gave the EuroGov a nice, peaceful thrashing and forced them to decriminalise belief in God. Go, Margo!

  My eyelids dragged downwards, wanting to close. Settling in the front pew of the Blessed Sacrament chapel, I opened my Office book to Night Prayer. I’d do what I had to first; I really wasn’t sure how long I could stay with Our Lord tonight. I was just so tired.

  Nowadays, of course, EuroBloc-born priests—both the survivors of the long persecution and, increasingly, the younger ones for whom the danger and secrecy was just a dim memory from childhood—also worshipped openly, in real church buildings—supplemented by an army of African priests. There hadn’t been a lot of survivors. Some of the buildings were even original church buildings, finally wrestled back from the EuroBloc by the Underground. Well, mostly by my stubborn sister—though she’d be furious with me for saying so.

  At thirty-three, I belonged to the half-and-half generation. I’d answered the call to the priesthood expecting ‘giving my life to God’ to be literal—brutally, agonisingly, bloodily literal. But before I could even be ordained—let alone martyred—my sister happened. And everything changed. No more persecution. No more Conscious Dismantlement. A long, normal life ahead of me. Sometimes it still seemed unreal.

  Thank you, Margo, thank you so much.

  Thank You, Lord.

  Ah…I’m supposed to be praying, aren’t I? I’m sorry.

  I dragged my mind back to Night Prayer, but having mastered that distraction, I fell asleep twice instead. Eventually I stood up, completing it on my feet.

  There, Lord. Done. I’ll stay with You for just a few minutes, and then I hope You’ll allow me to deposit my frail human body into my bed for a night’s uninterrupted sleep. Please? Or I’ll be fit for nothing in the parish footie friendly tomorrow, for one thing.

  Yes, I wanted to be on top form, because it could be a tough match. Karangwo had fielded a strong side last time. Hopefully I could score, though. Okay, so I usually scored, but it would be nice to score several times.

  In my mind, I was sprinting down the pitch, dust flying under my feet, the goal ahead… I kicked the football and it was one of those perfect kicks, where the moment the ball is in the air you just know it’s going to go in…

  Whoa! Kyle, come on. This is prayer time! Get down on your knees, man!

  Pushing away the daydreams, I lit the two candles that stood on either side of the altar, then unlocked the tabernacle and opened the little double doors so that I could see the glass case in which the Host stood, ready to be slotted into the monstrance for public Adoration.

  Kneeling at the altar rail, I determinedly fixed all my attention on it. On Him. God Himself, concealed under the form of mere bread. That familiar sense of peace and warmth filled me, as it sometimes—all right, as it often—did. Of being loved. And for once, a twinge of disappointment stirred. If I’d experienced nothing, I could’ve nipped off to bed with a clear conscience.

  Guilt followed close behind.

  Sorry, Lord. I pressed my forehead to my clasped hands, ashamed of my response. Many people—including my devout sister—could only dream of being blessed with the feeling of closeness with which Our Lord so often—in His unfathomable goodness—chose to bless me. Yet I would choose my bed over my Lord’s company? Really?

  No. I would stay as long as He wanted me to. That sense of being cherished held me too tightly to allow sleep, anyway. Forgive my weakness, Lord.

  Let’s see…please watch over Mum and Dad, keep them safe… A serious storm was bearing down on the state in which my parents lived and worked, way across the continent. The danger wasn’t grave—buildings were pretty storm-proof nowadays—but it would still be a stressful few days for them, with plenty of clean-up to follow.

  Thoughts of the rest of my family thronged into my mind. My sister, the famous Margaret Verrall; her husband, Bane—and my five nephews and nieces, who would swarm over me on my all-too-rare visits to Vatican State, drowning me in love. I missed them so much. In unwary moments—like now—the feeling overwhelmed me with deep, painful longing.

  As always, I tried to fight free of it. I loved my parish. I loved my parishioners; my beautiful church, the beautiful land in which it stood. This ache in my chest was stupid. I had given my life to God and this was where He wanted me. Silly to wish that He needed me in the Vatican instead.

  Of course, my sister was the reason that I was here in this foreign land. Though Margo had taught the EuroGov plenty of manners over the last twelve years they still remained in power. And the slow, steady civilising of the bloc’s laws only made them hate her more and more.

  They couldn’t get to her, safe in Vatican Free State. But if I had a parish in the EuroBloc? Well, they’d have no trouble getting to her brother. So no parish in the British department for Father Kyle Verrall. A nice safe African parish instead.

  Which I loved. I did.

  I let out a long breath, trying to release the restless thoughts with it, and focussed on the tabernacle again. Enough meaningless fretting. It was the Lord that mattered.

  My head knew that for truth, but my heart still throbbed unhappily in time with my banished thoughts. Why couldn’t I concentrate tonight?

  Actually, I’d been inattentive in prayer all week, now that I stopped to think about it. And the cause wasn’t hard to find. Tiredness. Skipping off to bed after the bare minimum of time before the Blessed Sacrament. Lack of fervour—for whatever reason—bred lack of fervour. Fact. Like a poisonous serpent devouring its own tail, circling deeper and deeper into desolation, shrinking away…

  Calm down, Kyle. You only snatched a couple of early nights. And you’ve got to sleep. You should be in bed right now, in fact.

  I turned my mind enquiringly towards my Lord and Maker to see if he agreed with this argument, hoping to be dismissed for the night.

  Nope.

  No words—I never really heard words. But a definite sense that my presence was desired.

  I had a sick call tonight, after all, didn’t I? Only this time, I was the sick soul, to be tended by The Great High Priest Himself. I rested my chin on my hands and settled in for…for the duration, if the Lord willed it so. It was probably good for my humility to fall asleep on my feet in the pulpit and play poorly in a match.

  Some great lessons in humility coming up tomorrow, then.

  Quietness slowly settled over the village itself as my parishioners went to their beds. No actual silence reigned, though. The animal kingdom filled the night with life. The lion grunted again, a bit closer. Maybe it was time I closed the doors…

  …stay…stay with me…

  Or not. Lions never came right up to the village, anyway.

  …The Lord loved the lion. He loved all the animals I could hear. He loved me and all the sleeping humans in the village…

  I will stay with you forever, if you will have me, I told Him.

  …good…

  My soul soothed, settling under the Divine caress like a contented housecat, I nestled into His lap, safe and warm…

  Finally, a noise dragged me from this snug cocoon. A vehicle was pulling up outside the presbytery. Oh no, a sick call? Seriously, Lord?

  Well, now who’s contrary? You didn’t want to stay here tonight, and now you don’t want to leave.

  I wanted to go to bed. That’s not the same.

  Someone knocked on the presbytery door—the floor creaked as they went inside. I should get up and go out to them…

  …stay…stay…

  Okay, I should go on kneeling right here, feeling
decidedly rude. Huh.

  Footsteps creaked back over the presbytery’s wooden veranda. “He’s not here.” A woman’s voice, speaking in Esperanto, the artificial European language, though with an English accent.

  “There’s a light on in the church.” A man’s voice, this time, the accent…Scandinavian? “Let’s try there.”

  Both were totally unfamiliar and clearly foreign. Was it a sick call? Maybe they were travellers. Surely, I should go out…

  …stay…

  So insistent. Like the Lord wanted to keep me with him every possible moment tonight.

  I sighed and stayed, keeping my eyes obediently on the tabernacle even as footsteps trod straight up the aisle and into the chapel without any pause to genuflect. My visitors weren’t Believers? I ought to be making them twice as welcome…

  They were right behind me. Surely, I was allowed to turn to them now?

  Before I could, something dug into my ribs. Hard.

  “Get those superstitious hands up!”

  I looked around, my eyes darting from the muzzle of the lethal pistol rammed into me to the woman holding it—plump and middle-aged—and on to a tougher-looking man of a similar age, who stood at a safer distance covering me with a nonLethal in a way that suggested the Lethal was just for show. He held a video camera in his free hand—pointed my way. My heart slid down into my sandals.

  Slowly, I raised my ‘superstitious’ hands. EuroGov assassins? Or atheist fanatics? So much for a nice safe parish in Africa…

  “On your feet!” The woman panted for breath, whether from unfitness or from sheer excitement at having me there at the point of her gun.