Reginald Hill - Born Guilty

‘Guilty? What do you mean, guilty?’ demanded Kovalko, the hand on the table clenching into a fist.

‘Hey, it’s all right. All I meant was, people can get to feel guilty ’cos they made it through bad times while a lot of other folk didn’t. But it’s OK. What you’ve got here, you got for all those others too. They didn’t make it, sure, but the Nazis didn’t make it either. You’re here. The guys who ran the death camps aren’t. They’re long gone.’

This was pushing it, but there might not be another chance to push so hard and test a reaction. There was none, unless absolute stillness, almost to the point of catalepsy, counted. Then George came back with the drink which he put down in front of his father-in-law with a cheery, ‘There you go, Taras.’

The clenched fingers uncoiled, seized the glass and tossed the drink down in a single movement.

‘Hey, you must really have needed that,’ said George. ‘You in one of them moods, we’d better buy you a bottle!’

A sudden explosion of microphone static removed the need for Taras to reply. A small man in a plum-coloured jacket had appeared on a dais alongside the door to the kitchen. When finally he got the relationship between his mouth and the mike right, he said, ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, nice to see so many of our members here with their families and friends. As you know, tonight’s the night when we entertain ourselves and hopefully each other. Everyone will get a chance, but to start with we have a very old favourite of us all with a song from the old country, your friend and mine, Yulia Vansovich!’

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