Imprisoned in his own mind
Looming over me in his cluttered, pet-filled Scottish farmhouse, Hill thrusts his face into mine and grips my knees in a vice-like grip. Contorting his face in simulated fury, he shrieks the obscenities that were hurled at him during the police interrogation, the day after 21 people were killed, and 162 others injured, in the 1974 Birmingham bombings.
“They jammed a pistol in my mouth and smashed it around, breaking my teeth so badly it was agony to even have a sip of water, until I finally saw a dentist, two weeks later. They told me they knew I was innocent, but that they didn’t care: they had been told to get a conviction and that if I didn’t admit to the bombing, they would shoot me in the mouth. They slowly counted to three, then pulled the trigger. They did that three times. Each time, I thought I was going to die,” says Hill, pulling up his lip to show his toothless upper gum, before rolling down his trouser leg to reveal scars and cigarette burns he says were inflicted by policemen.
