Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [17]
He knew that he had to suffer with the people here, share the suffering of the powerless, the impotent. He knew that he could offer his neighbours no solutions to this terrible situation. He didn’t know the answers. But he could walk with them, search with them, stay with them. Die with them.
His only weapon was forgiveness. Forgiveness is fuelled by love; violence is fuelled by fear. Love is the antidote to fear. And he knew that love is what he would need in his heart when he arrived at the gates of Heaven.
So he came back.
For a couple more days, he went about his business in Valparaíso unmolested. It seemed that no one cared about William Pettigrew.
Until now.
Another kick brought him back to the present. More words were whispered in his ear:
‘You are an idiot as well as a pervert.’
‘Do you think God cares what happens to scum like you?’
‘You should have fucked off back to England, while you had the chance.’
‘The Church shrinks from blood but we do not.’
After a couple more kicks, and a few smacks around the head with a rifle butt, Pettigrew’s hands were tied firmly together in front of him. Careful to avoid getting any of the bright green paint on their fatigues, two soldiers hauled him towards the rear of a canvas-covered truck. Half-lifted, half-pushed, he was bundled inside. There were maybe ten or twelve other people already in there, but no one that he recognised in the gloom. They instinctively shied away from him, fearing any association that could make their situation worse. Righting himself, he found a space near the tailgate. Shouting and laughing came from outside the truck. Inside there was only a pensive silence, laced with a heavy dose of fear.
Five minutes later, the tailgate was closed and the canvas flaps at the back of the truck pulled down. Someone shouted to the driver that they were ready to go, and the truck rumbled into life. After a few more seconds they set off, travelling at a steady pace of not much more than twenty miles an hour. Out of the back, through the gaps in the canvas, Pettigrew could see that they were being closely followed by a group of three soldiers in a jeep. One was manning a machine-gun mounted on the back, just in case anyone decided to take their chances and jump. No one did.
It was clear that they were heading south, towards the port area. Pettigrew had been what they called a ‘worker priest’ in Valparaíso’s Las Habas shipyards for almost a year, so he knew this route well. He also knew why they were going there. A couple of naval vessels had arrived in Valparaíso two days before the socialist government had been overthrown. With the President, Salvador Allende, dead, and ‘leftists’ of all descriptions being rounded up, rumours quickly began circulating that these ships were being used as overflow facilities for the prisons.
‘A nice bit of sea air – and free board and lodging,’ someone had joked at the time. ‘A lot better than Londres Street,’ the man had added, referring to the Communist Party headquarters in Santiago which, as everyone knew, was now being used as a torture centre.
Pettigrew had looked at him askance.
‘Like a little vacation really.’
Really? Well, his vacation started here.
They moved slowly through the streets. The city seemed desolate even for the middle of the night. Lights were out. Windows were closed. Doors firmly bolted shut. People were curled up in their beds, worried that they might be next, wracking their brains for any behaviour, any words, that might lead to a midnight visit and a one-way trip to Las Habas.
Even the dogs that habitually prowled the dustbins looking for food had the sense to take the night off.
Inside the truck, someone started sobbing. Another began quietly reciting the Lord’s Prayer. At the end, there were a couple of ragged Améns, followed by more silence. A woman close to Pettigrew squeezed her rosary so tightly that the string broke and the beads fell to the floor, scattering at their feet. She glanced at Pettigrew and shrugged. He said nothing. They both