Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [46]
‘Such pride! Such arrogance!’ Dismas took Pettigrew’s head in his hands; the priest felt giddy. The room slowly flooded with a gentle white light. ‘You have to go back in order to go forward. Only then can you respond to God’s love and be welcomed into bliss. Do not worry. From now on, no evil shall befall you, nor shall affliction come near your tent, for to His angels God has given command about you. Upon their hands they will bear you up. They will guard you in all your ways.’
Pettigrew felt the tears running down his face. Looking down, he could see them fall on to his broken body, moistening his wounds. ‘Can it be true?’ he asked.
‘Make your legacy one of penance.’ Dismas smiled. ‘Be sorry for your wicked life. Be the epitome of a repentant malefactor. God’s willingness to forgive is timeless. With the love of God, it is never too late.’
‘The love of God . . .’ Pettigrew repeated, searching the vision’s face for further comfort. But Dismas was already fading into the light. He watched him disappear and waited for his spirit to return to his body. The light engulfed him with calmness and love and, finally, finally, finally, he felt that he was truly on his way to Heaven.
When they came back, he was ready. He could hear distant voices – two people, maybe three. The handcuffs were unlocked. He rubbed his wrists and placed his arms across his chest, but made no effort to move from the bed. Instantly, he felt the now all-too familiar pressure of a rifle muzzle against his temple.
‘Get up, you pig!’
Still hooded, the priest slowly swung his legs off the bed and stood unsteadily on the floor. Feeling dizzy and nauseous, he made to sit back down before a hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and jerked him forward.
‘Out!’
Looking down, he could see a tiny patch of floor between his bruised feet. The floor was cool to the touch. It hurt to put too much weight on either foot, so he shuffled along as best he could, down a corridor and up some stairs. Suddenly on deck, he stopped to fill his lungs.
‘Move!’
The deck was wet. It had been freshly scrubbed and there was just the slightest hint of disinfectant on the breeze. He felt a weak sun on his back. Someone behind him pulled the hood off with a flourish and he screwed up his eyes against the light. He looked at his hands, still with green paint under the fingernails, and let them touch his face for the last time.
Somewhere above his head a seagull cried. The sky was a gentle blue. Summer was on its way.
Due process was coming to an end.
This was to be the final scene of the Inquisitorial process, his auto-da-fé, the Act of Faith where he would be sentenced, and the sentence carried out. Pettigrew imagined himself with a smile on his face. This was where he would escape the trap of victimhood and retribution.
One of the sailors pointed to an open gate in the side-rail. He padded over and looked down. The drop looked to be about 60 feet. In front of him was nothing but the blue of the Pacific Ocean. To his left, he could see the coast. He guessed that they were maybe a mile or so out of Valparaíso. He thought of Cerro Los Placeres, of what he was leaving behind. What he had already left behind, his parents, his sister. What they would think of him? How would they mourn?
‘Turn around.’
He did as he was told, facing his executioners with equanimity. There were four of them. Three were pointing guns at his chest. They looked scared witless, as if the exhausted, naked, delirious, broken man in front of them was poised to run amok.
Squinting, Pettigrew looked at them expectantly. The trio with guns were only boys – teenagers with faces that were round and smooth and questioning. Not so long ago, that had been him. But these boys were not like him. They were torturers, murderers, liars and thieves. They were missing something that should make them human. Still, he couldn’t hate them. Despite everything, he felt a pang of empathy. How difficult