by James Craig
Their only question was what do you know?
‘I know nothing,’ he would say, as calmly as possible.
‘What do you know?’
‘I know nothing.’ That was true enough, even in the beginning. By the third or fourth time they asked him, he could barely remember his own name.
They would give him a few slaps, maybe another shock, and ask again.
‘What do you know?’
Slap.
‘I know . . . nothing.’ Pettigrew couldn’t even think straight enough to make something up. Names? By the time that they finally got round to him, who was left? Who could they not have possibly rounded up already?
‘What do you know?’
Slap.
‘Nothing.’
Pettigrew didn’t want to make anything up. He knew that if he started giving them any kind of ‘information’ that it could only prolong things. By now he just wanted it all to be over as quickly as possible.
‘What do you know?’
Slap.
‘What do you know?’
He had nothing more to say. There were no more words. He was on a journey back to a time before language, before words; to a time when all you could do was howl.
After his second torture session, Pettigrew was told that he would immediately be shot because he was a fucking Communist whore – both a traitor to the Church and a traitor to the country.
They blindfolded him and pushed him up against a wall. Someone stepped in front of his face and said softly, ‘It’s over for you. The good priests are coming back now. The ones Allende stopped from teaching; the ones who were banned from hearing confessions; the ones who had to work as taxi drivers to make a living. I mean the priests who defended the Supreme Court and the Constitution of the Republic of Chile and opposed the creation of a Communist state. The ones who love the Church and don’t want to see it destroyed by faggot perverts like you.’
Pettigrew said nothing. All he could think was, It’s finally over.
‘Understand this: the Marxist invasion of the Church is at an end. The theology of liberation is dead.’
He could sense the excitement in his beating breast. Thank you, God.
‘You are dead.’
The voice stepped away and there was silence for five, ten, fifteen seconds. The safety-catch of a pistol was flicked off.
Someone cried, ‘Fire!’
A gull squawked overhead.
He stood there, shaking, refusing to still be alive. It should have been all over by now.
On the way back to the hammocks, someone clipped him round the ear, mistaking his sobs of frustration for sobs of relief.
His torturers soon became bored. After his fifth session, they left Pettigrew chained to a metal bedframe with a muslin hood over his head. At some point, he heard shouting. The sounds of people running around. General activity of men doing their jobs. Slowly, the ship’s anchor came up.
A little later, he heard the door to the cabin open. Excited youthful voices gathered by the door. Then they brought in a woman and he heard them chain her to the bed next to his. Then they argued over who should go first.
Apart from a few shadows moving across the bottom corner of his field of vision, he couldn’t see anything because of the hood over his head.
But he heard her screams.
Maybe he had died; died and gone to Hell. The sounds were bad, but the smell was worse. He lost count after the fifth time they raped her. Most were quick about it, but one man seemed to take an eternity. ‘Hurry up, Julio,’ one of his companions squealed. ‘We’ll find you another one later.’
‘You can do him,’ someone else said, kicking Pettigrew’s bedframe so hard that it bounced off the floor. ‘Just flip him over, you won’t know the difference.’ There was laughter and he felt spittle spray across his chest.
Another voice, closer this time, said to him: ‘How would you like that, priest? You can be next. If you’re still tight enough, that is.’
Finally they left. After the cabin door slammed shut, he listened to her sobs.
And then her whimpering.
And – finally – her silence.
Much later, he moved his head in the direction of the woman. Their beds were less than six inches apart. She was nearly close enough to touch. If he flexed the fingers on his left hand, he imagined that he could almost brush her right forearm. He tried to ignore the beating of his heart, the rasping of his breath and the buzzing in his ears, and instead concentrated on listening. There was nothing to be heard. Maybe it was his hearing – they had hit him on the ears many times. It was a torture technique called ‘the telephone’ and perhaps he had taken one call too many. Either way, the silence was a blessing. He hoped that it meant that his unknown companion was gone. That Death had finally shown her its soft heart. And he hoped that he would soon be shown the same mercy.
The hours passed with his body encased in a gentle rhythm of pain. At some point Pettigrew imagined that he was floating on the ceiling, looking down on the two beds: their bare frames, no mattresses, no blankets, no pillows; nothing else in the room but their naked, bloodied, bruised pulps.
He wanted to cry, but no tears came.
He wanted to scream, but no sound came.
He wanted to leave this place, but he could not move.
After a while, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a messenger from the celestial court close by. Dressed only in a loincloth, he had the concerned expression of a man. With a warm, sincere gaze, he looked deep into Pettigrew’s eyes as he hovered above him.
‘I am Dismas, your guardian angel,’ said the vision.
The priest smiled. He knew that Dismas was the Good Thief who had been crucified with Christ on Calvary, and then accompanied Him to Paradise. Dismas was the only human to be canonized by Jesus. He was also the patron saint of condemned criminals.
‘Take me with you,’ Pettigrew sobbed.
‘I cannot.’ Dismas stroked his ragged beard with one hand, and pointed at Pettigrew’s body, lying on the bed below them with the other. ‘You must go back to face the torment of your own creation.’
‘B-but this is not my doing!’ Pettigrew stammered. ‘How can you say that it is?’
‘My son,’ Dismas smiled sadly, ‘you betrayed the Church. You have to accept your fate.’
‘No!’ Now he felt an anger uncoiling within him that his torturers had never yet unleashed, igniting the life-force that he thought had been extinguished forever. ‘I have followed in the footsteps of Jesus. I have served the poor. That is why I am here. That is why I did not run away when I had the chance! I knew I had to be with them, for that is the role of a priest. I have not betrayed the Church. The Church has betrayed me!’
‘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 must all this be for them, to be put in this position? Ten years from now, or twenty, thirty, would they remember this day? Would it be a defining moment in their lives? Would they ever suffer from depression? Nightmares? Insomnia? Would they ever atone for their sins?
Their fingers tightened on the triggers of the ancient-looking rifles. One of the boys turned to the fourth man, who looked older than the rest, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five. His voice quivered as he asked: ‘Shall I shoot him?’
‘What?’ The older man tried to laugh but only a hoarse mumble came out, as if he was trying to clear his throat. He looked past the priest and into the wide blue yonder. ‘And waste a bullet?’
The boy blushed with embarrassment and he lowered his gun. His companions followed suit, and the trio slouched away like kids who have just had their football confiscated by an annoyed neighbour. The older man sniffed theatrically and spat at his feet. He swayed back on his heels and then stepped forward, not looking at the priest; not looking away either. Six long steps brought him to within inches of Pettigrew’s face. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked shattered.
A wave of euphoria swept over the priest. His time had come at last.
Here I am, good and gentle Jesus.
There was an almost imperceptible nod of recognition before the officer placed the fingertips of his left hand on Pettigrew’s chest. The priest looked down at the man’s hand and then back at his face. It was the face of a man who passed no judgement.
With great fervour, I pray and ask You to instil in me genuine convictions of faith, hope and love . . .
The sailor took another step forward, pushing gently, as if he was walking through a half-open door.
Pettigrew’s jaw ached as a smile broke across his face. Agatha is going to kill me, he thought. In slow motion, he fell backwards into space. Arms outstretched, he finally embraced his fate.
. . . with true sorrow for my sins and a firm resolve to amend them.
FIFTEEN
Heading north, Carlyle and Joe walked up Endell Street, enjoying the warm sunshine. It had been a slow morning in the fight against crime in the capital, and the atmosphere in Charing Cross police station was soporific. Despite his best intentions, Carlyle had still not completed his report into the Mills case. Partly that was down to ennui; partly it was a determination – inherited from both his parents – to look every gift horse that came along in the mouth, very carefully indeed. With the last traces of wife-murderer Henry washed from the tarmac outside, the Mills case was now firmly closed. It had solved itself. This was, Carlyle knew as well as anyone, a good thing. Two unnatural deaths accounted for was a nice little gift for the statisticians and the performance tables. All he had to do was wrap it all up in some understated prose, hand it over to Carole Simpson and then everyone would be happy. If something else had come through the door, demanding his time and attention, maybe he would have done that. But, apart from Mills, all he had on his plate at the moment was a domestic, where the wife was battering the husband, and a spate of pickpocketings around Cambridge Circus. Not enough to keep a grown man occupied.
As much to avoid these other cases as anything else, Carlyle was reluctant to close the Mills case just yet. Joe was not impressed when Carlyle told him that he had decided they should take another look at the Millses’ flat. However, the prospect of stopping off for a mid-morning snack on the way won him over. As they reached the top of Endell Street, the usual traffic jam came into view. This was where High Holborn, St Giles High Street, Bloomsbury Street and Shaftesbury Avenue converged. Traffic that knew where it was going mixed with traffic lost in Covent Garden’s tortuous one-way system. Gridlock was the norm here, and a familiar cacophony of horns and shouts greeted the two policemen as they approached. Carlyle did a quick calculation in his head; they would have to cross five roads and fourteen lanes of traffic to reach Ridgemount Mansions, which was barely a quarter of a mile away. Not for the first time, he cursed the city’s ineffectual Mayor. Despite ostentatiously cycling to work once or twice a month, Christian Holyrod was criminally soft on the Congestion Charge that had been introduced by a predecessor in an attempt to get people out of their cars and on to public transport. Carlyle, a Central London resident, firmly believed that it should cost fifty pounds a day, or even a hundred, to drive your car into the centre of London. Hell, if you were serious about improving things, why not ban private cars altogether? Or only allow electric vehicles?
The current £10 charge was a complete joke, Carlyle thought. The traffic was as bad as ever. Meanwhile, all you ever heard was the endless moaning of lazy rich people who thought that it was their inalienable human right to clog the place up with their monster, gas-guzzling, road-hogging 4x4s, popularly known as ‘Chelsea tractors’. These were the people who got Holyrod elected, so the charge wouldn’t be raised to a sensible level any time soon.
It was only after they had slalomed through two lanes of stationary traffic that Carlyle realised that this particular jam was primarily the result of a number 55 bus which had been brought to a halt at a forty-five-degree angle across three lanes of traffic at the corner of Bloomsbury Street and St Giles High Street. Standing in the middle of Shaftesbury Avenue, it took him a little while longer to appreciate that the bus was also on the wrong route. The 55, a single-operator, red double-decker Plaxton President, which came in from Leyton in the east, normally w
ent along Bloomsbury Way and New Oxford Street, before terminating at Oxford Circus. For some reason, it had left its route and was a block south of where it should be.
Bemused, Carlyle took a couple of steps forward and squinted at the vehicle, which was about twenty feet in front of him. The 55 wasn’t indicating that it was out of service and he could see that a couple of passengers were still on board. Nor did the driver appear injured or incapacitated in any way. Rather, he was sitting in his cab like a lemon, watching the chaos unfold all around him, seemingly oblivious to a couple of tourists who were standing straight in front of the bus, videoing him.
The noise levels were rising as more and more drivers vented their displeasure. The temperature felt as if it had risen ten degrees in the last couple of minutes and the exhaust fumes were making Carlyle nauseous. He could taste the pollution collecting in the back of his throat. A familiar grinding sensation at the top of his spine, where it joined his skull, meant a monster headache was on the way. What he most wanted to do now was skip through the rest of the traffic and leave them all to it.
‘We’d better find out what this is all about,’ he shouted to Joe.
They made their way over to the bus and Carlyle rapped on the door at the front opposite the driver. The man was an unhealthy-looking off-white colour, in his twenties, with terrible skin and a pudding-bowl haircut. He gazed at them and then looked away. The passengers on the back seats sat gazing blankly out of the windows. Well used to the vagaries of London’s public transport, they were apparently unconcerned at events.
Walking round to the front of the bus, Carlyle pressed his ID up against the window, in front of the driver’s face. ‘We’re the police!’ he shouted. ‘Open the door!’
The driver blinked a couple of times, but said nothing. Instead, he sat with his hands on the steering wheel and didn’t move. Maybe he’s on drugs, Carlyle thought. His mood was deteriorating by the second. He could sense that a small crowd was gathering behind him and he needed to get the bus moved.
