James Craig - Time of Death

‘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.

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.