15 PeterMar 16th, 2008 | By Ian Poulton | Category: Writing
Peter’s diary entry for 4 a.m. Saturday
Saturday morning, 4 am.
I don’t know how to write these words. Everything has gone wrong.
We are somewhere in the city, I don’t know where. Someone knew a house where we would be safe.
Everyone sits in silence. No-one is inclined to talk. A few people have tried to rest, but sleep is elusive.
I am not even sure why we are here. What is the use in remaining in a place of failure and death? Why remain? Nothing good can come of just hiding.
Every noise frightens us. Every footstep passing the door, every person passing in the street; we are like mice, cowering in the corner, not knowing what to expect.
Someone brought us food. It was left untouched. A few sips of water are all that anyone has taken.
I expected recriminations; I thought there would be finger-pointing and accusations; I thought there would be very different reactions, and that everyone would have gone their own way. What is there now to keep us together? We are all so different that by ourselves we have nothing in common, except our memories.
There is nothing, except silence.
Perhaps it is just shock. Perhaps we are all so stunned that there simply are not words that would be adequate to express even a fraction of what is felt. I do not know.
I look around the room now in the flickering lamplight and I wonder how we came to be here. What possessed us to think that we could be the ones who would bring freedom to our people?
Look at us: four of us are fishermen; one of us, a taxman; the rest, a gather up of unlikely characters; what could we have done to change anything? It would be laughable, if it were not so sad.
“Sad”, what sort of word is that? “Sad” does not describe what has happened. It is useless to try to find words for the hellish events of yesterday, useless.
I do not begin to understand what has happened in these past days. I would not have believed these things had I not seen them with my own eyes.
Will there be anyone who will remember what happened in this city? Didn’t we always murder the prophets?
“What was different about this one?” people will ask. “Who will remember another dead preacher?”
Perhaps it would be better if the memories were wiped from our minds; it has all ended so badly. Perhaps it would be better if we could just forget the past three years; all those hopes we had.
Perhaps I would be the first to say “forget”; I have been the worst of culprits, betraying everything I said I believed.
Well, the worst except Iscariot. No-one has seen him since Thursday night. I don’t suppose anyone will worry if we don’t see him again. He seemed a man going his own way, a man with his own agenda.
So we sit and we wait. Waiting for what? It is almost as though we expect something, yet what is there left to expect? What is there that can change anything? What is there that can make any sense of these past days?
What is there that could possibly change this darkness into light?