Reconciliation

                                      Reconciliation

Yusif Massad did not have the look of a dying man. Although confined to a wheelchair, he appeared to be in reasonable health. If anything, he looked fitter than the last time Dan Black had seen him, in the well of the Central Criminal Court when the stern-faced judge gave the would-be suicide bomber life for the murder of his only child. The injuries inflicted by his carrier bag bomb had not fully healed by the time of sentencing. In addition to the bomber losing both legs, shrapnel had torn through his cheek and the socket of his left eye. His youth no doubt had helped the scar tissue to fade, though the eye patch gave his face a cruel look.

Dan stole a glance at his wife. Anne's demeanor betrayed little though her eyes remained fixed on Massad as she toyed with the small gold cross she wore suspended on a thin chain round her neck. Carol's death had demonstrated time after time just how inadequately he had known his wife. Forty years of marriage and he had been exposed as little more than a stranger. They had been living apart for the last eight months, grief having swamped their relationship with nobody to throw them a lifeline. They talked on the phone once or twice a month, more from a sense of obligation that anything else. Early that morning he had left from his sister's house in Cockfosters, picking up his wife in Enfield, and in almost total silence had driven south-east across London to HMP Belmarsh, home to some of Britain’s most dangerous terrorists.

            Michael Jennings, the Black's family solicitor, cleared his throat and spoke to the two prison officers who had brought Massad to the cramped interview room.

            "Thank you. You may leave us now."

            The senior officer nodded and said, "We'll be just outside. Stick your head out if you need anything. There's a panic button on the wall beside you."

            The warders took their leave, closing the door behind them. Five people remained in the over-heated, windowless room which smelt strongly of disinfectant and cigarette smoke. The bare walls painted an institution lime. Arranged round the table were Dan and Anne Black, their solicitor Jennings, Massad and his solicitor Thomas Quayle. Three on one side and two on the other. A spare chair sat against the rear wall, superfluous to the convicted killer’s needs, its emptiness reminding Dan of his tragic loss.

            For a few moments nobody spoke, and then both solicitors, like gunfighters vying for the fastest draw, reached for their briefcases and simultaneously withdrew thick files and set them on the polished surface of the table. Quayle had cleared leather first.

            Massad’s solicitor was keen to get the proceedings underway. “Anything said here today will remain strictly confidential. We can talk freely, the authorities are not listening.”

“Mr. Black,” Jennings said, “has asked me to state that he is here on his daughter's behalf, not his own.”

“Noted,” Quayle said, then continued, “My client has been diagnosed with terminal inoperable bowel cancer. Two oncology consultants have examined him and agreed that he has, at best, no longer than three months to live.”

            Dan had often wondered who was footing Quayle’s bill. The plummy-voiced Eton-educated solicitor would not come cheap. Jennings had gone to a north London comprehensive and was clearly uncomfortable handling anything outside his conveyance or estate settlement proficiency.

            Quayle said, “I have petitioned the Home Office for compassionate parole on behalf of my client. Prior to any decision being made, the Home Secretary requested that this reconciliation meeting be held.”