Reconciliation
By
A. J. Davidson


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 had seen him, in the well of the Central Criminal Court when the would-be suicide bomber had been given 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 were 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 conveyancing 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.”
The solicitor made a point of looking directly into the eyes of both the Blacks. “I believe he has written to you with an assurance that due consideration and weight will be given to your wishes before a final decision is made.”
“Too bloody right,” Dan spat out angrily. “He doesn’t want another fiasco like the Lockerbie bomber’s release. Not with a general election months away.”
He thought he had learnt to control his anger, his bitterness, but Dan could feel it burning fiercely deep down inside his guts, just waiting to explode. He directed a hard stare at the bomber sitting just a few feet away. How easy it would be to launch himself across the table and rip out the bastard’s throat with his bare hands. The killer would be dead before the warders had time to pull him off. No jury in England would convict him.
Jennings placed a comforting hand on Dan’s arm He handed him a wallet of photographs from the top of his file.
His hands shaking, Dan removed the pictures from the envelope. He selected one and slid it across the table towards Massad. It was a small monochrome print.
“That’s our daughter on the day my wife and I brought her home from hospital. She was a beautiful baby. Everyone said so.”
Massad’s one good eye flicked momentarily onto the image. Failing to see any sign of remorse, Dan slid another picture across.
“That’s Carol on her first day at school. She was a bright child, always had her head stuck in a book.”
More pictures were placed on the table, Dan making a brief comment on the significance of each one. Massad looked down at each photograph but remained silent.
Dan’s voice began to falter; he found the words difficult to say, elucidating his feelings even harder. “Here’s one of my proudest memories. Carol’s graduation from Bristol University.” Tears welled up and he let them come. Overwhelmed, he removed the rest of the pictures and hurled them at Massad’s face.
The bomber did not flinch as the snapshots struck him and rained to the floor. Dan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the salt moisture from his face.
Without saying a word, Anne rose from her seat and started to collect the pictures from the floor. She clasped them tightly to her chest, as though she was clutching her daughter's lifeless body. She got down on her knees to retrieve one that had landed under the bomber’s wheelchair.
Dan’s face burned with shame. How could she debase herself in front of scum like him? She had never exhibited the same rage as that which had engulfed him. Her quiet acceptance of the manner of Carol’s death had further added to his frustration and sense of impotency. At first, he rationalised their divergent responses by telling himself it was a father’s job to protect his daughter, a mother’s to love and nurture. He was the one that had failed, not his wife. Everyone grieves in their own way, he further excused his anger.
Anne had slowly retreated into herself after Carol’s murder, and to his everlasting shame he had allowed it to happen. He should have been there to offer comfort and support as promised in their wedding vows; instead he had committed his energy to hatred and the seeking of vengeance. Maybe if there had been a son-in-law and a grandchild or two, someone else for his wife to focus on. Deep down he knew he had evaded his responsibility because he felt incapable of shouldering Anne's pain in addition to his own.
It had taken a long time for Dan to come to the understanding that the British legal system was not about justice. The police investigation had been short-lived and he had been excluded almost entirely from every aspect of it. The police had appointed a liaison officer, a woman constable, whose duty included keeping them informed of developments. He had learnt more from the newspapers than he had from her. Collecting the cuttings, he had pasted them into a scrapbook. Anne had found it, hidden behind a bookcase in his study. Destroy it, she had pleaded, or it will destroy us.
When the case came to court, he had felt even more ostracised. Massad had had little choice but to plead guilty, and a barrister had been appointed by the prosecution service to represent the Crown. Not the victim's family, Dan had remarked bitterly at the time. The case yielded further headlines and a retribution of sorts, but little justice.
He waited until his wife had retaken her seat before speaking again, addressing himself to Quayle, “Carol would have been forty-two next week. There will be no photographs of her cutting a cake or blowing out candles. There will be no more pictures of our beautiful daughter. No more happy days filled with love and laughter. Can you tell me how to reconcile that?”
“My client is sorry about the death of your daughter.”
“The cold-blooded murder of my daughter,” Dan corrected. “That’s what the judge called it.”
“My client is sorry about the death of your---”
“---Let him say it. I want to hear him say it.”
Everyone turned towards Massad.
The bomber raised his head slightly and met their stares. “It is Allah’s will that I will soon meet your daughter in heaven.”
“Not in my heaven,” Dan said.
“In mine perhaps.”
Dan rolled his eyes. “You’re Sunni Muslim, aren’t you? What sort of faith allows killers of innocent women to believe they will be rewarded with eternal heaven?”
“Our faiths have many similarities. Don’t Christians believe that there is great joy in heaven over a sinner repenting?”
“The bible also says an eye for an eye.”
Massad grinned and tapped his eye patch. “So does the Koran.”
Dan savagely pushed back his chair and leapt to his feet. Quayle shrank back and raised an arm towards the panic button, fearful that Dan might attack him.
“We’re through here. This is a bloody waste of time,” Dan shouted. “My daughter’s lying rotting in a cold grave and this prick can’t wait to ascend to heaven.”
He moved towards the door and lifted his hand to open it.
“Please wait for a moment, Dan,” Anne said softly, “I would like a chance to speak with Mr Massad.”
Dan turned and eyed his wife speculatively. He had not seen her look so resolute since she had fought a parking ticket in court. She had refused to pay the fixed penalty, preferring to put her case to a local magistrate. After listening to her reasoned argument the magistrate had come down on her side. For a small woman, she occasionally displayed a core of hardened steel. Always willing to fight for what she believed was right. It was one of the things he had fallen in love with.
“Sit down Dan.”
Not needing to be instructed twice, Dan retook his seat. Familiar with the concentration on his wife’s face, he thought Massad should start praying to Allah now.
While everyone waited for Anne to speak, the frail pensioner picked up her handbag from the floor and unclipped the catch. She removed a photograph, not one of those that Jennings had brought. Dan had seen the picture before, but not for many years.
“Do you recognise the young woman standing next to my daughter?” Anne asked, holding the picture out towards Massad. Both women wore keffiyeh scarves and their faces displayed all the excitement of two friends starting an adventure.
Massad gave a questioning nod. “I don't understand. Is this some PhotoShop trick?”
“Your mother Nisreen and my daughter were best friends at school,” Anne explained “After they took their A Levels, they decided to spend a year as volunteers in a Gaza hospital before starting university. What the young ones now call taking a gap year.”
Quayle took the picture from Anne and examined it closely. It had clearly been taken in the Middle East, the sky a deep clear azure, the parched terrain burnt ochre by the sun.
“How could Dan or I say no to her? We had brought her up to help others less fortunate, so we could not stand in her way. And I had always liked Nisreen. Her family had friends in the Gaza strip and it was arranged for the girls to stay with them.”
Massad shrugged. “What do I care if your infidel daughter cleaned bedpans for a year? Many Westerners salve their consciences this way, while still turning a blind eye to what Israel has done to Palestine.”
“Carol only worked in the hospital for three months.”
Dan searched his wife's face for an explanation.
Anne gently took the photograph from Quayle's hand and returned it to her bag. “Less than a week after they took up their posts, both girls were gang-raped by four men.”
It was evident from Massad's reaction that it was as much a revelation to him as to Dan.
“They were called into the hospital late one night. A curfew had been imposed and the streets were empty. They needed to be careful not to be seen, so they cut through the back alleys. They ran into some men hiding inside an abandoned building.”
“Sons of devils,” Massad hissed.
“I never knew,” Dan said softly. “Carol never told me.”
“Telling me was the hardest thing she ever had to do. Carol and Nisreen flew back to London and she telephoned me from the airport,” Anne said, turning to face her husband. “She was carrying a rapist's child.”
Dan found breath hard to find. The room became to swim in front of him. He loosened his tie and ran a finger round his shirt collar. Sweat trickled down his back.
“What has this to do with me?” Massad asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.
“The three of us met at Nisreen's sister's house. Carol told me everything that had happened in Gaza and how she had already decided that abortion was out of the question. She would carry the child to full term. Nisreen had suffered some internal injuries from the rape and was no longer capable of conceiving. She had agreed to adopt the child. Under the circumstances they felt the Social Services would not stand in their way. I had to promise not to tell Dan. In return for my silence Carol would return to her home at the expected time, as though nothing had happened.”
“I don't believe a word of it. My mother would have told me if I had been adopted,” Massad snarled.
Anne dipped into her bag a second time and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. She opened it carefully and handed it to Quayle. “Would you confirm to your client that this is a properly registered birth certificate?”
“Yusif Black, born 2nd March 1987, Hammersmith Maternity Hospital,” Quayle read aloud in his Eton accent. “Mother's name's given as Carol Black, father's name is unknown.”
Dan reached out and put an arm round his wife's shoulder. It was the first time he had touched her in over a year. He buried his head in her silver hair, his body wracked with deep sobbing.
“What has Allah to say about allowing those who kill their own mothers into eternal paradise?” Anne asked.
Massad grabbed the tyres of his wheelchair and reversed backwards from the table. His chair slammed against the rear wall of the cramped room.
“This is nonsense. A total fiction created by a sad old woman seeking revenge,” he screamed, spittle trailing from his mouth.
Dan raised his head and stared at the Arab, a faint smile spreading across his face.
“You may have thought,” he said, “that it took courage to be a suicide-bomber, but it was nothing compared to what my wife and daughter did. Every day for the rest of my life I will pray to my God that you burn in hell.”
Massad shook his head, a sneer on his thin lips. “She was an infidel. Allah's will was done. I will receive my promised reward.”
“There's one further point I should mention,” Anne said. “The men who raped my daughter weren't Arabs, they were Jewish soldiers.”
Massad's scream reverberated against the claustrophobic walls. He smashed the empty chair against the floor, and then started to bang the back of his head against the wall.
Dan rose and helped his wife to her feet. He took her arm solicitously. “Let's go home, dear.”
The warders burst into the room; all set to intervene in what from outside must have sounded like quite a fracas.
Jennings held up a placating hand to signal that their assistance was not needed. As Quayle pushed Massad's chair away from the wall, he was the only one in the room to see Anne Black silently mouth something to his client.


One of the warders volunteered to escort the Blacks to the prison exit and Jennings had tagged along with them. It had taken some serious advocacy on Quayle's part, but a quarter of an hour later he and his client were finally left alone in the room. Ten minutes was all the warder would permit.
Quayle withdrew from his pocket a perfectly crisp linen handkerchief and folded it into a pad so he could dab at the blood on the back of Yusif's head. He bent down and made a perfunctory triage.
“You'll live,” the solicitor said.
“But not for long.”
Quayle handed Yusif the handkerchief so the Arab could minister to his own needs. He grabbed a seat and sat facing his client.
“I want to know what just happened here,” he said.
“You heard what I heard. Mrs Black accused me of being her grandson. I had inadvertently killed my biological mother. The Jewish rapists were a nice touch.”
Quayle snorted in contempt, sounding rather like a horse whinnying. “London's a populous city, and South Ealing is a very busy tube station, but I just don't buy the coincidence that the only two people injured were mother and son who hadn't seen each other in over twenty years.”
“It was Allah's will.”
“Don't give me that crap. Mrs Black mouthed something to you as she left. It looked a lot like 'Thank you'.”
“Did she? I'm afraid my vision was blurred at the time.”
Quayle took a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. He offered one to his client who declined. The solicitor lit up and inhaled a hefty drag.
“Prison is one of the few places you can still enjoy a good smoke,” he observed, before losing himself in thought.
After a few moments of further contemplation, he said, “If I had known who Carol Black was, I could have fought your prosecution. Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, put yourself in the dead woman's mind. Your long forgotten son contacts you. The son given up at birth. The son conceived during an unimaginably savage sexual assault. The son you have spent two decades trying to block out of your mind. The son's adoptive mother is dead and he has tracked down and requested a meeting with his biological one. A primitive home-made bomb explodes at that reunion and the police jump to a conclusion. The investigation has just one focus. But what if it had been the mother who had constructed and packed the bomb in the plastic carrier bag?”
“Who's going to believe that a middle-aged Englishwoman would know how to make a bomb?”
“Five minutes on the internet is all it would have taken. Or perhaps she had seen it done in the Gaza strip. Had Carol Black considered taking her revenge against the occupying soldiers? Then she changed her mind after discovering her pregnancy.”
“You're forgetting that I pleaded guilty.”
“Second rule of a criminal lawyer, never believe your client.”
“What's the first?”
“Always get your fees upfront. Anne Black would have made a bloody good defence barrister.”
“In what way?”
“Juries can be a lot like people. There are arrogant juries, dumb juries, even prejudiced juries. A smart defence barrister knows that to win he has to convince the jurors that he's on their side.”
“Reconcile them?”
“Exactly.”

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 17.03.2010

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