The Black Knight by Dean Crawford Page A

snapped, as if Aaron needed telling, his back to the open door.
    Aaron felt more restraints locked into place around his ankles, and then he was turned around by one of the guards.
    ‘Time for your counsel meeting.’
    Aaron allowed himself to be guided out of his cell and turned to walk down the featureless, silent corridors. The sound-proofing of the cells deadened all noise, unlike the rowdy halls of other prisons, and there was no stench of urine and sweat that stained penitentiaries across the United States. Aaron noted that every other cell in the block was sealed, and with no windows there was no way to tell who else was incarcerated within.
    The two guards led him down toward the exercise area, but instead of continuing on they turned down a side corridor and led him toward an interview room located on the southern-most tip of the building. The door to the room was open, and as Aaron was led inside he came face to face with his counsellor.
    Byron Thomas, a graduate of Harvard and regular visitor to Aaron since his incarceration, stood from his seat and waited as Aaron was sat in a steel chair bolted to the floor. His manacles were fastened to steel rings in the floor and on the table before the guards withdrew, pushing the door to the interview room close to the jam for privacy but never shutting it completely.
    ‘Good to see you again, Aaron,’ Byron said in a deep, melodious tone.
    Aaron nodded in silence. Byron was, like Aaron, an African American with an impressive physique, six foot four and with broad shoulders. That one could be a former Special Forces soldier and Vietnam veteran, and the other the inhabitant of dusty libraries and law schools seemed impossible to Aaron, but there it was. The academic and the killer, occupying the same room and yet worlds apart.
    Precisely as planned.
    ‘You have progressed well over the past few weeks, Aaron,’ Byron said as he opened a file and then began to slip out of his jacket.
    ‘It’s peaceful here,’ Aaron replied. ‘I wonder why inmates fear it so much. The solitude is wonderful.’
    ‘Most men are not you, Aaron,’ Byron said as he began undoing his tie and pulled a slim, silver object from his pocket that he slid across the table to Aaron’s fingers. ‘People mostly do not naturally enjoy being alone.’
    ‘Fools,’ Aaron replied as he picked up the sliver of metal and turned it expertly in his hands, slipping it into the locking mechanism of the manacles at his wrists and deftly unlocking them. ‘They leech upon the attention of others.’
    ‘Leech,’ Byron echoed. ‘That’s a strong word, Aaron. Do you really despise other human beings so much?’
    ‘Give me a reason not to.’
    Byron quietly slid out of his pants as opposite him Aaron silently unlocked his ankle restraints and stood, removing his gray prison slacks as he moved around the table. Byron walked around to the opposite side and sat down.
    ‘Love, compassion, generosity,’ he said.
    ‘Hate, greed, apathy…,’ Aaron replied, slightly adjusting his voice as he spoke and began putting on Byron’s shirt, pants and jacket.
    ‘… fear, shame, rage,’ Byron continued smoothly as he slid into the prison slacks and began fitting the manacles about his ankles. ‘I don’t care anymore. None of it matters.’
    ‘Everything matters,’ Aaron said. ‘You just have to begin to care about yourself enough to care about the world outside, the people in it.’
    Byrson’s voice darkened, more gravelly now.
    ‘What the hell for? I’m inside for the rest of my life several times over. You think anybody out there cares a damn about me? You think I give a damn about them?’
    ‘And yet you’re progressing well inside this facility,’ Aaron said as he reached into the pocket of Byron’s jacket and removed a small envelope. Inside, beneath the letter it contained, was a fine dusting of gray powder. Aaron dipped his fingers into it and smoothed the powder across his temples, dusting his