‘I’m not giving my name.’

A uniformed policeman came in and placed a stack of files on the reception desk. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Five bodies.’

The officer kept his eyes on Macdonald. ‘You can’t not give your name,’ he said.

Macdonald shrugged. The prison officer waved two officers over. They took Macdonald into a side room and professionally strip-searched him. They checked his open mouth, behind his ears, and made him squat. Then they took him back to the reception desk.

‘Name?’ repeated the prison officer, as if it was the first time he’d asked the question.

Macdonald shook his head.

‘Look, it’s no skin off my nose,’ said the officer. ‘You get a number anyway.’ He tapped the form in front of him. ‘This number will follow you for the rest of your sentence whether or not there’s a name to go with it.’

‘I haven’t been sentenced,’ said Macdonald. ‘I’m on remand.’

The prison officer flicked through the files and pulled out Macdonald’s, which contained only a few sheets of paper. His photograph was clipped to the inside cover.

The officer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been in prison before?’

Macdonald said nothing.

The officer read through the papers. ‘No fingerprints on file so this is your first time in the system,’ he said, as he continued to read. Once he’d scanned the final sheet he looked at Macdonald and sneered. ‘Right, then, you being a new boy and all, let me explain something to you. Your time on the remand wing can be relatively painless, or it can be a bloody misery, and the way you get treated depends one hundred per cent on how you treat us. Time out of your cell, the amount you can spend on canteen, recreation, association, the clothes you wear, it’s all down to how much co-operation you show us. Do you get my drift?’

Macdonald stared at him, his face blank. The Alsatian barked again, and another prisoner was led into the reception area, handcuffed to a policeman. Macdonald turned to look at the new arrival but it wasn’t a face he recognised.

‘Name?’ repeated the prison officer. He waited for a few seconds, then pushed Macdonald’s papers to the side. ‘Have it your way,’ he said. He turned to a computer terminal and tapped on the keyboard. He looked at the screen, then wrote down a number on a manila file: SN 6759. Next to the number were spaces for Macdonald’s surname and forenames. ‘You are now in the system, prisoner SN 6759,’ said the officer. ‘Everything that happens to you will be noted in your F2050 here and it doesn’t give a toss whether you’ve got a name or not.’ He gestured with his chin at the holding cell. ‘Take a seat.’ He beckoned to the new arrival to approach the desk. The prisoner was a teenager in denims, who looked close to tears. Macdonald wondered what he’d done to justify being sent to a Category A facility.