The man was huge, head glancing the roof, chest the width of the heavy cage door he was effortlessly pulling open. He had to be six foot eight. He was clean-cut and sharply dressed, in well-cut navy-blue trousers and a sky-blue button-up shirt that was snug enough to showcase the athletic torso beneath it. Jax, who stood six foot two, suddenly felt small.

He had read about the ‘reception biff’ shortly after he’d decided to plead guilty to the murder he didn’t know if he’d committed. A prison stint assured, he’d bought every nonfiction prison book he could find in preparation for his sentence and speed-read the lot, scanning for salient details. A number of accounts said that the reception biff – the practice of guards viciously assaulting newly arrived prisoners in a bid to establish a position of power – was once commonplace. Once. Jax told himself not to worry.

‘Exit the cage,’ the guard boomed. ‘Walk. Exit the bus and turn left.’

Jax complied, his chains clinking, clunking and clattering with every shuffled step. He stopped himself from raising his head after negotiating the steps. He didn’t want to look up. Didn’t want to lock eyes with Marsh again.

‘Move,’ the officer demanded. ‘To the yellow line.’

Looking only at legs and the line, Jax moved to his spot in the line-up.

‘I’m Officer Turner, and I am in charge of getting you all admitted and processed without incident. You will all now be placed in a holding cell,’ the big man said after the bus was emptied. ‘You will be separated into two groups, seven in each cell.’

Jax thought of the wink. Of being locked in a cell with Marsh.

‘You will wait in that cell until your name is called. If you do not cooperate, we have the right to use force, including Taser force,’ he continued. ‘Once called, you will be processed by a reception officer.’

The giant walked over to Marsh. Got right up in his face. ‘I meant what I said. No fucking around, Marsh,’ he spat. ‘No fighting, no shit. Or I won’t just Taser you, I’ll put you in with the Lebs.’

JAX could feel him staring. The last of the seven to be put into the first holding cell, Jax had felt his heart rate spike the moment he’d spotted Marsh sitting on a bench on the right side of the cell, his arms crossed and his back against the concrete wall.

So Jax went left, towards an underweight middle-aged man covered in sores. He ignored the smell – a cocktail of stale sweat, piss and Rexona roll-on – and took a seat next to the drug addict.

The man’s stench was nauseating, but Jax was more concerned about Marsh. As Jax discreetly sized up his other cell companions, the junkie started fidgeting. Moving. Squirming. Then he raised his knees and shoved a hand down the front of his pants.