He wriggled and groaned. The smell of shit now overpowered all the other odours. The junkie pulled his fist from his pants, pushed it towards Jax’s face and partially opened his hand. ‘Do us a favour, mate?’ he pleaded, his whispered voice hoarse. ‘Take this in for us? I’ve been done before. But they won’t be looking at a clean fella like you.’

Jax looked at the junkie’s shit-smeared palm. Then at the metal mint container – spearmint Eclipse – sheathed in cling wrap and coated in spittle. He politely shook his head.

‘Argh, come on, man,’ the addict said. ‘Help a fella out. I’ll give ya half if you get it in. They won’t even search you.’

‘Oi, smackhead,’ a voice from across the room boomed. ‘Fuck off. Go on. Fuck off. Leave me little mate alone.’ Jax looked up to see Marsh stalking across the cell, pointing at the man next to Jax. ‘Get up, cunt,’ he continued. ‘MOVE. Take your hepatitis and fuck off over there.’

The man jumped up and scurried off. Jax glanced at the now empty bench beside him. He clenched his teeth as he summed up the situation. Six prisoners. No guards. Two cameras. While the addict and another two prisoners lacked the physical capabilities to inflict any significant damage, aside from Marsh there were three other men in the room with enough bulk to present a threat.

‘Fucking smackies,’ Marsh said as he sat down heavily next to Jax. ‘Place is full of the useless cunts. They would sell their mums’ pussies for a hit. Don’t go near ’em and certainly don’t fuck ’em . . . They’ve all got fucking AIDS.’

Jax didn’t respond. It was clear that Marsh was a bikie. A white Anglo-Saxon, covered in ink and powered by steroids. A man two guards had known by name. All he was missing was his leathers and patch. A Comanchero or maybe a Rebel, Jax figured. Marsh slid along the bench.

Closer to Jax.

Marsh stopped when he could move no more, his left thigh firmly pressed into Jax’s right leg. Too close. Marsh placed his left arm around Jax’s shoulders and pulled him in roughly.

‘But you don’t have to worry about ’em,’ Marsh said into his ear. ‘None of ’em. Not the junkies. Not the Lebs. Not the FOBs. Not the gooks. None of them. No one will fuck with you if you’re one of my boys.’

His grip, loose at first, tightened.

‘You’re my boy, right?’ Marsh asked as he flexed and squeezed.

Survival instinct kicking in, Jax gave a barely perceptible nod. It was a reflex, not a decision.

‘Good,’ Marsh relaxed his grip. ‘You’re gonna be just fine. Leave it to me. I’ll make all the arrangements.’

‘Marsh,’ a guard shouted. ‘Daniel Marsh.’