The amount of blood in the grooves told Jax that the numbers had been on the Serpent’s wall for a long time. Since at least before the 16th Street Baptist Church had been bombed. So he had written the 41 on the wall – the number that represented the 16th Street Baptist Church – before the attack. That meant he’d either planned, known about or predicted the attack.

And then there was the colon. An intriguing addition, it had not been on the wall last time he was here. At first Jax thought they may have been random blood splatter. But there was nothing random about the two perfectly rounded holes under the blood. With the colon, the numbers looked like . . . Jax stopped himself from presuming. Facts. Evidence. Get on with it.

Even if he was right, it would not tell him anything about the next attack, so he moved on. Moved up. To the cursive script, most certainly Arabic and most certainly connected to the numbers. Sharing real estate, and of a similar size to the numerals, the script above the numbers had also been carved and was also coated in blood.

Same size. Same space. Same treatment.

It was most definitely connected. And so was the new writing – also Arabic – written under the numbers.

Same size. Same space. Same treatment.

The wall had been filled. This was the final piece. It could have been his number. But while he had learned to speak Arabic, he couldn’t read it or write it. Clarke should have given him books and not just audio tapes. Not that it mattered. Not with his memory.

Jax took a step back so that he could get a clear view of the writing and translate it later.

And that was when he felt the Serpent’s breath on the back of his neck.

Jax repositioned his torch as he spun around. He’d been holding it like a pen as he studied the wall, but the one-inch-wide tube of metal was firmly in the middle of his fist by the time he completed his turn, a ready-made weapon as well as a light. And when Jax brought his metal-laden fist up to his chin, the bulb was just three inches away from the Serpent.

FACE to face, toe to toe, only a slither of light between them. Jax began to circle as the Serpent remained statue-still.

Rising onto the balls of his feet, fists ready to fire, Jax waited for the Serpent to strike. He would hit after he made the monster miss, then use his speed and the Serpent’s momentum to turn his superior strength into a weakness.

But the Serpent, fully clothed but no less terrifying, did not move.

The anticipation was harder than any hit.

‘You need to leave,’ the Serpent whispered into the dark. ‘Please. Go. He will be back soon.’

What the fuck? Nah . . .

Jax raised his torch. Not far. Just enough to light up the Serpent’s eyes.