There were now details where last night there had only been shadows. The walls were cream, the cell doors light blue. A quick audit revealed a total of eighty cells in the wing. Forty down and forty up. Jax didn’t have to count the prisoners to know there were more than eighty. They straggled out of cells and onto the landing and into the wing in twos, threes and even the odd group of four. He realised his one-out cell was an anomaly.

He stood in his open doorway and watched as the crowd flowed past. Some stretched and yawned, others, wide awake, jostled and joked. They were all decked out in green. From either end of the upper floor, they spilled down two staircases, the metal steps rumbling beneath the tide of men. Jax could see that they were mostly aged between twenty-five and forty, heavily tattooed and Caucasian. Guards of varying ages and sizes were dotted throughout the wing, some standing silently observing, others calling out here and there to one or another inmate. No sign of Rogers. No sign of Marsh.

Jax could not see anyone who looked younger than him, or anyone less physically developed. Although he was taller than most, he was a lightweight. Seventy-seven kilograms last time he checked. He suddenly wanted to retreat to the safety of his cell. Go back to his wafer-like mattress and never come out.

He left it as long as he could before joining the fray. Besides needing time to regain his nerve, he also thought waiting for the wing to clear would minimise risk. He wanted as few inmates to see him as possible. So, he waited, waited and waited – and finally he moved.

Just as he was starting to get into his stride, Jax heard a cell door screech behind him, followed by a heavy footfall echoing closer and closer. He didn’t dare turn back to look, but judging by the loud noise the rubber soles made as they smacked the tiles, he was a big man. Over 100 kilograms, Jax estimated. But even though the man’s pace was steady and quick, he was dragging one of his legs. A limp.

Jax walked as if expecting a blow: head down and body tensed. He was waiting to be tripped, or maybe slapped on the back of the head – the sort of thing the bullies used to do to him at school. But he made it to the yard unscathed and intact.

The inmates had already formed themselves into crude lines. They were facing a severely outnumbered guard armed with only a clipboard. Jax plugged himself into a gap and put his head down.

‘50387,’ the guard called.

‘Here,’ came the reply.

Jax noted the number but could not see the man, as he was evidently on the far side of the pack.

‘56758,’ the guard called.

‘Present,’ came the reply.

Jax couldn’t see 56758 either.

‘49845,’ the guard called.

‘Here,’ came the reply.