‘Well, that’s that, then,’ Father Martin said, nodding in approval and looking to Jax again expectantly.

‘Oh yeah, thanks,’ Jax mumbled, careful not to give much away to the guards, who were watching on with wry interest. He turned towards the tubs, bent down to take the lid off one and busied himself looking at its contents.

He heard the three men retreat, then the guards’ voices – giving the priest a hard time.

‘Another convert, hey, Father?’ one of them said, sarcasm dripping. ‘Thought you were more of a fan of the Leb boys, though, Father. But you like this fresh little whitey too, huh? You’re not fussy, I’ll say that much.’ Their laughter faded as they were swallowed by the wing.

Jax straightened up. It was obvious that the priest was a bit of a laughing stock, even if he did have some sway. Whatever he might be able to get out of this holy man, he was going to have to play his cards carefully.

JAX took a sandwich from the cart and returned to his cell. He was relieved that, today being Saturday, lunch was not a sit-down affair. After eating, he stretched out on his bed, which he had freshly made, with military precision, after stacking his storage tubs neatly on his shelf. Each blanket fold was spirit-level straight and each overlap exactly thirty centimetres. They called it a ‘hospital fold’ in the army.

The traffic outside Jax’s cell was heavy. Saturday was not a work day, so most of the inmates were in the wing. Jax didn’t have a job and wasn’t expecting to have one any time soon. A job in a prison was a privilege, though the right to earn maybe ten dollars a day for sewing and stitching or sawing and sanding was as good as it got.

On Monday, he’d need to take note of all the men who went to work and, more importantly, those who didn’t. Jax predicted that the most dangerous inmates would not have jobs – either by choice or because they’d forfeited the privilege one way or another. A job would get in the way of running an illicit prison trade, too. The guys who controlled the black market in here wouldn’t get out of bed for ten dollars an hour, let alone ten dollars a day. Those at the top of the prison chain were criminal entrepreneurs with a workforce. Like Marsh. The type of men who could find a use for anybody. For Jax.

Bashed, fucked or murdered. Maybe all three . . .