And he was one of them.

He fixed his gaze out the window and tried not to think about Nikki, and the look on her face when his sentence had been handed down. Ten years on the bottom, twelve on top. She’d been so shocked that all she’d done was let out a small cry before collapsing back into her chair in the gallery, her head in her hands. Nikki hadn’t believed it would come to this, but he had known it would. A man with no memory cannot mount a defence. And like everyone else, Jax saw the evidence. All the evidence . . .

Jax heard the doors of the bus open and the driver shuffling out of his seat. He kept his eyes trained on the window, observing the man’s movements in the reflection. His instincts told him to always be aware of his surroundings. To study every detail. Assess every risk. But he had to be careful here. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself – he knew where that would lead.

As his fellow passengers started shifting in their chains, a few of them making incoherent grunts, Jax took the opportunity to glance around very quickly and take a mental snapshot of his new home. It was grim. What was left of the day had been swallowed by a towering sandstone wall, medieval and menacing, almost ten metres high and topped with loops of razor-wire. The sandstone looked as though it could withstand a nuclear blast. The fact that it had been built to keep people in – and not out – was a stark reminder of everything that Jax had lost.

‘Hey, shitbags,’ shouted the bus driver. ‘Welcome to Long Bay. She’s a fuckin’ palace, ain’t she?’

The driver stepped off the bus and passed an untidy bundle of papers through a slot in a glass window to a guard in a small brick station by the gate.

‘Clear,’ the gatekeeper hollered a few minutes later, after examining the paperwork.

As he climbed back aboard, the driver studied his cargo and his face broke into a smile. ‘Marsh, huh,’ he said, looking directly at a big man seated in front of Jax. ‘It’s welcome home for you, isn’t it, mate?’ He chuckled as he got back behind the wheel and shook his head as the engine burst into life.

The iron gate, its pitted metal covered by a fresh coat of olive-green paint, began to open. The noise was horrendous: two five-inch-thick slabs of metal being dragged across concrete, all grind and groan, a heavy-metal version of fingernails on a blackboard. The driver grabbed a gear and gave it some gas, the diesel explosion rocking the bus floor and bouncing the chains they all wore on their ankles.