‘Give breakfast a miss and sort yourself out,’ Turner said, handing Jax the ice pack and tossing the sandwich onto his desk. ‘I’m here all day if you need me.’ He pulled a bottle of water from his pocket and threw it to Jax before leaving. ‘You might have to come up with a new plan, kid,’ Turner said. ‘The one you got ain’t working.’

The guard was right. Jax was suddenly back in Afghanistan. In Operation Detonate. Not at the execution of the IED-clearing operation but at the planning of it. You had to start with intelligence. He needed information – specifically, where the bombs were, so he wouldn’t step on them. He needed to embark on a reconnaissance mission. But not right now. Not yet. Not until they all came and went.

He listened for footfall as he iced his leg. So cold it felt like fire at first, the ice pack was warm by the time the rest of the inmates returned from breakfast. Jax threw the soft pack into the sink and paced around his cell as he waited for them all to leave again. His leg was warm again, the numbness almost worked out, by the time the activity outside reached a crescendo around 8.50 am, rubber squeaking, soles stamping as the inmates rushed off to work. He decided to wait another fifteen minutes to allow for stragglers, even though prisoners were military-like in their punctuality.

Jax broke his own rule when he finally stepped out of his cell for something other than muster, a meal or a medical emergency. But that was okay. His bruised and battered body was evidence that his rules weren’t working. He needed new rules. Keeping his head down and himself to himself was not enough.

Still, he dropped his head as soon as he saw the man walking towards him. He didn’t consider 49986, an elderly man who mostly kept to himself, to be a threat, but better safe than sorry. He didn’t know the old man’s name. Obviously either serving a significant sentence or a repeat offender given his number, 49986 lived in a cell on the first floor, which Jax hadn’t visited. Not yet.

Once 49986 had passed, Jax lifted his head and started his cell-card search. Each cell with a resident had a cell card, which was kept in a plastic sleeve and secured to the door with a zip-tie. The door he was now looking at had two.

He read the first: Craig Maguire. D-Block. Cell No. 9. Two-out. MIN: 50896.

And then the second: Desmond Green. D-Block. Cell No. 9. Two-out. MIN: 58745.

No changes there. Jax had managed to look at all the cards on the ground floor during his comings and goings. There were seventy-two men on his floor last time he checked. He was looking for a new name. Two, in fact.