Instead, he started to sift through the non-verified results. Conspiracy theorists abounded, as did, disturbingly, fans of the Serpent. It looked like he had developed a cult-like following. A few more clicks and Jax found himself scanning an amateurish website, riddled with spelling mistakes and images that wouldn’t load: a blog devoted to the Serpent. One of the links in the menu stood out from the others: ‘Prison chaplain’s plan to perform exorcism on Serpent’.

JAX stormed about his cell, pacing from one end to the other. Four steps up and four steps back. He didn’t want to become like them. Like Marsh. Like the Serpent. He wasn’t an animal.

Just give them the pills.

At least his conscience would be clear.

But they will never stop.

Jax wondered what his parents would think if they could see him now. If they saw him stalking around a prison cell, wondering what objects he could turn into weapons.

You’re already a murderer. What does it matter?

It mattered to Jax. He still didn’t know if he was a killer. In spite of all the evidence, there was something inside him that nagged at him, saying that he didn’t do it, couldn’t have done it. The crisis of conscience he was having about hurting a couple of criminals only added to his doubt.

They’re just pills.

Perhaps he should just stick them behind his teeth as instructed, spit them out and drop them in the bald man’s pocket. He was being taken off the tramadol in a couple of days anyway. They wouldn’t want the antibiotics. Then maybe they would leave him alone.

But he knew they wouldn’t. He knew that handing over the pills would be an open invitation to the whole prison population to abuse him. It would mark him as a soft touch. They would keep coming, again and again and again. And not just them – but everyone.

Fight.

Jax looked up at the ceiling. Towards the light.

No, you can’t.

The thought of ripping out a man’s throat with a jagged piece of glass sickened him. He didn’t know if he could live with the guilt. No, it was more than that. If he could do that, it would mean that he was capable of having killed the man in his room. Deniability due to loss of memory had a shelf life – one that Jax feared would expire the moment he justified an act of terrible violence as a means to an end and went through with it.

He stopped pacing and sat down on the bed. He would just give them the pills. He would hand them over. Unless . . .