Some of the worst episodes were sparked by the calls themselves. After receiving bad news, inmates often hung up the phone and attacked the nearest person.

‘I’m fucking your best friend.’

Whack!

‘Your teenage daughter is pregnant.’

Whack!

‘Your appeal has been denied.’

Whack!

No one had ever whacked Marsh. And he never had to queue to use the phone. No one else dared to enter the first cubicle on a Friday afternoon. That was Marsh’s phone. Strictly reserved.

With his little black book sitting on the metal ledge, open and waiting, and a red pen and a black pen standing by, Marsh didn’t even have to go through the prison operator to call the TAB’s free 1800 number. He dialled the number himself, punched in his account number and, after a few more digits in response to prompts, he started going through the week’s deposits.

‘From account 34520,’ the robotic female voice delivered in monotone. ‘$100. Deposited on Thursday. 4.12 pm. Press 1 for next transaction.’

Marsh scrolled through the numbers in his black book until he found the one the female robot had read out.

34520.

Chris Haines.

$100.

Protection Payment.

He placed a big black tick in a corresponding column, then pressed 1.

‘From account 41222,’ the voice said. ‘$68. Deposited on Thursday. 8.42 pm. Press 1 for next transaction.’

Marsh scrolled through the numbers in his black book.

41222.

Shane Budd.

$150.

Drugs.

He shook his head.

‘Cunt,’ he muttered.

Shane was $82 short.

When this kind of thing happened, he didn’t immediately get up and whack anyone, because his bad news wasn’t really his bad news. It was always someone else’s bad news.

Marsh put a big red ‘X’ in a column next to Budd’s name then used the same red pen to write $82 in the next column. Marsh couldn’t spell for shit, but he had no problems with maths. Maths was money.

On he went, listening, marking and pressing buttons until the lady robot finally said, ‘No more transactions. Press 9 to return to the main menu or simply hang up to log out.’

Marsh hung up the phone and looked at his list. Three red crosses. He flicked to the middle of his book and, with a delicacy he didn’t look capable of, gently separated the centre page from the staples. He picked up his red pen and wrote, slowly and neatly.

Shane Budd. Touch up and collect $82. Short.

Chris Boyd. Beating and collect $50. First warning.

Charlie Smith. Nee caping and collect $200. Final warning.

He folded the paper into four and put the neat square into his pocket. He would give it to Bluey tomorrow. Jax’s name was not on the list. That was one he wanted to take care of himself.