Chapter 1

Seven years later

Away from his brothers, Stone, Jude and Mickey, Newt could finally admit out loud that he was scared. The most scared he'd ever been. He whispered his fears under his breath. They threatened to choke him as his shoulders knocked against the cubicle with each bump in the road or turn when they took a corner.

Mickey had told him about the sweatbox, the vehicle used to transfer convicted prisoners from below the court to whatever prison they'd been assigned, and he'd also told Newt it was doubtful he'd be alone on the trip. Other prisoners would be shipped out on the same day, crammed into tiny cubicles, each with a blacked-out window too scratched to see out of and a painful seat with inadequate safety features in the event they crashed.

Newt wanted to crash.

He wanted to crawl free of the wreckage and return to his job at Stud Muffins bakery like nothing had happened.

But something had happened.

Jefferey Sharpe had died.

A fist smashed into the joining wall between him and another prisoner. Newt's heart tripped out of rhythm before settling at a much faster pace. The guy behind him was yelling and swearing in a gruff voice, complaining at first about reasonable things, the cramped conditions, the drive, the bumps and turns, but then he started doing the awkward British thing and cursing the weather, which merged into climate change and something about polar bears.

Newt could tell he was a big man by the slam of his body when they took a roundabout.

"Oi," the man snarled, then he tapped Newt's wall. "What you in for?"

Newt didn't answer. He tried his best to lean forward, but the sweatbox had other ideas, throwing him back into his seat.

"It's a mistake to ignore me. You don't want me as an enemy."

Mickey had told him not to lie about his conviction. It would come out eventually, but the words stuck in Newt's throat. His tongue and lips refused to aid his efforts, and he ended up making a choked noise instead.

"You mocking me?"

Newt shook his head despite the guy not being able to see.

"You don't tell me what you're in for, and I might come up with my own theory…"

There was a harsh sigh, not from the heavy guy with the gruff voice behind but from the partition directly in front of Newt.

The other prisoner.

Newt had heard as they led him into the van. He'd heard the prisoner's door shut, but nothing from the actual man inside until he spoke in a smooth and calm voice, "Maybe he's in for fucking your mother."

Newt's eyes went wide. He dropped his head into his hands, staring at his feet in disbelief. He was going to die. Before he'd even stepped inside the prison, he was going to get stabbed.

The gruff voice growled, "You take that back." His fist smashed into the wall. Newt jumped. "And fucking my mother is not a criminal offence, wise guy. Get your facts straight."

The smooth voice in front replied, "It depends on where he fucked her."

"You son of a bitch." The cubicle vibrated as a fist hammered against the partition. "My mother does not take it up the arse."

"I meant location, wise guy. The pleasures of the back passage are not illegal, but having sex repeatedly in public is…as your mother now knows."

"My mother is eighty-five."

"Then she really should know better."

"You're both living dangerously right now."

"Me?" Newt squeaked.

"Yeah, you, talking about fucking my mother?—"

"I wasn't?—"

"You didn't deny it."

Newt swallowed. "For the record, I didn't do that with your mother. I don't want to do that with your mother either."

"Why? What's wrong with her?"

Newt gawped at his tapping feet. "Nothing, I'm sure she's a lovely lady."

"But?" the gruff voice pressed.

"I don't…do that."

"You calling my mother a that? You ageist piece of shit."

"No, I?—"

"I think he's referring to the fuck part," the smooth voice said. "Is that right?"

Newt nodded. "Yeah. I don't do that. I haven't done it, and I don't want to. Ever."

His confession was met by silence from both sides. Newt closed his eyes. He'd known that about himself for a long time, knew his brothers suspected even though they never pushed him to speak about it, but at twenty-one, on the way to HMS Brixton prison, he'd come out to complete strangers.

Newt didn't do the sex thing.

"But how do you know you won't like it?" the gruff voice said, sounding genuinely perplexed. "Maybe you just don't know what you're missing."

"Or maybe," Smooth voice replied, "he took one look at your mother, and she killed any hope of a sex drive."

"You are dangerously close to getting a shanking on your first night…"

"He says he's not into sex, then it's not for you to prove otherwise."

"I'm just saying, he's at least got to do it once to know it's not his thing?—"

"If you tell me you've got an eight-inch dick, then it's not for me to follow you around with a measuring tape to check. That's disrespectful, and frankly a little creepy."

There was another long silence.

"I don't have an eight-inch dick," the gruff man said.

Smooth answered, "And that's okay."

"It's ten inches."

Newt widened his eyes.

"Good for you," Smooth replied. "And I hope you're happy with it because that's the most important thing."

"I am."

"I'm happy that you're happy with the size of your dick," Newt added, not to be left out. "And for the record, I am happy with the inactivity of mine."

A new voice joined, one sounding tired as hell. "You're the weirdest load of prisoners I've ever had to sit in with on the transfer."

"And we are happy you think so," Smooth voice replied.

Newt allowed himself a cautious smile. The gruff prisoner laughed, and maybe a slither of Newt's fear turned to hope.

"And I'm happy to inform you we've arrived," the officer said. "HMS Brixton Prison. Do enjoy your stay."

Fear clawed at Newt once again. They all fell silent. The van jerked, and stopped, jerked again, then stopped, but the gruff prisoner didn't complain.

Newt listened as the cubicle behind got unlocked first. The van shook as the gruff man got off, then it was his door being wrenched open. He was pointed down the steps, where he stopped in front of the gruff prisoner. There were guards too, but Newt only had eyes for the man staring at him.

He was tall, broad, with a wiry dirty-blond moustache and a seemingly permanent squint. His clothes, the same ones he'd been convicted in, were brown suede, the same shade as the few remaining strands on his head. He held a cowboy hat in one hand and pressed it down on his head as he looked Newt up and down.

"The name's Bull," he said. His voice had lost its rough edge. He sounded almost resigned, sad.

"Newt."

"Your first time."

Bull didn't phrase it as a question, but Newt nodded anyway.

Bull slumped. "Shit…kid."

"What is it?"

Bull waved a hand towards him, not at one specific place, but the whole picture.

Newt looked down at himself. Jude had picked him out a suit online, muttering under his breath, ‘The smarter you look, the less like a crook.' It was slim-fitting, black trousers and jacket, and a white shirt—timeless, according to Jude.

"It's the size of you," Bull said. "It's your age, it's your eyes, it's your flaming red hair." He shook his head. "You might not be into your dick, but other dicks are going to be into you."

Newt took a step back.

"And yet…" Bull cocked his head, no longer looking at Newt but behind him. "Maybe luck is on your side."

Newt frowned before slowly turning towards the van. The other prisoner stepped down. He was about the same height as Newt, slight in build too, but his eyes were a sky blue, and his skin was blemish-free and porcelain. He tucked a strand of his chin-length brown hair behind his ear, revealing his sharp jawline. His suit fit perfectly, and like Newt, he'd gone for a classic black-and-white look, but his top buttons were undone, flashing his collarbone and a delicate silver chain. Only half of his shirt was tucked in, and he'd hooked a thumb on one of his trouser pockets.

He looked like he'd stepped out of a fashion magazine or an aftershave advert where an industrial-sized fan blew wind at him while he whispered random words.

"Hello," he said, stopping in front of Newt. "I'm Scott."

"My name's Newt."

Scott nodded and looked over Newt to Bull.

"And I'm Bull, but enough with the pleasantries. You're not going to last one day in here without being bent over someone's bed."

"Here's hoping." Scott smirked.

"You laugh now, pretty boy, but you won't be laughing later."

"I have a strategy."

Newt perked up at the word.

Bull turned around as the closest prison officer ordered them through the door. The officers, four of them, didn't make eye contact, and they spoke about the three of them like they weren't there or wouldn't understand, like they were dogs being led towards the kennels that occasionally needed commands. Bull ignored them right back, doing as they said but acting like they didn't exist. They were led into a small room for processing. An officer stood behind a counter and called Bull up first, real name, Reymond Carlisle, but Newt was sticking with Bull.

Newt and Scott were told to wait on the chairs. Newt picked his fingers, watching as Bull went through the process of handing over any valuables he had on himself and running through a clipboard of questions.

Scott sat still and calm beside him.

"What's your strategy?" Newt asked.

Scott eyed him. "If I tell you, you might steal it."

Newt frowned but looked back at Scott when he sighed.

"Although your revelation on the drive makes it highly unlikely." He took a deep breath. "My strategy to survive this place is to offer myself up on a plate to the top dog of the wing, let him sample my services and hope it's enough for him to fall madly into lust with me and warn everyone else off."

"That's a shit idea," Bull said.

He was no longer at the counter but stood behind a curtain on wheels with a prison officer.

"Squat," the officer said. "Now cough."

Bull coughed.

Scott's expression soured. "Well, it was the best idea I could come up with at such short notice. All I've got to offer is my body, and if I don't do something, there won't be a bit of it someone won't have degraded and damaged by the time I leave here."

"Shaw won't be interested in you."

"You know the top dog on the wing?" Scott shifted to the edge of his seat. "What's he like? What's he into?"

Bull smirked from behind the curtain. "Yeah, I know him, and unless he's had a dramatic change in the last few months, I know he won't be interested in whatever you've got to offer him."

"You were here a few months ago?" Newt asked.

Bull nodded. "I got out on tag, but what can I say? I missed the place, and here I am."

"Well, Shaw hasn't met me yet," Scott said, brushing a hand through his hair.

"My strategy," Bull said, "is to pick up where I left off…again."

"Again?" Scott asked. "How many times have you been to Brixton?"

"Half a dozen."

"You must be really bad at whatever it is that gets you sent here." Scott glanced at Newt. "I take it you didn't come up with a strategy to survive this place?"

"I thought I'd be myself."

Bull burst out laughing. He stepped out from behind the curtain, no longer in suede but wearing grey sweatpants and a grey sweatshirt.

"Good luck, kid." He shook his head. "No one is themselves in here."

"What do you mean?"

"To survive in here, you've got to be more than yourself."

"Newton Briggs," the officer at the desk said, sounding completely uninterested. Her brown hair was scraped back into a high ponytail, and she gave Newt the briefest of glances as he scuttled up to the counter.

"Briggs?" Bull said, dropping down into Newt's vacant chair. His amusement died. "Holy shit, you're a Briggs?"

"Yeah?" Newt bristled. "What of it?"

"You're fucked. And I don't mean in the penis way; I mean in the death will come swift and silently to you." Bull shook his head. "Who the hell thought you coming here of all places was a good idea?"

"Ignore him," Scott said. "He's trying to scare you."

Bull folded his arms. "I wish I was… You'll be dead by dinner, and I pray for your sake it's quick."

"Behind the curtain, Mr Briggs."

"Huh?" Newt turned back to the officer. His hands shook; his legs were weak.

"Behind the curtain."

"Oh, okay…"

Newt stripped off behind the curtain, dropping his shirt, jacket, and trousers in one box and his socks and boxers in another. Stone and Mickey had warned him of the unpleasantries of a strip search, but stripping off, squatting and coughing didn't seem such a big deal when faced with imminent death.

He got his boxers and socks back, and his shoes too after they were checked, but like Bull, his court clothes weren't returned to him, and he stepped out from behind the curtain dressed all in grey.

Scott went next. Bull tried to peek a look behind the curtain.

"I charge, you know."

Bull snorted and slumped back into his chair. "As soon as I get on the wing, I'll be taking bets."

"On what?" Newt asked.

"Which of you gets stretchered to the hospital wing first."

Scott strolled out from behind the curtain. The bland grey attire made his angelic features all the more prominent. "Let's make it interesting. I put ten pounds on you being the first."

"Me?" Bull snorted. "You're on."

They were led by a different officer through another gate and stopped in front of another counter.

"I'm prison Officer Jenkins," the officer said, looking at each of them in turn. "Your clothes are being processed so until they are ready, you will be issued with a prison uniform. Your own clothes are a privilege. Break the rules, you will be wearing the scratchy greys as punishment. These are your welcome packs." He gestured to the three plastic bags on the counter. "They contain the basics, toilet roll, toothpaste, toothbrush, shower gel, tray, cup, bowl, plastic cutlery, towel, deodorant, sponge, washing up liquid and washing detergent. Your weekly pay is ￡2.50, which you can use in the prison shop."

"We get paid for being in prison?" Scott asked.

Jenkins ignored him.

"Jobs, such as in the servery, cleaning, library or post, can earn you more money, and family can also pay funds into your account for you to spend each week in the shop."

"Can I have my old job in the servery back?" Bull asked.

Jenkins ignored him.

"You're on E-wing, but it shares a lobby area with D-wing. We call it the officers' hub. Depending on the situation, officers can be assigned to whatever wing they're needed on the most at a given time."

"How many officers are there?" Newt asked.

Predictably, Jenkins ignored him.

"Now if you'd like to follow me, I'll take you to the wing."

He stepped out from behind the counter, keys at the ready, and unlocked another door.

"Game faces, kiddos," Bull said, grabbing his bag off the counter.

Newt and Scott did the same.

"It's time for the walk-on."

The walk-on, Mickey had told him a few weeks before, was a pivotal moment where the new prisoners had to make the right impression on the other inmates on the wing. It needed to be the perfect level of ‘don't mess with me' and ‘I don't give a fuck'.

Confident, yet not confrontational.

No eye contact, but no looking at the ground either.

Mickey had made Newt practise by walking into the living room at home and not making direct eye contact with any of them. Newt had hated it.

Out of all of them, he'd been the one to walk first, their mother had told him so, and he clung on to that. He clung on to every word she'd spoken to him, even her exasperated sigh, "Newton, really?" after he'd traipsed mud through the kitchen. The point was, Newt had mastered walking at nine months old, and Mickey shaking his head, tutting, and telling Newt he was doing it wrong wasn't going to change that fact.

But walking onto E-wing turned Newt's knees to jelly.

Jenkins led them down a corridor. Bull walked in front of Newt, and Scott walked behind. Newt swallowed and clutched his bag of prison-issued necessities tighter to his chest. The rustling plastic couldn't compete with the noise they headed towards. Even his booming heart was lost underneath the sound of laughter and ruckus of men.

Newt kept his head down and crossed over the huge letter E painted on the floor.

He wasn't Mickey with his muscles or Stone with his skills. He wasn't even judgemental Jude, who'd use sarcasm as his defence.

Newt was nothing except shit terrified despite the callous attitude he'd developed at home for his brothers' sakes. He didn't regret the actions that led him to the gate of E-wing, but that didn't mean he wasn't clutching his bag so hard his fingers had pierced the plastic. It didn't mean he wasn't shivering intermittently with pure fear rushing up and down his spine.Newt stiffened his jaw, fighting the desire to chatter his teeth.

Jenkins unlocked the gate. He stepped through, then gestured for the three of them to follow. Eyes prickled Newt's skin. He could feel them all on him, and after an encouraging poke from Scott, he stepped onto the wing. More faces than Newt had a hope of counting were staring at him, expressionless, waiting.

A few jeered, commenting on his hair, and there were wolf whistles directed at Scott.

Jenkins led them further onto the wing. It stood two levels high, with metal walkways and mesh between the floors to catch anything thrown from above. The walls were navy blue; each door was unpainted, and a gunmetal grey. Newt shuddered and hugged his bag tighter.

A shoe came Newt's way, hitting the mesh with a roar of laughter from a group of shaved-headed guys on the first floor. Newt skimmed his eyes along, finding a different group watching him. They whispered between themselves before dispersing and vanishing into cells.

A hush fell over the wing. Newt held his breath, instinctively coming to a stop. Scott did the same.

A prisoner trudged down the steps, head cocked, sinister smile on his face. His hair had been shaved into a pattern, reminding Newt of his parents' kitchen floor, black-and-white vinyl squares. He had a plastic tray beneath his arm, pressed to his side.

"If it isn't Bull, back again."

"Welsh," Jenkins warned. "Back it up."

Welshignored Jenkins completely, as did Bull.

Bull shrugged. "Turns out, I missed this place, even missed your face, Welshy."

"And I missed yours, but…are you forgetting something?"

"No." Bull took a step back. "I don't think so."

"Something you left in my cell on the day you were released… In my mug for me to find later when I wanted a cup of tea."

"Oh… Shit."

"Exactly," Welsh said, then he took his tray in both hands as he swung it, tennis-racket style.

Bang!

Blood sprayed from Bull's nose, covering Newt, who watched with wide eyes as Bull dropped to his knees.

The prison exploded into jeers and shouts again. Scott appeared at Newt's side, stooping slightly to talk to Bull as he groaned, clutching his bloodied nose.

"Looks like you owe me a tenner." Scott snorted.

Blood.

Newt could feel it on his skin.

He could smell it up his nose and even taste it on his lips. The prison warped and stretched. Newt swayed where he stood, trying to keep it together, but he had blood on him.

Blood.

"Newt?"

It wasn't Scott, Jenkins or even Bull who said his name. It was someone else, someone new, someone stood at the edge of his vision, tall and broad, with a low-cut green vest top that revealed letters of a tattoo. Swirling ink declared the man, Mr No Pain. Newt was trying so hard to stay on his feet, stay present, but there was blood, and his nerves were fizzling in his stomach, and the green vest looked as if it was spinning.

"You don't look so good…"

Newt opened his mouth to reply, not knowing what he was going to say, but his stomach took that moment to mutiny and staged an escape for the toast and orange juice Stone had forced down him that morning.

He threw up.

He threw up on the green vest with the entire wing watching.

Then his knees gave out.

He dropped like dead weight.

Strong arms wrapped around him, breaking his fall. The prison roared, but his voice was louder.

Hiswarm breath brushed Newt's ear when he spoke.

"I've got you."

Newt closed his eyes and embraced the darkness.