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Sean Ellis swung his tin tray into Finlay’s face. The tray was not heavy and the porridge bowl was made of plastic, but the power of Ellis’s sheer fury behind it felled the officer like a dumpy tree, blood jetting from his nose like water from a trick flower.

There was a second—not even that long—when it could have gone either way. Men could have stood and watched Sean Ellis beat Ryan Finlay with his tray, porridge flying like mud, until the other screws pulled him off.

Or all hell could have broken loose.

And—after the briefest of moments—that was the way it went.

The prisoners abandoned kippers, broke ranks, and dived onto Finlay. The dozen guards, who—just moments before—had been picking their noses in boredom, ran to help, batons flailing—like a poorly trained pub football team losing its shape because they were all chasing the ball.

Some prisoners turned on them, others turned on one another—seizing the opportunity to settle old scores fast and hard and without the tiresome exchange of tobacco and sexual favors.

Whistles were blown and screams of “Lockdown! Lockdown!” rang out in panicky voices as the sound of hatred, clanging trays, and overturned Formica tables echoed through the building.

Avery adapted so fast he’d have blown a hole straight through Darwinism. Before Ryan Finlay even hit the ground, his thoughts spun from kippers and Ellis to the image of SL captured in tiny focus in the wing mirror of a car. As the other cons piled on top of Finlay, he dropped his tray over the keys which had tumbled docilely from the officer’s hand.

Nobody saw. Nobody cared. Everybody else was fighting.

You see, thought Avery calmly, this is why I don’t belong in here with all the stupid people.

Then he bent to pick up his tray, sweeping the keys along with it until he was beyond the melee, and stooping casually to scoop them up.

Despite all attention being focused elsewhere, and his own calm exterior, Avery knew he had to act fast. At any moment the guards could regain control of the kitchen and the opportunity would be lost. Even worse, the guards might not regain control of the kitchen.

Child killers were considered by the scum of the earth to be the scum of the earth, and if the violence escalated Avery knew that a good proportion of it would be directed at him and others like him.

Although he understood that speed was of the essence, Avery took a moment to look around. The civilian kitchen staff had disappeared behind the serving counters and through the KITCHEN STAFF ONLY door.

Avery swung himself over the counter and dropped down behind it to give himself another moment of contemplation.

He’d never been behind the serving counter. He glanced around him and saw he’d landed in a small pool of porridge, which had spattered his shoe. It was only a prison-issue black shoe, but Avery kept his stuff nice and irritation stabbed through him at the mess. He looked around for a cloth and saw old chips and bits of carrot under the counter. He grimaced; if he’d known how filthy this place was he’d never have eaten anything they gave him.

He grabbed something white from a low shelf under the counter, which turned out to be a chef’s tunic.

He was genuinely torn for a second between putting it on and wiping his shoe with it, but finally pulled off his grey Longmoor jersey with its royal blue strips on the ribbing, and dressed in the tunic.

Moving the tunic had revealed a box of chocolate bars on the low shelf. Twix. Avery wasn’t a chocolate person but he grabbed a half dozen bars and jammed them into the pockets of his jeans.

He also noticed another little pile of whiteness. Hats. Nasty paper hats that made the men and the women serving behind the counters all look like hairless, sexless cancer victims. Made them all look the same …

Quickly he pulled one on, yanking it down low on his face before sliding it back to drag his hair off his forehead. He peered into the dull stainless steel cupboard door and saw a dough-faced nobody looking back at him. The dough-face broke into a brief, tense grin.

Then, before standing up, Avery used his jersey to wipe the porridge off his shoe.

He stood up, staying low so that anyone glancing in his direction would see only the top of the white hat above the countertop, and slid swiftly through the KITCHEN STAFF ONLY door. He was surprised to find it unlocked. This was a prison, for god’s sake! Did they really think a sign saying KITCHEN STAFF ONLY was a deterrent? If that had been the case then half the population of Longmoor would probably be free men, never having contravened a single TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED or WE ALWAYS SHOP SHOPLIFTERS sign. Christ, if it were that simple, they’d all have kept off the bloody grass and this place would be empty.

Despite his predicament, Avery couldn’t help smiling as he considered what effect might have been produced on him if his neighborhood had been posted with signs reading DO NOT KILL SMALL CHILDREN.