Stilwater penitentiary, located on a remote island away from Stilwater proper, was a formidable fortress of a prison. The crumbling concrete was old, grey and eroded, mottled by salt water and rain over decades of service. Accessible only by helicopter or boat, the prison squatted atop the promontory it rested upon like a giant predatory insect looming over its prey, waiting as each new prisoner was delivered to it by police patrol boat. Only the tall slender lighthouse seemed to keep the insect at bay. Outside, the island seemed quiet. Only the fewest of guards patrolling the gravel road around the perimeter of the island and the one paved road from harbour to prison.

Inside, behind dozens of gates, behind hundreds of bars, lay a single form. Prostrate. It had not moved, had not stirred for many a year- and finally, after all that time, one finger twitched.