He stood in the centre of the cell. The door opened and he glared at the gaoler, who noted the expression and hesitated slightly. ‘Señor,’ the gaoler said, tossing a bundle on to the floor. ‘Put these on.’ Flynn glanced down at what looked like a roll of rags, then devilishly back at the gaoler, who retreated quick-time and slammed the cell door shut, leaving Flynn alone in the semi-darkness, the only light cast by a dim, flickering bulb behind toughened frosted glass over the door. He picked up the pile. It was a very old pair of prison dungarees and they looked as if they hadn’t seen washing powder for years. They were grey to start with, a slash of hi-viz neon yellow across the chest and back, and the lack of cleaning did nothing to help that colour. Flynn peered into the crutch. It was soiled, marked with dried shit. Much of Flynn’s self-respect had already evaporated with the invasive strip search he’d had to endure and to some extent he was past caring, but there was no way he was going to dress in shit-soiled clothing.
