Anders Roslund - Three Seconds

Only a criminal can play a criminal.

They were standing so close to him.

Two of them behind him who would rub right up against his back if he took a step back in the confined space, two more in front, staring in his eyes, ears, nose, their every breath warm moisture on the skin of his face.

They had been warned.

All the wardens in Stockholm's Kronoberg remand prison had read the documents about one of Sweden's most dangerous criminals, and they had all heard the story that ten days ago, when he had just been arrested in the pool hall by Sankt Eriksgatan, he spat in the face of one of their colleagues as they walked through the parking lot and then threatened him with two bullets the next time they met.

This time he was being transported elsewhere. The small elevator down to the metal cage in the garage under Kronobergsparken and then the transport bus to Aspsås prison. There were four of them, two more than usual, and the prisoner was in handcuffs and leg irons. They had even considered a waist restraint, but decided against it.

He was the kind who hated everything and used what little intelligence he had to cause trouble; they had seen a few over the years, serious criminals with a one-way ticket to an early grave. The wardens kept a constant eye on the prisoner and each other; it was in the short distance from the elevator to the waiting bus that he had spat the last time, only to get an almighty knee in the balls in return when three of them happened to look the other way at the same time.

They were waiting, prepared, he was going to make a move soon, they knew it.

He was silent as they escorted him to the bus. He was silent as he got on. He was silent as he sat down on one of the back seats. The prisoner who hated everything and needed extra guards was silent as they drove through the underground garage toward the exit and security desk by Drottningholmsvagen. Then it started.

"Where the fuck you going?"

As he was being shoved onto the bus, the prisoner whose name was Hoffmann had noticed another guy already sitting there in equally baggy clothes with the Prison and Probation Service logo on his chest. He had stared at him, waited until he caught his eye.

"Österåker."

One of the other prisons to the north of Stockholm. The transport bus from the remand often took several prisoners to various prisons where they would serve their sentences.

"And what the fuck you in for?"

The prisoner whose name was Hoffmann got no answer.

"One more time. What the fuck you in for?"

"Assault."

"What you get?"

"Ten months."

The wardens looked at each other. This wasn't good.

"Ten months, eh? Guessed as much. You look like one of them. Little shits who beat up their women don't get much more than that."

Hoffmann had lowered his voice to a growl and tried to move closer as the bus passed through the security barrier and headed north along Sankt Eriksgatan.

"What d'you mean?"

The prisoner who was going to Österåker had noticed the change in Hoffmann's tone and his aggression, and tried without realising to back away.

"That you're the kind of guy who only hits women. The kind that the rest of us have a problem with."

"How the fuck… how the fuck d'you know that?"

Piet Hoffmann smiled to himself. He'd guessed right. And he knew that the guards were listening-that was what he wanted, them to listen and then to talk about the dangerous prisoner with threatening behavior who needed extra cover.

"You can always tell a cowardly little prick who deserves to die."

They were listening and Piet Hoffmann was sure that they'd already realized what his next move would be. They had all seen it before. It was always dangerous and a risk to transport pedophiles and wife beaters with other prisoners. He looked at the seat in front, his voice calm.

"You've got five minutes. But only five minutes, mind."

They both turned around and the guard in the passenger seat was about to answer when Hoffmann interrupted.

"Five minutes to chuck this bastard out. Otherwise… things could get messy in here."

They'd tell the other guards later.

Word would spread, to people inside as well.

It was all about building respect.

The guard in the passenger seat sighed loudly before making a call on the radio, saying that a car had to be sent immediately to the prison transport bus that was waiting by Norrtull as there was a prisoner who needed to be picked up and taken to Österåker in a separate vehicle.

Piet Hoffmann had never been inside the walls of Aspsås prison before. He had mapped out all the buildings from the church tower and had studied the bars in front of every window, and while on remand, with Erik's help, he had learned about the prisoners and staff in all the corridors of Block G, but when both iron gates opened and the bus headed toward the central security, it was the first time that he had actually been inside one of the country's highest security prisons. It was hard to move with the tight, heavy leg irons on, each step was too short and the sharp metal cut into his skin. Two guards right behind him and two just as close in front when they pointed to the door to the left of the normal visitors' door, the one that went straight into registration and more guards from security. They undid the restraints and he could move his arms and legs freely while he was naked and bent over double, with a rubber-gloved hand checking up his ass and another pulling at his hair like a comb and a third feeling around in his armpits.

He'd been issued new clothes that hung off him and were just as ugly as the others, and was then escorted to a sterile waiting room where he sat on a wooden chair and didn't say a word.

Ten days had passed.

For twenty-three hours of the day he had lain on a bunk behind a metal door with a peephole in from the corridor. Five square meters and no visitors, no newspapers, no TV, no radio. Time to break you and make you compliant.

He had gotten used to having someone there. He had forgotten how much loneliness reinforced your longing.

He missed her so much.

He wondered what she was doing right now, what she had on, how she smelled, if her steps were long and relaxed, or short and irritated.

Zofia might not be there for him anymore.

He had told her the truth and she would do with it what she wanted and he was so scared that in a couple of months he would no longer have anyone to miss, he would be nothing.

He had been staring at the white walls of the waiting room for four hours when two guards from the day shift opened the door and explained that a cell in G2 Left would be his home at the start of the long sentence. One in front and one behind as they started to walk through a wide passage under the prison yard, a few hundred meters of concrete floor and concrete walls, a locked internal door with a security camera and another passage and then steep stairs up to Block G.

He had left behind the days cooped up in remand at Kronoberg and the fast-track trial, where he did exactly what he told Henryk and the deputy CEO he would do.

He had admitted to possession of three kilos of amphetamine in the trunk of a rented car.

He had got the prosecutor to confirm that he was acting alone and was solely responsible for the crime.

He had declared himself satisfied with the judgment and had signed the document and thereby avoided any unnecessary wait for it to enter into force.

The following day, here he was walking through one of the passages in Aspsås prison on his way to a cell.

"I'd like to have six books."