Anders Roslund - Three Seconds

"Hoffmann,

"Shut up."

"Maybe we-"

"Shut up! I'll shoot."

Three guards. All sufficiently close now It would take at least a few minutes more before the ones out in the yard would come in.

He shouted down the empty corridor.

"Stefan!"

Again.

"Stefan, Stefan!"

Cell 3.

"Fucking snitch."

The voice was vicious, ripping through words and walls.

Stefan.

A couple of meters away, a locked door, the only thing that separated them.

"You're going to die, you fucking snitch."

When he pressed the gun harder against the young warden's eyelid it slid on something.

Something wet, tears, he was crying.

"You're going to swap places. You go in there. Into Cell 3."

He didn't move. It was as if he hadn't heard.

"Open the door and go in! That's all you've got to do. Open the door, for fuck's sake!"

The warden moved mechanically, pulled out his keys, dropped them on the floor, tried again, turned the key with great precision, moved once the door had slowly swung open.

"Fucking grass. With his new mates."

"You're going to swap places. Now!"

"Bastard snitch. What-what the fuck you got in your hand?"

Stefan was considerably taller and considerably heavier than Piet Hoffmann.

When he stood in the cell doorway, he filled it-a dark and despising shadow.

"Get out."

He didn't hesitate. Sneering, he moved too fast, too close.

"Stop!"

And why should I do that? 'Cause some little snitch shit has a gun to a screw's head?"

"Stop!"

Stefan kept coming toward him, the open mouth, the dry lips, the warm breath. His face was too close, it was invasive, it was attacking.

"Go on, fucking shoot. Then there's one screw less in the world."

Piet Hoffmann's mind was blank as the heavyweight body approached him. He had wanted to swap hostages, threaten Wojtek rather than the Prison and Probation Service, but had underestimated the hatred. When Stefan broke into a run for the last few steps toward him, his brain wasn't working, only his fear gave him the drive to survive. He pushed the guard away and aimed the revolver at the hating eyes and fired, one single bullet through the pupil, the lens, the vitreous, to the soft mass of the brain, where it stopped somewhere.

Stefan took one more step, still sneering, he appeared to be unaffected, but a second later he fell heavily forward and Hoffmann had to move to avoid finding himself underneath him, then he bent down toward him, pressed the muzzle to his other eye, one more bullet.

A person lay dead on the floor.

The thumping banging that had drummed persistently and the echo of the shot… suddenly, suddenly everything was silent.

A strange, breathless silence.

"You can go in now."

He pointed to one of the younger men, but it was the older one, Jacobson, who answered.

"Hoffmann, now let's-"

"I'm not going to die yet."

He looked at the three guards that he needed, but were in the way. Two were younger, shaking, close to break down. The older one was fairly calm, the sort who would carry on trying to intercede, but also the sort who wouldn't break down.

"Go into the cell."

Metal on eyelids that were crying, darkness only a finger-twitch away. "Get in!"

The young warden went into the empty cell and sat down on the edge of the iron bed.

"Close! And lock!"

Hoffmann tossed the keys to Jacobson; not a word this time, no attempt to communicate, no false contact intended to confuse, generate trust, emotion.

"The body."

He kicked it, it was about maintaining power, keeping distance.

"I want it outside Cell 6. But not too close, so that the door can still be opened."

"He's too heavy."

"Now. Outside Cell 6. Okay?"

He moved the gun from his temple to his eye, to his temple from his eye. "Where do you think it will be when I pull the trigger?"

Jacobson got hold of the soft arms that no longer had muscle reflex; the sinewy, elderly body pulled, dragged 250 pounds of death along the hard linoleum floor and Hoffmann nodded when it was positioned just so the cell door could be opened.

"Open it."

He didn't recognize him, they had never met, but it was the voice that had passed his cell yesterday and called him Paula several times, one of Wojtek's runners.

"You fucking stukatj."

The same voice, shrill as he stormed out, when he stopped in his tracks.

"Jesus…"

He looked down at someone lying at his feet, stock-still, lungs that weren't breathing.

"You fucking bastard…"

"Down on your knees!"

Hoffmann pointed at him with the miniature gun.

"Get down!"

Hoffmann had expected threats, maybe contempt.

But the man in front of him said nothing as he collapsed beside the motionless body and for a second Hoffmann stood still-he had been prepared to kill again, and was now standing in front of someone who obeyed.

"What's your name?"

The young warden, when he felt the pressure of the muzzle, had closed his eyes and cried.

"Jan. Janne."

"Janne. Get in there."

Another person in a prison uniform sitting on the edge of yet another empty iron bed when Jacobson locked the door to Cell 6.

Hoffmann counted quickly. It felt like eternity, but he had only just begun. Eight, maybe nine minutes had passed since he opened the door to the toilet and raised the gun, no more. Two of the guards were locked up, the third was in front of him and the fourth and the fifth would stay out in the yard for a while longer. But central security could choose at any moment to look at the cameras in this unit on their monitors, or guards from other units might pass. He had to hurry. He knew where he was going. He had been on his way there since he realized he was on his own, with a death threat, burned by some of the few who knew his purpose and code name; on his way to the place he had chosen a long time ago in order not to die if what shouldn't happen happened.

They were standing close by. Just as close as they had to. Enough distance for him to be in full control but to avoid being overpowered, and the prisoner who still had no name was dangerous, he would kill if he could.

"I want you to get that lamp there."

He held his outstretched arm toward a simple standard lamp that was lit in one of the corners of the wardens' office and waited until Jacobson had put it on the floor in front of him.

"Tie him up. With the extension cord."

Hands behind the prisoner's back and Jacobson pulled the white cord until it pressed into the equally white skin. Hoffmann felt it, checked, then wound the cord around the warden's waist and they started to move up the stairs that seemed to be alive: closed unit doors held back loud exchanges between angry prisoners and the rattling clatter of plates being laid on the table and the voices of irritated card players and a lonely TV that had been left on full volume. One single scream, one single kick on a door and he would be caught. He moved the gun barrel between the prisoner's and the guard's eyes, they should know, they should know.

They got to the top of the building, to the narrow corridor just outside the workshop.

The door was open. All the lights in the large space were turned off.

The inmates who worked here were still eating breakfast with an hour to go before the morning shift.

"That's not enough."

He had waited to command the prisoner down onto his knees until they were in the middle of the workshop.

"Even lower. And bend forward."

"Why?"

"Bend forward!"

"You can kill me. You can kill the fucking screw. But Paula, that's what your fucking pig friends call you, isn't it, you're still dead. In here. Sooner or later. Doesn't matter. We know. We won't let you go. You know that's the way it works."