Three Seconds

THREE
     

monday
     

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 car park and then threatened him with two bullets the next time they met.
    This time he was being transported elsewhere. The small lift 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 lift 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 towards the exit and security desk by Drottningholmsvägen. 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 been done for?’
    The prisoner whose name was Hoffmann got no answer.
    ‘One more time. What the fuck you been done 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 sort of guy who only hits women. The sort 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 screws were listening – that was what he wanted, them to listen and then to talk about the dangerous prisoner with threatening behaviour 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 realised what his next move would be. They had all seen it before. It was always dangerous and a risk to transport paedophiles 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 round and the screw 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 screws later.
    Word would spread, to people inside as well.
    It was all about building respect.
    The screw 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