Three Seconds

Hoffmann. Before you get what you want.’
    Piet Hoffmann spat as they dragged him out into the corridor.
Criminal
. He carried on spitting as they checked all the cavities.
You have to be a criminal to play a criminal
. He stood outside the door in white, badly fitting boxers while two screws went into his cell and searched everywhere for what might be hidden, but couldn’t be found.
    Two cells were inspected at the same time, always the two opposite each other, and there wasn’t much room where the open doors met.
    Two screws in each cell, two screws outside to watch the prisoners who were swearing, mouthing off, threatening.
    He watched as the bedclothes were pulled off and shaken out, the wardrobe tipped forwards and every shoe emptied, every sock turned inside out, the pile of six library books on the bedside table flicked through, several metres of floorboards taken up, pockets and seams on his trousers and jackets and tops pulled open at the stitching and the barking dogs let in and lifted up to the ceiling and the lamp and the curtain rail when there was chaos on the linoleum floor.
    What the hell …
    With dogs. That’s important.
    With dogs? And what happens when we find what you’ve planted? To the fellow prisoner who you’ve wasted your drugs on?
    One more floorboard, under the sink.
    And behind the bedside lamp, the small hole in the wall for the rawl plug.
    ‘Everything all right? You found anything? No? What a shame. You’ll have to go wank in some other cell. Or d’you want me to help you?’
    The guy opposite laughed. The guy beside him banged on his door and hissed
keep doing them up the arse, Hoffmann.
    They had heard.
    Piet Hoffmann sat down on the edge of the bunk when they locked the door again and carried on to the next cell. There was half a cigarette under a pair of boxer shorts in the mess under the bedside table; he lit up and lay down.
    Ten minutes more.
    He smoked and scoured the ceiling, then the dogs began to bark.
    ‘
What the fuck, fucking hell, it’s not mine, for fuck’s sake!
’
    The Greek in Cell 2 had a piercing voice, the kind that opened locked cell doors.
    ‘
What the fuck, that— you’ve planted that, you fucking bastard screws, I’m going to—
’
    One of the security guards had lifted up the black dog that was now frantically pawing above the window behind the curtain rail. The plastic bag had been taped to the wall and contained fourteen grams of high quality amphetamine. The Greek was escorted down the corridor and out of the unit, shaking and swearing, and would be transported to Kumla or Hall the next day to serve the rest of a long sentence that just got longer. At roughly the same time, two more plastic bags with the same amount of amphetamine were found in two cells on the top and bottom floors of Block H and three inmates in all would now be spending their last night in Aspsås.
    Piet Hoffmann lay on the bed and could smile for the first time since he’d been inside the high walls.
    Right now.
    Right now, we’ve taken over.

wednesday
     

He had slept heavily for nearly four hours when it was darkest outside the barred windows and once the Finn two cells away had presumably calmed down. The jangling of keys had penetrated his brain and prevented him from sleeping every time the bastard rang the bell and demanded attention. The unit hadn’t settled until a couple of the other prisoners had threatened a riot the next time a Finnish finger played with the bell.
     
    Piet Hoffmann pressed his back against the wall. An anxious glance at the pillow under the covers and the chair in the threshold and the sock between the door and its frame. His protection, exactly the same as yesterday and as tomorrow, two and a half seconds if anyone knew and attacked at the only time of day when the screws couldn’t see or hear.
    One minute past seven. Nineteen minutes left. Then he would go out, have a shower and eat breakfast with the others.
    He had taken the first step. He had felled the three main dealers in Aspsås prison with forty-two grams of 30 per cent manufactured amphetamine. Warsaw and the Deputy CEO had already received the reports they needed and opened a bottle of Ýubrówka, raised a glass to the next stage.
    Eight minutes left.
    His breathing was measured, every muscle tensed, death didn’t come knocking.
    Today he was going to take the next step. For Wojtek, the first grams to the first customers and the rumour that there was a new supplier in