Three Seconds

He had waited until it had found its way out through the hole that had until recently been a window, creating a grayish-black wall that blanketed and hid much of the workshop building.

He had taken the pile of uniform clothes that belonged to the older guard and thrown it out through the window, then jumped out himself, onto a roof that was only a few meters below.

I sit without moving and wait.

I am holding the clothes in my arms, I see nothing through the thick smoke and with no eardrums I struggle to hear, but I feel the vibrations of people moving around on the roof close by, policemen who are there to put an end to a hostage drama; one of them even runs into me without realising who I am.

I don't breathe, I haven't since I jumped through the window, I know that breathing in this toxic smoke is the same as death.

He had moved close to those who heard the steps without realizing that they belonged to the man they had just seen die, over the roof toward the shiny sheets of metal that looked like a chimney. He had climbed down into the hole, his arms and legs pressed hard against the walls until the pipe narrowed and it had been difficult to keep his grip, then he had let go, fallen the last bit down to the bottom of the ventilation shaft.

I crouch down and crawl into the pipe that is sixty centimeters in diameter and leads back into the building.

With my hands against the metal, I pull myself forward bit by bit, until I am above a room that is a substation and has a door straight out into the lower prison passage.

I lie down on my back, the pile of clothes under my head like a pillow. I am going to stay in the ventilation shaft for at least three days. I will piss and shit and wait but I will not dream, I will not feel, there is nothing, not yet.

He put his ear to the door.

It was difficult to make out, but there might be someone moving about out there-wardens walking past down the passage, not prisoners at this time of day, it was after lock-up and they would all be in their cells.

He ran his hand over his face and head, no beard, no hair, down his thighs and calves, no dried urine.

The new clothes smelled of another person, some deodorant or aftershave that the old warden must have used.

Movements out there again, more people passing.

He looked at the watch. Five to eight.

He would wait a little longer; it was the guards coming off duty and on their way home, he had to avoid them, they had seen his face. He stood waiting for fifteen minutes more, the dark substation and fifty-seven yellow and red and green lights around him.

Now.

Several of them, and at this time of day, it could only be the night shift. The ones that clocked in after lock-up, who never met the prisoners and therefore didn't know what they looked like.

His hearing was dramatically impaired but he was certain that they had passed. He unlocked the door, opened it, went out and closed it again.

Three wardens with their backs to him about twenty meters down the passage that linked Block G with central security. One was roughly his age, the others much younger and presumably newly qualified, on their way to one of their first workplaces. At the end of May Aspsas prison was always affected by the large influx of summer temps who, after a mere one-hour introduction and a two-day course, put on their uniforms and started to work.

They had stopped in front of one of the locked security doors that divided the passage up into smaller sections and he hurried to catch up. The older one was holding a set of keys and had just unlocked the door when he came up behind them.

'Can you wait for me, please?'

They turned around, looked at him, up and down.

'I'm a bit behind.'

'On your way home?'

'Yes:'

The guard didn't sound like he suspected anything when he spoke; it had been a friendly question, between colleagues.

'You new?'

'So new that I haven't got my own keys yet.'

'Less than two days then?'

'Started yesterday.'

'Just like these TWO. Third day for you all tomorrow. Your first key day.' He followed behind them.

They had seen him. They had spoken to him.

Now he was just one of four wardens walking together down a prison passage toward central security and the big gate there.

They parted at the stairs that went up to Block A and an eleven-hour shift. He wished them a good night and they looked with envy at their colleague who was about to go home for an evening off.

He stood in the middle of the reception area. There were three doors to choose from.

The first was diagonally opposite him-a visiting room for a woman or a friend or a policeman or a lawyer. It was there that Stefan Lygis had sat when he was told that there was an informant, a snitch in the organization, someone had whispered so someone must die.

The second one was directly behind him, the door that opened on to the corridor that ended in Block G. He almost laughed-he could walk back to his own cell dressed in uniform.

He looked at the third door.

The way past central security and the ever-watchful TV monitors and numbered switches that meant that all the locked doors in the prison could be opened from the large glass box.

There were two people sitting in there. At the front a fairly plump guard with a dark unkempt beard and a tie thrown over his shoulder. Behind him another, considerably slimmer, man with his back to the exit-he couldn't see his face but guessed he was around fifty and probably had some kind of senior position. He took a deep breath, stretched and tried to walk straight: the explosion that had taken both eardrums had also played havoc with his balance.

'Going home in your uniform? Already?'

'Sorry?'

The guard with the round face and sparse beard looked at him. 'You're one of the new ones, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'And you're going home in your uniform already?'

'Just the way it worked.'

The guard smiled-he was in no rush, some more empty words and the evening would be shorter.

'It's warm out. Darn nice evening.'

'I'm sure it is.'

'Going straight home?'

The guard leaned to one side and moved a small fan that was standing on the desk, fresh air in the stuffy room. It was easier to see the other man, the one who was thin and sitting on a chair at the back.

He recognized him.

'I think so.'

'Someone waiting for you?'

Lennart Oscarsson.

The chief warden he had assaulted a few days ago in a cell in the voluntary isolation unit, a fist in the middle of his face.

'Not at home. But we're meeting again tomorrow. It's been a while.' Oscarsson snapped shut the file and turned around.

He looked over at him.

He looked but didn't react.

'Not at home? I had one once, a family that is, but well, I don't know, it just, you know-'

'You'll have to excuse me.'