Three Seconds

It was one of those four.

It was one of them, his protection, his escape-one of them had burned him.

'Paula, we want to meet you so much.'

The same voice, farther away now toward the showers, then the same tired 'shut up' from the wardens who didn't understand.

Piet Hoffmann held his legs even tighter, pressed them into his body.

He was already everyone's quarry. He was a snitch in a prison where informants were hated as much as sex offenders.

Someone banged on their door.

Someone screamed stukatj on the other side.

Soon it would be as it always was when the shared hate was focused on one locked cell door. First, two who banged, then three and four, then more, minute by minute, hatred channelled into the hands that hit harder and harder. He put his hands to his ears, but the banging penetrated his head until he couldn't stand it anymore, he pressed the button and held it down until the noise of the bell drowned out the monotone rhythm.

The square hatch opened. The principal officer's eye.

'Yes?'

'I want to make that phone call. And I want my books. I have to phone and I have to have my books.'

The door opened. The older principal prison officer came in, ran his hand through his thick, gray hair and pointed out into the corridor.

'All that banging… has that got anything to do with you?'

'No.'

'I've been working here for a long time. You're twitching, you're shaking, you're sweating. You're bloody frightened. And I think that's why you want to phone.'

He closed the door and made sure that the prisoner made note. 'Am I right?'

Piet Hoffmann looked at the blue uniform in front of him. He seemed friendly. He sounded friendly.

Don't trust anyone.

'No. It's got nothing to do with that. I just want to make a phone call now.'

The principal prison officer sighed. The telephone cart was standing at the other end of the corridor, so this time he got out his mobile phone, dialed the number of city police and handed it over to the prisoner who refused to admit that he was frightened and that the banging out there had anything to do with it.

The first number. Ringing tone and no answer.

Twitching, shaking, sweating, it all got worse.

'Hoffmann.'

'One more. The other number.'

'You're not in a good way. I want to call a doctor. You should go to the hosp-'

'Dial the fucking number. You're not moving me anywhere.' Ringing tone again. Three rings. Then a man's voice.

'Goransson.'

He had answered.

His legs, he could feel them again.

He had answered.

He was just about to tell them, in a couple of moments they could start the administrative procedures that would mean freedom in a week.

'Jesus, finally, I've been trying… I need help. Now.'

'Who am I talking to?'

'Paula?'

'Who?'

'Piet Hoffmann.'

The silence didn't last that long, but it sounded like the phone had been put down, the electronic void that is empty, dead.

'Hello? For fuck's shake, hello, where-'

'I'm still here. What did you say your name was?'

'Hoffmann. Piet Hoffmann. We-'

'I'm very sorry, I have no idea who you are.'

'What the fuck… you know… you know perfectly well who I am, we met, just recently in the state secretary's office… I-'

'No, we've never met. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot to do.' Every muscle was tensed, his stomach was burning and his chest and his

throat and when everything is burning you have to scream or run or hide or… 'I'm going to call the hospital unit now.'

The telephone in his hand. He refused to let go.

'I'm not going anywhere until I've got my two books.'

'The phone.'

'My books. I have the right to have five books in solitary confinement!'

He loosened his grip on the cordless phone and let it slip out of his hand.

It cracked when it hit the floor, plastic bits bouncing in every direction. He lay down next to them, his arms around his stomach and chest and throat, it was still burning and when everything is burning, you have to run or hide.

'Did he sound desperate?'

'Yes.'

'Stressed?'

'Yes.'

'Frightened?'

'Very frightened.'

They looked at each other. If we let it out who Hoffmann is? They had more coffee. What the organization then does with that knowledge is not our problem. They moved the piles of paper from one side of the table to the other. We will not and cannot be responsible for other people's actions.

It should have been over.

They had arranged a meeting for a lawyer with one of his clients that evening. They had burned him.

And yet, not long ago, he had called from a cell, from prison. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'It can't have-'

'It was him.'

The national police commissioner fetched the pack of cigarettes that was kept in a desk drawer and not to be smoked. He offered the open pack to his colleague, the matches were on the table and the room was immediately awash with white.

'Give me one too.'

Goransson shook his head.

'If you haven't smoked for two years, I don't want to encourage you.' 'I'm not going to smoke it. I'm just going to hold it.'

He felt it between his fingers, sorely missed and familiar-now it offered calm when he most needed it.

'We've got plenty of time.'

'Four days. And one's already gone. If Grens and Hoffmann meet…, If Hoffmann talks… if-'

Goransson interrupted himself. He didn't need to say more. They could both visualize the limping detective inspector, aging and obstinate, the sort who never gives up, who pursues the truth as far as he can and then some more when he realizes that a handful of colleagues have known it from the start. He would carry on and he wouldn't