CHARLEY CONCRETE BACKED THE CONCRETE MIXER TRUCK THE last bit up to the edge of the pool, stopped and pulled up the handbrake. He turned off the engine, climbed out of the driver’s cabin and stood there with his arms folded and stared. At the edge of the black pool cover you could see several black pipes sticking up.
“What the hell is this?” He pointed at the protruding pipes.
“The concrete is going down there.”
“But what the fuck do you need the concrete for?!”
“That’s secret, a high-security shelter, you know,” said Rake. “National security and all that.”
“So you want me to pump the concrete down into the pipes you mean?”
“Exactly, you see the joints there? Just connect your pipe and start pumping. My men will do the rest,” said Rake pointing at the connecting pipes that Brains had laid next to the edge of the pool. Under the pool cover several manifolds then distributed the concrete so that it would flow evenly into all parts of the pool. “The shelter will accommodate at least ten people, so my men will have lots of work.”
“Yeah, yeah, typical fancy Djursholm ideas! You can’t be satisfied with what’s good enough for everybody else, you have to have your own fucking shelter too,” mumbled Charley Concrete shaking his head. Muttering to himself, he climbed up into the cab again, started the engine, got the pipe into position and tried to connect it to the others by the pool. But the joints didn’t fit. He tried two others and then a smaller pipe, and finally that worked. Thank God for that, because now the concrete mixer was in full operation.
“You’re not going to change your mind? So you want me to pump the concrete down your pipes?” Charley Concrete asked again and looked at Rake with some scepticism.
“Yep, sure as hell. And the quicker the better. I’ve got men waiting to start after we’ve got the concrete in.”
“All right, then,” said Charley Concrete. He called to his workers, checked the pipe connection one last time, got hold of the joystick on the control panel and started the pump. Soon after that, concrete started to move through the truck’s pipe, and you could hear a slurping and sloshing sound as it ran into the pipes protruding from the pool cover. After half an hour, Charley and his men had emptied the mixer truck.
“Great, then just two loads to go,” said Rake, offering him a portion of Scandinavian snuff. “We’ve got two mixers going at maximum in the cellar now, and we need the rest of the concrete as quickly as possible. The men who are going to do the bricklaying will arrive soon.”
Charley Concrete nodded. This was about delivering concrete and not about asking questions. Just as long as he got paid in cash. His Polish workers did a good job. They worked hard and didn’t ask about holiday pay or employer contributions or tax and other such nonsense. As long as they got their money, that was all that mattered. However, a few who had now settled in Sweden were more difficult. They had long lunch breaks and coffee breaks, and stopped working at five o’clock. But his men kept working until the job was finished. No messing. He got out his cell phone, made a quick call and turned to Rake.
“The rest of the concrete will be here soon.”
BRAINS, MARTHA AND ANNA-GRETA, WHO HAD STOOD AT THE window upstairs and watched, had become so absorbed that they had completely forgotten lunch. That’s how nervous they were. Watching and knowing what was under the cover was pure torture. Several times, Martha had wanted to go down and give orders, but Brains had stopped her.
“CC is Rake’s thing,” he had said.
“CC? But we haven’t got TV cameras down there, have we?”
“CC—Charley Concrete—is Rake’s project and you ought to stay in the background.”
When another two trucks had emptied their loads, the concrete in the pool started to rise.
“Oh goodness me!” said Anna-Greta.
“OK, it’s all there. Now we have to wait for it to harden,” said Brains.
“Right, so in the meantime we can go across to Rake and help him get everything in order,” said Martha.
With quick steps they went over to their neighbor’s garden. When they reached the swimming pool, Rake and Christina stood there staring down into the former pool.
“Good thing you’ve come,” said Rake with some snuff under his upper lip. “As soon as Charley and his gang have left, we can remove the pool cover.”
“No, no, for fuck’s sake don’t do that. The concrete is wet. Are you planning a mafia graveyard?” Brains joked.
“No, but we must keep an eye on it as it sets,” said Rake, drying his brow with his bandanna. He was looking rather glassy-eyed and he didn’t calm down until he had paid Charley Concrete and they had driven off with their trucks.
“Whew, now it’s over. Those guys made me nervous,” he said, wiping his forehead and then standing there with his bandanna in his hand. Much of the day had passed and there was a pleasantly cooling afternoon breeze.
“Are you sure they bought that talk about the fallout shelter?” Martha asked.
“It seems so. I said something about Russia and that we live in troubled times. And then I rambled on about the atom bombs they tested in the 1950s and that you never knew what could happen in the future.”
“Well, I can agree with you as far as the future is concerned,” said Anna-Greta.
“I’m glad the Polish workers have left.” Rake smiled and held his bandanna up in the wind so that it fluttered. “To your stations! Full steam ahead!”
The very next moment, the wind caught his bandanna, and it whirled around before vanishing in the direction of a pipe.
“Oh no! not my favorite bandanna!” Rake called out, rushing after it. But in his haste he ran straight into a garden gnome, tripped and fell head first against the knee-high concrete lion next to the steps. His forehead hit a front paw and the hard blow made him see stars. He collapsed in a heap while his bandanna was sucked into the pipe and ended up in the concrete.
“Rake!” howled Christina.
But Rake didn’t move. He’d been knocked out.
When he came to his senses again, he was very embarrassed and acted as if nothing had happened. And he categorically refused to go to see a doctor. Not until he started feeling nauseous and to vomit did he agree to go to the ER. He was never sick, and tripping over a garden gnome wasn’t reason enough to require the intervention of the health service which was overworked as it was. In the end, Christina managed to get him into a taxi and take him to Danderyd Hospital. It was Friday evening and the start of the weekend rush, and Christina had heard that you should never be admitted to the hospital at such a time, but now they had no choice. Rake was looking very bad and she didn’t dare wait until Monday when the ordinary doctors would be on duty again. She hated hospitals and she got the creeps as soon as they set foot in the ER reception area. People were coughing, looked pale and dejected, and a child with a runny nose was walking around sneezing, so she was worried about catching something.
“We’ve got an emergency case here,” said Christina, grabbing hold of the first white coat that passed her. It was worn by a young woman with dark, beautiful eyes and long black hair. She had a name tag which said “Camilla, Nursing Assistant.”
“I’ll be with you soon, just have to—,” she excused herself, rushing past so quickly that Christina didn’t have time to catch her explanation. She took a number and sat down with Rake in the waiting room. Christina looked around her while she fidgeted with the number. The room was barren with light-gray walls, brown sagging armchairs and some low tables with magazines. There was a faint smell of disinfectant.
Rake had stopped vomiting but still seemed rather groggy, more or less as if he had been up in a boxing ring and had suffered quite a beating. When the nurse appeared again, Christina jumped up from her chair and stood in the way.
“I phoned in advance and you said that we should hurry. He is not good.”
“No, no, there’s nothing wrong with me,” said Rake glancing with interest at the young nurse.
“Sh!” Christina prodded him in the ribs and turned to the nurse again.
“He had a blow to his forehead and I’ve heard that can be dangerous.”
“A seaman loves the waves . . .” sang Rake.
“Yes, we will admit him, but unfortunately I’m on my own just now. We are slightly understaffed, so—Yes, the doctor will have a look at him—” That very same moment, the entrance door banged open and three drunken youths stepped into reception. They shouted and roared and two of them had to support each other so as not to fall over. The youths were bleeding from cuts on their faces and on their hands, and their clothes were torn. One had had his nose pushed in and blood was dripping everywhere, the other was bleeding from his upper lip.
“We need a doctor. Now!” slurred the youth with the swollen lip.
“He’s busy, I’m afraid.”
“Where the fuck is the doctor?” roared his friend.
“Ah, we’ll go in here,” said the swollen lip and wobbled toward the door which said “DOCTOR.” He took a few unsteady steps and almost fell over an elderly lady who lay on a gurney in the hallway waiting to have some stitches. She had hurt her hand.
“A bedpan, I need a bedpan,” the old lady moaned.
“Yes, of course, I’ll come at once,” replied the nurse while trying to fend the youths away from the door. Then the one with the swollen lip vomited.
“Oh fucking hell!” said his friend and he held his nose. “Nurse, come here and wipe up this fucking mess!”
“Sit down for the time being and we’ll take care of that,” said the nurse in as friendly a tone as she could, laying a calming hand on the youth’s shoulder. “The doctor will be here soon.”
The stressed nurse managed to get the youths to sit on some chairs, then returned to Christina.
“A blow to the head, right. I’ll phone X-ray and warn them. The doctor will be here any second. You can sit down and wait.”
“I stumbled over a garden gnome,” Rake informed her.
“He is very bad,” said Christina. “What if there is an internal hemorrhage?”
“Then I fell onto a lion’s paw,” Rake went on, and pointed at his forehead.
“It was a stone sculpture, a stone sculpture of a lion, that is,” Christina explained. “Rake needs attention, he has vomited.”
“A seaman loves the waves . . .” Rake went on humming, but then stopped himself and started to sing a classic drinking song: “Cheers to Santa, fill our glasses and have fun . . .”
Now the nurse reacted.
“A head wound, yes, right. I’m sorry, this will have to be attended to at once,” she said, and stumbled in the direction of the doctor’s room. Then the door opened and the on call surgeon could be seen.
“How long must I wait, nurse? The patient in here needs stitches, and I need assistance. I said that half an hour ago.”
“Yes, yes, I’m coming, I’m on my own this evening, it isn’t so easy—”
“I must do the stitches now!” said the doctor. “Not yesterday and not tomorrow, but now!”
“We must take him first!” protested the nurse. “Head injury.”
The doctor looked confused, went back into his room and closed the door. Then Rake lost his patience.
“Suture this and suture that. What the hell are we doing here? They haven’t got time to deal with us,” he muttered. With a dissatisfied snorting, he got up, causing the magazines to fall off the table. “We’re going home now. A man can look after himself.” He pulled out his steel comb from his pants pocket and looked around for a mirror. A bit giddy, he made his way to the toilet and had just turned on the light when Christina caught up with him.
“You must take it easy, Rake. Head injuries are not child’s play,” she said and she put her arm under his. “Now please come with me.”
“Ah, there’s nothing wrong with me,” Rake calmed her and lifted the comb to his hair to straighten his part. Then he caught sight of the enormous bruise on his forehead, the swelling that had formed a soft hill and the dried blood that had seeped out of the wound.
“Oh my God, help!” he gasped and then a heavy thud could be heard. He had passed out again.
CHRISTINA SAT THERE AND KEPT AN EYE ON HIM ALL NIGHT between blood tests and X-rays. Toward the morning he finally got to see a specialist who had reassuring news. Nothing could be seen on the X-ray, he had a concussion and must keep still the next twenty-four hours.
“I haven’t time for that,” Rake answered and adjusted the bandage around his head.
“Rake, please,” said Christina. “Take it easy!”
“Well, it would be for your sake, then,” he muttered, taking her hand and patting her on the cheek. She had been by his side the whole night and had supported him, a real friend. And to be honest, he wasn’t feeling too good and he thought it was nice to have her nearby. He looked at her with a thoughtful expression and felt warm inside. Yes, Christina was a good soul and he could rely on her. If he hadn’t felt so bad he would have liked to cuddle a bit.
“If you feel worse, you should call,” said the doctor.
“I won’t,” said Rake and he headed in the direction of the exit. In the doorway he almost collided with the nurse. She smelled of almond and violet and was less stressed now.
“The bandage suits you,” she said with a friendly smile. And then Rake almost fainted a third time. Nurses, he thought, how they slaved away! The next time they handed out their bank robbery money they must be certain to include nursing staff and lowly paid home care workers too.
THE NEXT MORNING RAKE SLEPT A LONG TIME AND DIDN’T HEAR when Christina’s son Anders came with a load of gravel and two tons of earth which were arduously shoveled over the concrete. (At any rate, he pretended he didn’t hear anything.) Finally, all except Rake rolled out the sod they had bought at the garden center. It was a bit tricky but with Anders’ help they managed in the end. They took a few steps back and looked at what they had achieved. Then they walked right around the former swimming pool, looked at each other and nodded. Now no visitor could have any idea what was hidden under the soil, and a sense of calm returned to them all. All except Christina, who felt that she must still keep an eye on Rake. When they were back in the house, she took a book and went and sat in an armchair in Rake’s room to be close if anything happened. When he was finally on his feet again, a few hours later, she found it difficult to help him because he wanted to walk unaided. He managed to make his way down to the others in the kitchen, but then they all said that he looked unusually pale and something of a sorry figure—not the Rake they knew.
“Ah, I’m all right,” he assured them and sat down slowly and deliberately. And there he sat and kept quiet for a long time, while now and then looking out of the window toward the neighbor’s. After drinking a cup of coffee and eating a roll, he put his hands on his hips and announced in a decisive voice:
“You know what? We must write to our neighbor. The changed appearance of the garden must be explained in some way.”