Chapter Thirty
Sherlock kissed Molly awake. It was still dark outside. That was the point.
'Molly, it's time to wake up,' he whispered, as she stirred and stretched.
'What time is it?' she asked, in a sleepy voice.
'Four thirty.'
He rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom. He would shower and shave while Molly was still waking up and then she would have the bathroom to herself. They had planned this early morning outing, yesterday. It was their one and only chance to do this, with the boys in Caro's care.
The timing was crucial. Sunrise would be at six thirty three and they needed to be in position well before then. They left the hotel at five thirty and stepped straight into a yellow taxi which took them though the Tijuca Rain Forest to the coach park near the foot of Corcovado hill. The security guards gave them suspicious looks as they approached but were clearly expecting the Hooper-Holmes couple – courtesy of Caro and Henrique and their wonderful connections – as, when they presented their passports to check their identities, they were waved through. The cab drove up the dark road through the forest, climbing steadily, until they were within striking distance of the summit. Sherlock asked the driver to stop and let them out. He paid the man, who turned his cab around in the road and drove away.
They set off walking up the hill which, although relatively short in distance, was quite steep and surrounded by forest. It was still pitch dark but the roadway was sufficiently lit to make it safe and there was no traffic at all, since the park was still a couple of hours away from the official public opening time.
It was quite chilly and became more so, as they climbed higher. Sherlock would have been glad of his Belstaff coat but had to make do with layers of two tee shirts, a button-down work shirt - that Molly had insisted on bringing on holiday 'just in case' - and his heaviest jacket. Molly was similarly layered and the brisk walking pace set by him and his long legs ensured that they were not cold.
Up ahead, they could see their target, perched on its huge base, lit from below and facing out over Rio and into the bay - the statue of Cristo Redentor, Christ the Redeemer, at the top of Corcovado, 2,300 feet above the city.
It was the largest Art Deco statue in the world, 130 feet tall and with an arm span of 98 feet. It was constructed from reinforced concrete faced with sandstone and had stood on this spot since 1931. In the dark, because the statue itself was lit and the mountain it stood on was dark, it seemed to float in mid-air over the land.
As they reached the bottom of the steps leading to the first viewing platform, the light of dawn was just seeping over the horizon out in the Atlantic Ocean. It was quite misty below the mountain top so the dawn light effect was dreamlike and mystical. At this altitude, however, the air was clear and the wind was strong. It blew their hair back off their faces and flapped their clothing around them.
There were two escalators leading up to the base of the statue but they were switched off at this time of the day so they climbed up the first long flight of stone steps, paused to rest their legs which were protesting at the length of the climb, then took the second, long flight to the foot of the statue and walked around the base and down the extended staggered flight of steps to the viewing platform over-looking the bay, toward the rising sun.
Neither spoke as Sherlock stood behind Molly, his arms wrapped around her, and she leaned against him, behind the low stone parapet of the platform, gazing out at the view, absorbing every aspect of this unique experience. The ground dropped away for several hundred feet, immediately below them, since the platform was set on the very edge of the bare rock on which the statue stood. The Tijuca National Park spread out around the rock like a huge green skirt, flowing down toward the town in Guanabara Bay.
As the sun rose, an orange glow appeared along the edge of the horizon, contrasting with the deep blues and purples of the sky and the ocean. The mist and low cloud reflected back the colours and a rainbow curved away, over to their right, as the light caught the droplets of moisture in the cool morning air.
Molly gasped at the stunning beauty of it all. It felt like they were the only people alive in the world. This is what she imagined the Apocalypse might look like. Were it not for the dark houses far below, just becoming visible as the morning mist began to dissipate, she could have believed they had been transported back to a time of prehistory, such was the raw, primordial nature of the spectacle.
As the sun rose higher above the horizon, the sky and ocean paled and they had to shade their eyes from the intense light. Sherlock maneuvered them round to face the statue, bathed now in the red and gold of the morning, making it glow, as if it were burning from within. Molly, still unable to find adequate words to describe her feelings, became aware of a sound coming, it seemed, from Sherlock's chest. She realised he was singing quietly under his breath, lost in his own thoughts, almost oblivious to her presence.
Sherlock rarely sang, though he loved to listen to lieder. The only time she had ever heard him sing was to the boys, mostly Freddie, to lull him to sleep when he was a tiny baby. But he had a pleasant, tuneful, baritone voice. She listened intently to the song which was slow and mournful, like a dirge. The words were not modern English but were sufficiently similar that she could understand the meaning. They might have been Old English or even a regional dialect she wasn't familiar with. But the song itself just seemed to fit the situation and perfectly expressed how she felt.
She waited until he'd finished then turned to him and said,
'That was beautiful. What was it? I've never heard it before.'
'It's called The Lyke-Wake Dirge. I learnt it at school,' he replied, ducking his head, self-consciously. 'A line in the refrain goes, 'And Christe receive thy saule.' The statue reminded me of it.'
'Is it Old English?' she asked, surprised yet again by odd things he stored in that 'funny old head', as Mrs Hudson would say.
'It's an old Yorkshire dialect. We learned it for Churchill Songs, at school. It's not a Harrow Song. We just sang it, one year.'
Molly draped her arms around his waist and he looped his around her shoulders, the sun warming his back but the wind cooling them both.
'Let's find some shelter,' he suggested and, taking her by the hand, led the way up the steps toward the foot of the statue. There was a small chapel housed in the base but it didn't open until eight o'clock and it was still only seven so they stood on the leeward side of the edifice and took in the view from there. On a clear day, from the observation decks at the base of the statue, one could see the city of Rio de Janeiro, the beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema, "Sugar Loaf" mountain, the forest, and the bay.
On this day, the air became less clear lower down the mountain but they could make out some of the features. Sherlock pointed out an area not far from the Tijuca National Park where the streets were less distinct and the buildings more random and ramshackle in design.
'That's the favela,' he explained. 'I'd like to take you there to show you where I hid for five days, show you where Ru'e and Maria live.'
'I'd love to see it,' she replied.
ooOoo
The first cog train arrived just after eight o'clock and several people disembarked. Unsurprisingly, Molly and Sherlock were the only people boarding for the decent, through the verdant Tijuca National Park to the station at the base of the mountain, which took about twenty minutes. When they alighted, they approached a waiting cab and Sherlock asked to be taken to the favela. The cab driver laughed, heartily, and told Sherlock there were lots of lovely places to see in Rio. What did he and his lovely lady want with the favela?
Sherlock explained that he had business there and fixed the cabbie with a look which convinced him not to ask any more questions. The man agreed to take them most of the way, but - like Raoul, on Sherlock's previous visit to Ru'e and Maria's home – he would not drive into the favela itself. Sherlock accepted that condition and he and Molly got in the cab.
In the heavy early morning traffic, it took over half an hour to reach the point where the cab stopped and the driver declared he could go no further. Sherlock paid the man and gave him a good tip then he took Molly's hand and they set off walking through the narrow streets and alley ways toward their destination. They attracted curious looks from the passers-by but Sherlock strode on with such confidence that no one even considered intercepting them. Recalling the route from the time before, he led them deeper and deeper into the favela.
Molly looked around in awe and not a little concern. She had seen poverty before but nothing that came anywhere close to this. The buildings, literally hand-built, were constructed from recycled wooden and corrugated metal sheets, hand-made mud bricks, plastic tarpaulins and other second hand materials. They looked as though one gust of wind would blow them flat but Sherlock knew they were far sturdier than they seemed.
They passed along a narrow path between the buildings then made a right turn that took them down a slope, through a gap between two ramshackle shacks, to a fenced yard around a sort of shed – the home of Ru'e and Maria.
'Here it is, the street kids' home. This is where Rocky brought me; where I hid for five days while he arranged for the Uncontacted to take me through the forest to Asuncion in Paraguay. I don't remember much about that part,' he added, a little ruefully. 'Ru'e will be at the garage, I expect, but Maria should be here.'
He called out to announce their arrival as he opened the gate and they passed through into the yard. Once inside the enclosed space, they stood and waited for Maria to come out of the shed. They waited a whole minute but nobody came.
'They must be out,' Molly said, shrugging.
'No, they never all go out at the same time,' Sherlock replied, his brow wrinkling with a growing unease. Ru'e and Maria were not the only people living here and someone always stayed home to keep a presence in the property, to discourage interlopers.
'Maria!' he called, loudly, and they both cocked an ear toward the open doorway to the structure, listening for a response. They both heard it at the same time – a strangled cry coming from inside the shack - and they both rushed to the entrance and looked in. It was dark inside, having no windows and just the one entrance, so they couldn't see anything to begin with but then something moved in the shadows toward the back of the shack and both Molly and Sherlock hurried over to the pile of mats on which lay Maria.
As they approached, they could see she was lying on her side, curled in the foetal position on top of what looked like a large sheet of brown paper and that was exactly what it was. They both took one look and knew immediately that Maria was in labour and, by the perspiration soaking her clothes and hair, it was clear that she had been so for quite some time.
Molly's medical training kicked into action.
'Sherlock, ask her how long she has been in labour,' she ordered.
Crouching on the dirt floor, next to the pile of mats, Sherlock spoke gently in Portuguese. The girl answered, breathlessly, and he translated.
'She had pain in her lower back in the night but didn't know she was in labour. The others left early this morning – about four hours ago - and then the contractions started.
'We need to find out how far on she is. Ask her if I can examine her – just visually, that's all.' Molly was painfully aware that she did not have any surgical gloves so an internal examination could introduce contamination into the birth canal.
Sherlock passed on the request, reminding Maria that Molly was a doctor. The girl's response was curtailed by the onset of another contraction. She gasped and grabbed Sherlock's hand, squeezing so hard that he feared she might break his metacarpals.
'I need to push!' she squealed, through clenched teeth.
'She says she needs to push,' he gasped, trying to ignore the pain in his hand.
'Tell her to pant! Like this!' Molly modelled panting and Sherlock told Maria to copy Molly, which she did until the contraction subsided. They all relaxed for a moment and Maria released his hand. He rubbed and flexed it to check it was still in working order.
Maria rolled onto her back to allow Molly to check on her progress. Sherlock sat down on the dirt floor beside Maria and took hold of her hand so that his thumb lay across her palm, wrapping his fingers round her wrist. She could squeeze his thumb to her heart's content without risking breaking it.
He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his mobile phone but was not surprised to find had no signal. That had been the case last time he was here. There would be no calling for assistance. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and reached over to brush the damp hair off Maria's face then cupped the top of her head with his hand, rubbing her temple with his thumb and smiling, he hoped, in a reassuring manner.
Molly lifted the girl's shift up to her hips and gently separated her knees to examine her cervix. Even in the dim light, it was evident that the foetus's head was crowning. Birth was imminent.
'Maria, do you have any clean towels or sheets?' Molly asked and Sherlock repeated.
Maria reached for a bag that was lying on the mats, close at hand. Molly took it and looked inside. It contained an assortment of cotton and terry towels and a woollen blanket – and a small plastic zip lock bag. Molly took this out and gave a surprised 'oh!' It was a Birthing Kit.
Moly had heard about these. St Bart's raised money for the charity that produced them. They were specifically made for use in developing countries where women frequently found themselves giving birth without medical supervision. They contained the bare minimum for a safe delivery – a plastic sheet, a bar of soap, two pairs of surgical gloves, a sterile scalpel blade, three cords and five gauze swabs. Molly wondered where Maria had obtained it but this was hardly the time to ask. She was just grateful to have it.
As Molly opened the kit, Maria began groaning, rolled onto her side again and curled back into the foetal position. She was having another contraction.
'Tell her to pant again, Sherlock, not to push. This baby is about to be born but I need to prep the area so, if she can pant, it will stave off the delivery for a minute or two.'
He passed on the instruction to pant and, making eye contact with the young mother-to-be, he joined in with the panting in a show of solidarity. The contraction climaxed and began to subside. Maria sighed and sank back onto the mats, closing her eyes and breathing in deep gulps of air. Molly, in the meantime, had put on a pair of the gloves and partly opened the plastic sheet.
'Ask her what her most comfortable position is. I'm guessing it's on her side, but I just need to make sure.'
He asked the question and got the expected answer.
'OK. I have to lay this sheet out under your hips, Maria, so the baby can be delivered onto a sterile surface,' she said, holding up the sheet. As Sherlock translated, Maria nodded and rolled to the side so Molly could lay out the sheet, then rolled back onto it.
'Right, sweetheart, I need to be able to see the baby being born so I'm going to have to put your leg on my shoulder, understand?'
Maria nodded and allowed Molly to lift her left leg and brace it on her right shoulder. Sherlock watched in awe as Molly and Maria exchanged a look which spoke of generations of shared understanding, from one woman to another. Molly smiled and gave a small nod and Maria smiled back and seemed to grow in confidence, reassured that everything was going to be just fine.
'Ok, next contraction, you need to take a deep breath and push as long and as hard as you can.'
Maria nodded and then her grip tightened on Sherlock's thumb as the next contraction began.
ooOoo
