Being unable to make out any of the paths, Gregory had no option but to head straight across the park in the direction in which he knew the tunnel lay. He had not gone twenty yards before he struck rising ground, so knew that he must be crossing a flower bed. Next moment, as he plunged down its far side, he tripped and fell. As he was already drenched to the skin, that made him no wetter, but he had gulped down a mouthful of evil tasting water.
Cursing, he picked himself up and stumbled on for a further thirty yards with the water sloshing about his lower thighs. Suddenly the ground seemed to give beneath his feet and he plunged in up to his armpits. He had, walked into a hidden gully. Now using his hands and arms as well as his legs, he thrust himself forward until he had crossed the gully and mounted the far side. Resting for a moment, he drew in a few deep breaths while taking stock of his situation.
He was only a third of the way across the Mourisco and when he reached the far side he would still have to wade up the street leading to the tunnel. The water should be shallower there. But what when he came out at the far end of the tunnel? The deluge must have flooded the Copacabana waterfront as deeply as it had that of Botafogo Bay, and the promenade was much narrower there. The tide was coming in, but, even so, he might get caught in a current and swept out to sea. After a moment he decided that it would be much safer to take the right hand of the three streets and make his way back to the Embassy.
Altering his direction slightly, he set off again. Forcing his legs and knees through' the swirling water, and breathing heavily, he ploughed on for another few minutes; then his left foot struck something and with a great splash he measured his length in the water. This time he had caught his foot in one of the low iron hoops that edged the plots of grass.
As he fell, he felt a fierce pain shoot through his left ankle, and knew that he had either sprained or broken it. When he stumbled to his feet and tried his weight upon it the pain was agonising. Setting his teeth, he struggled a few steps, slipped on the muddy slope of another flower bed and sprawled facedown in another gully.
Fortunately, it was shallower than the first into which he had stumbled. Squirming round, he was able to sit up with his head still above the water level. Desperately anxious now, he began to shout for help. But no moving vehicle was in sight, nor any pedestrian. Through the half blinding rain he could see the lighted windows in the not far distant buildings. There lay safety. In normal conditions the people in those rooms would have heard him. But the roar of the torrential rain drowned his shouts and the water was still rising. Grimly, he realised that his life now depended upon his ability to bear the atrocious pain in his ankle for another hundred yards until he was close enough to be heard.
Gritting his teeth, he prepared to make the effort. Then, just as he put his weight on his good foot to stand up, something hit him hard on the back of the head, knocking him forward and sideways. As he rolled over and under, whatever it was came to rest across his body. Thrusting his head above
the surface, he shook the water from his eyes. In the semidarkness he peered at the thing that now pinned him down. It was a long wooden bench that had come adrift from its footings and was being swept out to sea. The bench was made of that heavy timber strangely enough known in Europe as ' Brazil wood' long before the Portuguese had discovered Brazil, but from which the country had taken its name. Strive as he would, Gregory could not lift it from his chest or squirm from beneath it. The water was lapping against his mouth and only by straining his neck could he keep his nostrils an inch or so above the wavelets.
Up to that moment Gregory had been no more than considerably worried and still confident that, as had been the case so many times in the past, by keeping his head he would find a way out of his dangerous situation. Now he knew that he was trapped with little hope of escape. Faced with imminent death; he endeavoured to resign himself to it by fixing his thoughts on Erika. For a while he lay there gasping and spitting as, every few moments, the water lapped against his mouth and nose. Suddenly, he felt that he could bear it no longer. Animated again by the will to live, he gathered all his strength and made a final effort. It resulted in the heavy bench shifting a little without warning, so that its weight forced back his head. Next moment, his eyes bulging, he was gulping down water. Before he lost consciousness his last grim thought was
`So that damned Macumba priest was right. I've been doomed to die in a ditch.'
3 ?A New Interest
When Gregory opened his eyes he could not for a moment imagine where he was or what had happened to him. He was lying on his back on a surface of hard stone and a man was crouching over him, alternately, with widespread hands, crushing in his lungs and letting up.
Gulping, he moved his head unhappily from side to side and tried to lift his own hands to defend himself, but could not. Staring up into the face above his own, he was seized for a second with the wild notion that he was in Hell and being attacked by a demon; for, in the uncertain light, his torturer's head seemed twice the size of that of a normal man. Then he became conscious that it was pouring with rain and that he was soaked to the skin.
With an effort he gasped out, `Stop! For God's sake, stop ' The demon sat back on his haunches and exclaimed, `So you speak English. How fortunate.'
`Where… where am I?' Gregory wheezed.
`In the Mourisco, on the Praia de Botafogo. I was making my way back to my hotel when I noticed one of the park benches and decided to rest on it for a few minutes. I found you pinned beneath it and, although you were unconscious, I realised that you could not have been so for long, so I carried you here. We are now a few feet above the water on the base of the statue to Pasteur. I applied artificial respiration and after some minutes you came round. That makes me very happy. Where do you live?'
' Copacabana Palace.' Gregory's lungs were working again, but he was very far from recovered and could speak only with difficulty. Struggling into a sitting position he knuckled the water from his eyes. Again he thought he must be dead or dreaming. The man towering above him was huge, and his head, now outlined against the light coming from the nearest buildings, was enormous.
At that moment his rescuer put a hand beneath his arm and lifted him to his feet. From his left ankle a ghastly pain shot up his leg. In his weakened state it was more than he could bear, and he slid into unconsciousness.
When he came to, it seemed that he had passed into another phase of his nightmare. He was lying face down, with his head hanging over what felt like an iron bar. His body was balanced on some narrow structure, on either side of which his arms and legs dangled, the latter trailing in water. At a steady pace, he and the contraption on which he lay were being pushed forward. As he stared downwards, the light from a nearby window glinted on curved black metal only a few inches beneath his nose. It was a mudguard and he realised then that he was spread eagled face down on a motor cycle. Even had he been in a fit state to talk, the fact that his throat was resting on the handlebars would have made it difficult to do so; but memory was seeping back. Rightly, he deduced that, after carrying him some way, the giant who had rescued him had come upon a machine that its owner had not had the strength to push home, and was using it as a means of transport.