The Power of Five Oblivion (24 page)

“Tempo!”
he announced. Always the same word, spat out with no emotion.
Tiempo
was the Spanish for “time” and this obviously meant the same.

Weasel put his carving in one pocket and his knife in another, and then went back into the prison complex. But this time Pedro didn’t follow him over.

“I want more,” he called out. He spoke to them in English, then repeated the sentence in his own language. “I’m not coming in.”

Ape turned to look at him. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just bored. He walked over to Pedro, his feet heavy in the dust.

Pedro swore at him.

The man punched him once, hard, in the chest, his fist pounding in above Pedro’s heart. Pedro jerked backwards, almost collapsing onto the ground.

“OK! OK! I’m sorry!” Winded, in pain, Pedro held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, at the same time stumbling towards the door. But when he reached it, he seemed to lose his balance and fell against Weasel, who smiled, grabbed hold of his collar and threw him inside.

Pedro had got what he wanted. Every street child in Lima knew how to pick a pocket. American tourists usually kept their wallets in the back pocket of their trousers. The English preferred the inside of their jacket, near their right arm. And if you were fast enough, there were always expensive watches – a Rolex or an Omega could get you two or three dollars in the local market (where it would be sold on for twenty times that amount). The only trouble was, you had to get close enough to make the steal … and that was what Pedro had just done in the yard. It had cost him a little pain but it had given him the excuse to brush against Weasel and in barely more than a second he had whipped the knife out of the man’s pocket and concealed it under his own shirt. Pedro was still bent over, pretending to be hurt. The knife was safely pressed against his flesh.

The two guards threw him into the cell and locked the door, taking the key with them. Pedro already knew there were no bars or bolts on the outside. He waited until he was sure they had gone, then took out his prize and examined it. The knife had three blades, a screwdriver, a bottle opener, a nail file, scissors and tweezers. It was perfect. A gift from the gods.

But he had to move quickly. For all he knew, Weasel would want to start whittling again the moment he turned the corner and once he discovered his knife was missing, it wouldn’t take him long to work out where it had gone. Pedro unhooked one blade and took out the tweezers. There wasn’t a lock in Lima that he wouldn’t have been able to pick. Again it was part of his street education. There was always the stupid shopkeeper who didn’t pay someone to stand by the exit or who allowed himself to be distracted by one boy while another crept into his storeroom. Pedro ignored the pain in his chest. He knelt in front of the lock, the blade in one hand, the tweezers in the other. The mechanism was old and heavy but it had been used so many times that it had worn smooth. It took Pedro just five seconds. The lock clicked. The door swung open.

He was presented with a simple choice: left or right. Ape and Weasel had turned left and he didn’t want to run into them again. But at the same time he knew that turning right would only bring him back to the shower complex and the exercise yard with no obvious way out. There was no choice. All he could do was move as quickly and as quietly as possible and hope he wasn’t seen.

He found himself following a narrow, arched corridor that reminded him partly of a hospital, partly of a wine cellar. The floor was stone, the walls rough, whitewashed plaster. There were no windows but electric lights burned at intervals, showing the way ahead. He passed several doors and gently tried each one of them. They were all locked. More cells? Somewhere there had to be a staircase leading up. He couldn’t hear anything now but the smell of cooking was still strong and came from ahead of him. He was aware that his stomach was empty and he was salivating. It had been a long time since he had eaten anything decent and part of him was tempted to go in and see what he could steal. But where there was a kitchen there would be cooks and the moment anyone saw him they would raise the alarm. It was more important to get out while he still could. Food would come later.

He was still holding the knife, clutching it in the palm of his right, undamaged hand. If he came upon someone – it didn’t matter who they were – he was ready to use it. The corridor reached a T-junction with a brick wall ahead and a second choice of left or right. This time, Pedro turned right – and instantly regretted it. He heard a footfall and saw Weasel, the younger of the two guards, turn a corner and walk towards him. The guard hadn’t yet seen him. He was in a hurry, his head bent low, one hand rummaging in his pocket. Pedro realized that he had just discovered that he was missing his knife and had returned in the hope of finding it. He was sweeping the floor with his eyes, imagining it must have dropped out of his pocket.

Pedro ran forward. Weasel saw him at the last moment when it was far too late. His eyes widened in surprise – and then in pain as Pedro kicked out with all his strength, smashing his foot into the man’s groin. Again, they had underestimated him. Pedro was small but he was strong. He was wearing the boots he’d had on when he was seized, and had aimed the kick where it would hurt the most. Weasel screamed but the sound came out as a breathless grunt. He toppled forward. At the same moment, Pedro kicked him a second time, the underside of his foot slamming into the man’s chin, then launched himself forward, leaning over him as he hit the floor, the knife poised to strike down. There was no need for it. Weasel was unconscious, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He might even have been dead. Pedro didn’t care either way. This was the man who had cold-bloodedly broken one of his fingers. He deserved everything he got.

It was still bad news. If Weasel was here, Ape would be nearby and it wouldn’t take long for the body to be discovered. Pedro backed away, taking the corridor that led in the opposite direction, even though it meant passing the kitchen. Sure enough, he came almost at once to an open door that led onto a wide space filled with ovens, fridges and silver work surfaces with dozens of pots and pans hanging from hooks. The kitchen was spotlessly clean. A huge cauldron, filled with some sort of soup, stood on a gas flame. That was what Pedro had smelled. It was as much as he could do to stop himself running over to it and scooping the contents out with his bare hands.

But he wasn’t alone. A single figure stood close by, cleaning the floor.

The two of them saw each other at the same moment. Pedro stopped in his tracks. The servant, if that was what he was, was a boy of about his own age with long, light brown hair and a pale, emaciated face. He was so malnourished that his arms were almost as thin as the handle of the mop he was holding and his eyes and cheeks were sunken, his neck like porcelain. His clothes were clean. No germs would be allowed into the kitchen. He wore a white T-shirt, which hung loosely off him, and thin, grey trousers cut short above the ankle. His feet were bare. As the boy turned, Pedro saw that one side of his face was swollen and bruised. Somebody had hit him – and recently.

Pedro had already raised the knife and might have sprung forward and attacked the boy without a second thought before he could raise the alarm. For his part, the boy had already opened his mouth, about to call out. But then both of them stopped. Instinctively they understood that they were actually on the same side. Pedro had been kept in a cell. But the kitchen boy was just as much a prisoner … in his case sentenced to hard labour. Did he live inside this building or did he turn up every day? It made no difference. Hours of hard work and casual brutality were etched into his eyes.

They stood gazing at each other and then a bell broke the silence, jangling along the corridors, followed almost immediately by the sound of raised voices, stamping feet, doors slamming open. Either Weasel had been found or someone had glanced into Pedro’s cell and realized it was empty. Pedro stood where he was, rooted to the spot. The noises seemed to be echoing all around him. He didn’t know which way to go. Nowhere was safe.

The boy knew what was happening.
“Pa di qui, rapido…”
he whispered. He was speaking in Italian. He had to be. The words were almost identical to Spanish. At the same time he had hurried over to an oven and opened the door. Whatever the language, his meaning was clear. He wanted Pedro to climb inside.

Pedro stared at the flame-blackened interior. He would just be able to fit. He was small and the oven was industrial-sized, the sort of thing that might be used to cook a meal for fifty men. But the thought of it filled him with terror. It would be a tight squeeze and once he was inside, he would be completely helpless, unable to breathe. And what if someone turned it on? The boy could be offering him a particularly horrible death.

But there were voices coming down the corridor and they were getting nearer. He had no time to make a rational decision. If he was caught, he would be beaten and thrown back in the cell. He would never get a second chance. He was already moving. Climbing into the oven meant contorting himself and he had an image in his mind of a joint of meat. The boy helped to push him in. The oven was greasy and still warm. It had been used perhaps the night before. Pedro felt a rush of panic as the boy swung the door shut but he didn’t close it completely, allowing just a centimetre for light and air. Pedro couldn’t move. His shoulders, his neck, his arms and his hips were all jammed against the metal plates, his head folded into his stomach. Oven-ready. He couldn’t escape the thought.

The boy turned away just as someone arrived in the kitchen. Pedro couldn’t see them. He was facing the wrong way and could only see out of the oven by bending his head down and looking under his arm – but he was too low down and at the wrong angle. He heard a man’s voice and somehow knew it was Ape. The words were indistinct but it was obvious he was asking if the boy had seen him. The boy replied in the negative, his voice high-pitched and innocent. The man said something else. The boy answered again. Then silence.

The man left. The boy went on mopping the kitchen. The alarm bell was still ringing and for Pedro the sound seemed to hammer against the sides of the oven. He wondered why the boy wasn’t letting him out but understood when a second man came in and addressed a few words to him. This time Pedro caught a flash of white trousers and a white apron and guessed that this was the chef. The man uttered something angrily and walked towards the oven. Pedro tensed himself. The knife was still in his hand and if he uncoiled himself quickly he might still have time to use it. But the man didn’t look in the oven. He simply slammed the door and Pedro had to fight against a sense of panic as he found himself trapped in a dark, airless, tiny tomb.

Closing his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly, Pedro mentally counted away the seconds. He had reached a hundred and five before the door opened again and the boy was there, his eyes wide, tugging at Pedro’s leg. Pedro crawled out. He was covered in sweat and grease. His left hand was throbbing painfully. The alarm bells hadn’t stopped but as far as he could tell there were no guards anywhere close. They must have decided that he was no longer in this immediate area and moved the search to the upper floors of the building.

The boy hurried over to the door and peered outside. He looked terrified and Pedro knew that he was risking his life to help someone he had never met before. Why? Perhaps it was because they were about the same age. Both victims. He wondered what would happen next. With the alarm raised and everyone looking for him, he would never find his way out. Somewhere inside him, Pedro resolved not to be taken alive. He had the knife. He would use it one last time rather than fall into their hands again.

The boy gestured frantically and the two of them slipped out of the kitchen and back the way Pedro had come. They passed the cell where he had been held and went into the shower and toilet complex. Pedro took one look at the open urinals, the toilets without doors and the shower cubicles. The place stank as always. He wondered why he had been brought here. There were no windows, no other way out.

At least, that was what he thought. But the boy was kneeling, pointing to something in the ground, and Pedro remembered the metal square he had seen so often, the cover of a manhole. There were a couple of rings to lift it out and the boy was already tugging at one end. Pedro hurried over and took the other with his good hand. The manhole cover weighed a ton, and years of damp and filth had glued it in place. It wouldn’t budge. Pedro took his knife and ran a blade around the side, scraping through the mud. They tried again, pulling with all their strength, and this time the cover jerked free and, with straining muscles, they were able to slide it onto the floor.

Pedro looked in, then reeled back as the stench of raw sewage hit him full in the face. He could see a chute leading into darkness and a ladder built into the wall. About five or six metres down, the last rungs disappeared into a pool of filthy, brown liquid. He knew what he was being asked to do. But he couldn’t. He would die down here.

“Devi andare. In Fretta!”
the boy urged him and pressed something into his hand. It was a small torch. He must have stolen it from the kitchen while Pedro was in the oven.
“Sarò dall’atro lato…”
Pedro had no idea what the words meant but the boy mimed with his hands. He would be waiting when Pedro emerged from the building. And his eyes added something else. There was no other way. They had no choice.

“Thank you,” Pedro said. At the very least, the boy would be punished when they found the torch was missing. And if they suspected that he had helped Pedro escape, he would be killed. He was about to climb down when something made him stop and turn round. “Pedro,” he said, tapping his chest.

“Giovanni.”

Somehow it helped having a name. It made the boy feel more like a friend and not someone guiding him into a horrible trap.

He eased himself over the edge and began to climb down. The closer he got to the sewage, the more overpowering the smell became. He had barely eaten anything in the past few days but still he felt his stomach churn and the contents begin to rise. And sure enough, a second later he had to twist his head to one side and throw up, the foul liquid splattering down into the equally foul pool below. It was almost as if Giovanni had been waiting for just this moment. Above his head, Pedro heard the metal cover grind against the stone floor and then there was a thud as it slid into place, and when he looked up he saw nothing. He was in a tomb. He was buried alive.