The Power of Five Oblivion

you to hurt Pedro. I want you to prove to me that he’s no longer your friend. You don’t have to do it yourself. You just have to give the order. You could be giving a lot of orders quite soon. You might as well get used to it.”
    “Hurt him…? How?”
    Jonas stood in the doorway, considering. “Well, let’s not do anything too unpleasant. Not to begin with. Let’s break one of his fingers! There you are. You tell me which finger we’re going to choose. His left hand or his right hand.”
    “No … I can’t do that.”
    “Are you quite sure about that, Scott? Think about what you want! Look at the bed. Nice, clean sheets. Tomorrow you and I can have breakfast together and we can be on the same side. Pedro doesn’t mean anything to you. You don’t even like him. And it’s Matt we’re interested in. We need to know that we can trust you.”
    “I can’t…”
    “Why not? Do you want to be the one wearing that shirt or the one sewing the buttons?”
    Scott was so tired. He could barely keep his eyes open. He could feel the weight of the world on him and he’d had enough.
    “His left hand,” he said. “The little finger.”
    “Whatever you say, Scott.”
    Jonas Mortlake left the room. Two minutes later Scott was asleep.

NINETEEN
    Pedro was slumped on the floor in the corner of his cell, cradling his injured hand in his lap. It was wrapped in a bandage that had already become grubby, but at least it was throbbing less now and he wondered if he had somehow managed to channel his own healing powers into himself.
    It had been six days since Weasel and Ape had come in and hurt him. Those were the names he had given the two guards. One was older and slightly paunchy, his stomach pressing against his black uniform, with sagging cheeks and heavy eyes. It was he who had held Pedro down, crushing him in a bear-like grip, while the other – younger, skinnier with a fuzzy beard and moustache – had quickly and deliberately taken hold of his little finger and pulled it back, away from his hand, until the bone had snapped. From that moment on they had been Mono and Comadreja . Ape and Weasel in Spanish. It made them easier to hate, giving them names.
    He had no idea why they had done it. Neither of them had ever spoken to him – not before or since. After they had finished and Pedro was lying there, sobbing with pain and shock, they had tossed him a bandage and simply walked out. For a while, he had been afraid that this was going to be the start of a long process, that they would come back every day and kill him literally one bone at a time. But they hadn’t returned – except to bring him the scraps of food that were his meals and to take him out to the shower and toilet complex and for one hour’s exercise in the yard. Another twenty-four hours had passed – but Pedro had given up trying to keep track of the time. It was as if the attack had never happened.
    He hadn’t heard from Scott. In many ways he was more worried about the other boy than he was about himself. He knew what Scott had been through in the past and doubted that he’d be able to take very much more. Pedro was aware that he hadn’t been able to help very much and that there had been a lot of tension between them, but he still thought they were better off together. At least they’d been able to talk.
    There was still no sign of the others in the dreamworld. Pedro found himself there every time he went to sleep and he hated being so alone. He had kept walking in the hope that he would come across someone or something, but so far all he had seen was the tree which was now a long way behind him, on the horizon, the leaves sprouting in every direction, dominating the sky. He was glad to be moving away from it. Although he had no idea what it meant, he could sense that it was dangerous, that it was warning him to stay clear.
    Warning him to get away while he still could.
    Pedro had come to that conclusion quite simply. If he stayed in this cell very much longer, he wouldn’t have the strength to escape. He was used to being half-starved. He had been brought up in poverty, in the province of Canta near Lima. There had never been enough food to go around and, of course, what food there was, the men took first. But things had been even worse when he had moved to the city. Living on the streets, he had eaten only what he had been able to steal – or whatever scraps he had salvaged from the dustbins in the wealthier suburbs. It had never