The Power of Five Oblivion

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