The Power of Five Oblivion

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