Hot Revenge Box Set 4
Chapter 52
Klempner
What's the obsession with potatoes?
I called her Potato Face when she was a kid.
What does she look like now?
Jenny was no looker at that age…
… But she matured. Bloomed.
Juliana... Never the same twice.
I scratch at my beard. I’ve never liked facial hair in hot climates, but I don’t have a choice right now. Even so, the flourishing colony of lice that has stowed aboard adds an extra edge of irritation.
Lice…
Where the fuck did they come from?
Can rat lice live on humans?
Having a fucking good go at it…
I catch one, squeezing the revolting thing between my fingernails. It bursts with a Pop!
Only another 999 to go…
*****
The boredom’s the worst. Endless hours. Endless days and nights. I’ve no idea how long.
The only breaks in the monotony are Juliana’s visits: just long enough to sit, eat something at me, toss a potato at me.
No, not Juliana: Solana.
Why's she so obsessed with the name?
How many names have I used over the years? Worn like a suit of clothes to be discarded when the weather changes and something different is needed.
I’ve never been defined by my name.
But she sees it differently…
Something skritches and I jerk a look sidelong
It’s a rat…
Just a rat…
faced down gunmen, soldiers,
It’s just a rat…
dark openings, more scratching. And a nose
long enough into an abyss,
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come
*****
do you know what Stockholm syndrome
flickers over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from a napkin. “What
a kidnap or hostage situation, the
you're getting attached
misread me...” Her head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called
“So?”
your only
think you’re my friend?” The napkin produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round cake, dropping back into the napkin and
do you keep
chewing, mouth hanging a little open.
you keep coming? If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk
me to feed you? We can always
of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month.
me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've
giggling. “So, you're my friend are
sex-slave when she was a kid? That middle-aged hooker? You've not
her arms, sits back in her seat, arches
have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze
“Solana…” she hisses.
over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping just this side of that painted line, now less than white. Even under the heavy make-up, her colour has
heel,
fallen food, ignoring the jab of pain in my ankle as the chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded meal from the filthy concrete, scrabbling to grab broken fragments of meat in one hand, a cake with the other before, with a click, the light winks out and I'm left in
my eyes adjust to the green blink of the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on the wealth
bite taken from the corner. And I have half
anything like
For how long?
Weeks? Months? My sense of
I had
of empanada, then another, I ram the food into my
way and suddenly I’m no
to swallow, gagging on my scavenged meal, I barf it
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