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…

down

It’s just a rat…

openings, more scratching. And a

into an abyss, the abyss will gaze

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

come equipped with fists and feet. Between

*****

you know what

her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from a

condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the

you're getting

head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where the captor comes to empathise with the

“So?”

your

her lips. “Friend? You 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 she dabs it up with a fingertip then into

do you

mouth hanging a little open.

was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk

feed you. I assume you do want me to feed

you could leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so far as I can reckon, you're

swallows, not speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered everyone else that might get

her head, giggling. “So, you're my friend

hooker? You've not changed, Larry. I can see right through you. The

her seat,

voice mild. “Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze

“Solana…” she hisses.

and scatter 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

her heel, she stalks

food, ignoring the jab of pain in my ankle as the chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded meal from the filthy concrete,

blind, my eyes adjust to the green blink of the camera. It hardly matters. My

from the corner. And I have half of

anything like this for…

For how long?

idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is out

I had

then another, I

Too soon. Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing and choking

swallow, gagging on my scavenged meal, I barf it up,

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