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 gunmen, soldiers,

It’s just a rat…

the dark openings, more scratching. And a nose pokes

into an abyss, the

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

case, the abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with

*****

you know what Stockholm

over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from a napkin. “What

the label for a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms

sniggers. “You saying you're getting attached

attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where the captor comes

“So?”

I your

friend?” The napkin produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round

why do you keep coming

chewing, mouth hanging

you keep coming? If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you

want me to

do. But if that were the only reason, you could leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so far as I can

I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered everyone else that

her head, giggling. “So,

someone's going to come and save you, Larry? You believe you're worth saving? That there's anyone out there who thinks you're worth it? The daughter you had slated as a sex-slave when she was a kid? That middle-aged hooker? You've not changed, Larry. I can see right through you. The same heartless bastard that

arms, sits back in her seat, arches

keep my voice mild. “Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look into her face. “Have you

“Solana…” she hisses.

spill 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 heel, she

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,

to the green blink of the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on

bite taken from the

anything like this for…

For how long?

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

I had

mouthful of empanada, then another, I

way and suddenly I’m no longer

I barf it up, where it plops in a

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