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,

It’s just a rat…

scratching. And a

gaze long enough into an abyss,

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

come equipped with fists

*****

you know what Stockholm

She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of

kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms

you're getting attached to

Don't misread me...” Her head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But

“So?”

I your only

A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round cake, dropping back into the napkin and she dabs it up with a

you keep coming

pauses in her chewing, mouth hanging a little open.

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

want me to feed you? We can

of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once

swallows, not speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it?

“So, you're my friend

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

her seat, arches her brows.

have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look into her face. “Have you

“Solana…” she hisses.

of it dropping just this side of that painted line, now less than white. Even under the heavy make-up, her colour has changed. White-faced, white-lipped, scarlet spots

her heel, she stalks

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

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

only a single bite taken from the

anything like this

For how long?

Months? My sense

I had a

mouthful of empanada, then another, I ram the food into

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

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

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