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…

scratching.

you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back at

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

come equipped with fists and feet. Between us, we settle an uneasy

*****

know what Stockholm syndrome

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

the label for a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or

sniggers. “You saying you're getting

have her attention. “… But

“So?”

your only friend,

produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the small round

why do you

mouth

watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my chin up to

you do want me to feed you? We can always change that

the only reason, you could leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even,

your only friend, Sola?

head, giggling. “So, you're

hooker? You've not changed, Larry. I can see right through you. The same heartless bastard that shipped me out to dig up potatoes for the rest of

back in her seat, arches her brows. “I

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.

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 changed.

her heel,

supernatural premonition to know what's coming. Launching myself at the 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

the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on the wealth in my

bite taken from the corner.

not eaten anything like this

For how long?

Months? My sense

I had

another, I ram the

Too soon. Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and

gagging on my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where it plops in

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