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

say if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet.

*****

know

Interest flickers over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties

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

“You saying you're getting attached

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

“So?”

your

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

do you keep coming

chewing, mouth hanging a little

wanted was to watch me rot, you

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

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

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

swings her head, giggling. “So, you're

That middle-aged 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 my life.

her seat,

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

“Solana…” she hisses.

stands, the lunchbox tumbling from her lap. The contents spill and scatter over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping just this side of that painted line, now less than white. Even under

heel,

snatch up the discarded meal from the filthy concrete, scrabbling to grab broken fragments of meat in one

blind, my eyes adjust to the green blink of the camera.

a single bite taken from the corner. And I have half of

eaten anything like this

For how long?

idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is

had

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

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

on my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where it plops in a saliva-coated mess

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