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,
It’s just a rat…
scratching. And a nose
an abyss, the abyss will gaze back
Who said that?
Nietzsche?
Depressing bastard…
my case, the abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped
*****
you know what Stockholm
flickers over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of
for a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage
saying you're getting attached to
no. Don't misread me...” Her 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
“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
you
mouth hanging
me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my chin up
assume you do want me to feed you? We can always change that you
you could leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or
not speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only
her head, giggling. “So,
was a kid? 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. Along with all the others you
arms, sits back in her seat, arches her
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.
“Solana…” she hisses.
no more. Instead, she stands, the lunchbox tumbling from her lap. The contents spill and scatter over the rancid concrete, some of it
her heel,
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
the green blink of the camera.
only a single bite taken from the corner. And
anything like
For how long?
no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is out
had
mouthful of empanada, then another,
Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing and
meal, I barf it up, where it plops in a saliva-coated
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