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

It’s just a rat…

the dark openings, more scratching. And a nose

an abyss, the abyss

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us, we

*****

do you know what

over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one

for a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or

saying you're getting attached to

attention. “… But

“So?”

your

A flake of chocolate cracks off

you

in her chewing, mouth hanging a little

wanted was to watch me rot, you have

you. I assume you do want me

you could leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so far

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

head, giggling. “So, you're

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 shipped

in her seat, arches her brows.

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

“Solana…” she hisses.

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 the heavy make-up, her colour has changed. White-faced, white-lipped,

her heel, she

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

camera. It

almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the corner. And I

anything like this

For how long?

Months? My sense

had

empanada, then another, I ram the

the wrong way and

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

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