Hot Revenge Box Set 4

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…

dark openings, more scratching.

enough into 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 with fists and feet. Between us, we settle an uneasy

*****

know what Stockholm

eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual

a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an attachment to the

you're getting attached to

head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But

“So?”

your only

produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the

why do you

mouth hanging a little

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

you do want me to feed you?

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

simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered

giggling. “So, you're my friend are

there who thinks you're worth it? 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 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 did the same to. You’ve not changed.

arms, sits back in her seat, arches her brows. “I am making you

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.

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,

on her heel,

no 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

blind, my eyes adjust to the green blink of the camera. It hardly matters. My

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

anything

For how long?

Months? My sense of

I had

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

Half-chewed pulp goes down the wrong way and

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