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

say if you gaze long enough into an

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us, we settle an uneasy

*****

know what Stockholm

takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her

for a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an attachment to the

sniggers. “You saying you're

attention. “… But

“So?”

your

“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 it

you keep

chewing, mouth

all you wanted was to watch me rot, you

I assume you do want me to

were the 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 reckon,

me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is

head, giggling. “So, you're

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

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

not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look

“Solana…” she hisses.

Instead, she stands, the lunchbox tumbling from her lap. The contents spill and scatter over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping just

her heel, she stalks

snatch up the discarded

of the camera. It hardly matters. My attention is on the wealth

is almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the

not eaten anything like

For how long?

idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is out

I had a

mouthful of empanada, then another, I

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

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

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