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, soldiers,

It’s just a rat…

the dark openings, more scratching.

long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

I come equipped with fists and

*****

do you know what Stockholm syndrome

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

in a kidnap or

you're

her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called

“So?”

your only

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 hanging a little open.

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

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

But if that 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

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

giggling. “So, you're my friend are

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

in her seat, arches her brows. “I

to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze again, look into her

“Solana…” she hisses.

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

on her heel,

up the discarded meal from the filthy concrete, scrabbling to grab broken fragments of meat in one hand, a cake with the other before, with a click, the

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

untouched, only a single bite taken from the

not eaten anything like

For how long?

Months? My sense of time is out of

I had a

another, I ram

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

my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where it plops

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