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 gunmen,

It’s just a rat…

openings, more scratching. And a

you gaze long enough into an abyss, the

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists

*****

know

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 hostage situation, the prisoner

sniggers. “You saying you're getting attached

but I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's

“So?”

your only

her lips. “Friend? You think you’re my friend?” The napkin produces a brigadeiro. A flake of chocolate cracks off the

do you

in her chewing, mouth hanging a

to watch me rot, you have your camera

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

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

continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered everyone else that might

giggling. “So,

daughter you had slated as a sex-slave when she was a kid? That middle-aged hooker? You've not

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

I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise

“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 has changed. White-faced,

on her heel, she stalks

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 the other before, with a click, the light winks out and I'm

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

a single bite taken from

not eaten anything like this for…

For how long?

no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is out of the

I had

of empanada, then another, I ram the

down the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer

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

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