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, soldiers,

It’s just a rat…

openings, more scratching.

enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

the abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped

*****

you know what Stockholm syndrome

something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from a napkin.

a psychological condition where, in a kidnap or hostage situation,

“You saying you're getting attached

misread me...” Her head tilts. She pretending mockery, but I have her attention. “… But there's

“So?”

your

skirts her lips. “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

pauses in her chewing, mouth hanging a

coming? If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you

want me to feed

only reason, you could leave me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or

speaking, simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it?

her head, giggling. “So,

You believe you're worth saving? That there's anyone out 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

crosses her arms, sits back in her seat, arches her brows.

eyes, I keep 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. “Have

“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 heel, she

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,

blink of the camera. It hardly

is almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the corner. And I have half of a

eaten anything like

For how long?

I’ve no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense

I had

mouthful of empanada, then another, I ram the food

Too soon. 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

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