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

It’s just a rat…

more scratching. And a

if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

I come equipped with

*****

know what Stockholm

lunchbox, unwrapping one

psychological condition where, in a kidnap

you're

“… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where the

“So?”

I your

off the small round cake, dropping back into the napkin and she dabs it up

you keep

mouth hanging a

rot, you have

want me to feed you? We

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

your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered everyone else

giggling. “So, you're my

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

seat, arches her brows. “I am making

have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise

“Solana…” she hisses.

from her lap. The contents spill and scatter over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping

her heel, she stalks

ankle as the chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded meal from

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

bite taken from the corner.

eaten anything like this

For how long?

no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense

had a

of empanada, then another, I

goes down the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing and

my scavenged meal, I barf it up, where

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