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

an

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

with teeth and whiskers. I come

*****

you know what Stockholm

something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual

in a kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an attachment to the

“You saying you're getting attached to

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

“So?”

your only

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 up with

why do you

pauses in her chewing, mouth

do you keep coming? If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my chin up to the blinking

feed you. I assume you do want me to feed

a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But, so far as I can reckon, you're here

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

head, giggling. “So,

going to come and save you, Larry? 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 changed, Larry. I can see right through you. The same heartless bastard that shipped me out to dig up potatoes for the rest

in her seat, arches her brows. “I am making

I keep my voice mild. “Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise

“Solana…” she hisses.

says no more. 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,

ankle as the chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded meal from the filthy concrete, scrabbling to grab

eyes adjust to the green blink of the camera. It

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

not eaten anything like this for…

For how long?

idea. Weeks? Months? My sense

I had a

of empanada, then another,

way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but coughing

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

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