Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome (3 page)

"You going somewhere?"

"Airport."

"Flying?"

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C H A P T E R 1

"No, no, I'm a planespotter."

"Yeah, might've known. You've got that look about you. Anorak in a different colour for every day of the week." He's smirking over the rim of his cup. Lindsay can't help laughing.

"Fuck off. I'm going to America."

"On the run?"

"On business."

"Robbing Tiffany's?"

"
Actual
business." Why is he telling the kid all this? He can't make his mouth stop running. "I'm in talks to buy this American estate agency chain but I don't know. Can't really be arsed, I hate America."

"How can you hate
America
? Disney and Hollywood and Route 66 and Woodstock!"

"You answered your own question there, kid."

It's getting easier. Somehow. The nerves are disappearing, just fading away like candyfloss from the combined magic of sleep and caffeine. He's feeling better already, suddenly less self-conscious – suddenly realising he's actually
enjoying
himself talking to the kid. Weird. They drink for a while, in companionable silence.

"So, what's going on here?" Valentine asks. Lindsay's not sure what he means at first; there's a sick, thrilling lurch in his stomach when he imagines for a second that he really means
are you feeling this insane attraction too?
but that's ridiculous. "I mean... you're jazzing off to America. What about them two?

What about me?"

They talked about it last night after Valentine took himself off to bed: make the ransom call early, before his parents start worrying enough to report him missing. Ty suggested cutting the kid's ear off and sending it to them and Lindsay couldn't tell whether or not he was pissing around so he just said, "You watch too many films. Don't touch him." They nudged each other a bit over that

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S T O C K H O L M S Y N D R O M E

and sniggered, started calling the kid Lindsay's little pet.

"You're staying here. I'm flying back in a week, that's when we'll go and pick up the ransom. If all goes to plan."

"What if it doesn't?"

He thinks for a minute, sipping his cooling coffee. "If there's any sign of the police getting involved, it's over. I've never done this before, I don't really know what I'm doing. If it stops being straightforward, I'm done with it. Things are risky enough anyway, after yesterday. You think they'll do as they're told?"

Valentine shrugs, looking a bit uneasy for the first time. "Dunno. Don't blame me if they ain't playing along, though. I'm telling you now, I ain't expecting much. My dad'll go marching off down the cop shop, only cos he don't like people taking the piss. That's how he'll see it." He hesitates, breathes out very slowly and brings his naked legs back, curling himself up in the chair and suddenly looking very small. "So. When you say it's over... what's that mean, you're gonna kill me after all?"

Lindsay stares at him. "No."

"Even though I've seen this place? I know your names and everything, I know where you dump your evidence."

"I-" He stops himself short, then says it anyway, surprising himself because he doesn't know why it's true. "I trust you."

"Oh." It's incredible, the way being pleased lights up his face. He's funny-looking, he's too pointy and he's got crooked teeth and a big broken nose and yesterday's smudged make-up clinging under his eyes like bruises, blending into the actual bruise that's purpling his cheekbone, but when he
smiles
like this... Lindsay drains his mug and looks away quickly. "Cheers, Mr. Brown. You can trust me, I swear. What else've I got going on? I'm a fucking
hairdresser
, I'm working my arse off at fashion college for fuck all respect-"

"Poor little rich boy," Lindsay murmurs into his empty mug, still avoiding that strange, dangerous eye-contact, and Valentine laughs.

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C H A P T E R 1

"You don't know the half of it, mate. You let me be in your gang, though, you'll see I ain't scared of hard work. I'll help you. It'll be brilliant." He goes off on one, stringing ever more fantastical ideas out while Lindsay feels the minutes ticking away like every passing second is a tap on the shoulder. He knows he has to get up and get ready for his taxi, go and carry on his other life so this one doesn't implode, but he thinks he could listen to this kid all day.

He eventually drags himself to the shower. That disbelieving thrill is there again in his stomach at the cheeky, quiet wolf-whistle the kid gives as he gets out from under his cover. He doesn't know how to process and react to it, so he ignores it completely. He feels better when he's in his suit, much more in control, so when he comes back into the living room with his case, and then into the kitchen when he hears the kid clattering around in there making another cup of coffee for himself, he knows how to respond to the slow smirk and the appreciative look.

"You behave yourself while I'm gone," he says, half-smiling back, and Valentine nods and crosses his heart like a child.

"Yeah, don't worry about that, I seriously doubt there's gonna be any manhandling with them two..."

On a whim, before he can change his mind, because he knows he's going to if he doesn't act within the next three seconds, he takes the kid's hand, takes the pen from his inside jacket pocket, and writes his name and his mobile phone number between the pointy knuckles and the tattooed number 15. "Ty's got a shit temper and a cruel sense of humour but he's not a bad guy, really. Danny just laughs at his jokes. They'll probably gang up on you, that's their way. Ignore them. If they get too much, phone me and I'll give them what for. You're not their hostage, you're in on this. You're one of them. Don't let them bully you."

He's rambling. He shuts his mouth, feeling stupid again, like he's a dad sending his kid off to school for the first time and telling him not to let the bigger boys pick on him. Valentine doesn't seem to mind, though. He's smiling a bit, looking at the numbers like he's trying to learn them.

"Can I phone you anyway?"

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S T O C K H O L M S Y N D R O M E

"...What for?"

"Cos I want to."

"Oh." Obvious, really. "If you want."

"Cool." Neither of them speaks, then. They just stand there in the bright kitchen, like they're both waiting for the other one to break the silence. It's Valentine who does it, eventually, curling his mouth into that slow smile again and saying softly, "Can I have my hand back, please?" Lindsay drops it like it's burned him and Valentine laughs, still quiet, and not unkindly.

"Right," Lindsay says. He's gone all awkward again, like he's forgotten how to carry himself. He feels too tall and like he doesn't belong in his own skin.

"See you in a week, then."

"You better."

25

C H A P T E R 2

Lindsay's half-asleep on his hotel bed when his phone starts ringing. He jerks awake, disoriented for a moment until he remembers where he is and what that noise means, and then he rolls over to find his jacket where he threw it carelessly against the pillows and thumbs the button to answer.

"Lindsay Brown."

"Why do people do that? Or when you ring someone up and they don't even say hello or nothing, they just tell you what number you've just rung? Like, I
know
what number I just rung, I just fucking rung it, you know?"

"What do you want?" Lindsay says, tired, shoving his glasses out the way so he can rub his eyes. He's inexplicably pleased to hear the kid's voice, really.

"Just checking you ain't dead."

"Why would I be dead?"

"Dunno. I always assume the worst. I hate flying, makes me shit myself.

Not
actually
. Just, eurgh. Fucking hate flying, well creeps me out, I just wanted

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to make sure you never got burnt alive or nothing, I mean I knew you wasn't cos it would've been on telly, but..." He trails off to nothing, then laughs a bit.

"Okay, I just wanted to talk to you."

"What

about?"

"Nothing."

"Bye, then." He hesitates, stuck in some kind of weird phone-limbo, not wanting to end the call but not knowing what to say. Valentine gets in quickly, before the silence gets too awkward.

"Don't go. Talk to me. I'm bored out my mind."

"Can't you find some way of amusing yourself that doesn't involve ringing me up when I'm sleeping?"

"I can find plenty. You're thinking about me having a wank now, ain't you?"

"Is that how you've been wasting your time?"

"I don't think it's a
waste
. I never did a wank in a straight man's shower before, I feel all weird. Still less weird than doing it in that little bed, though."

Lindsay's still trying to figure out whether this conversation is actually happening, or whether it's a dream. Or a nightmare. "What the hell are you telling me this for?"

"I dunno, it just slipped out. Sorry. Talking on the phone ain't like real talking, is it? You can say stuff. Anything. It ain't like it's
real
, I wouldn't say to your face I just had a nice wank in Danny's bathroom. Well. I dunno. I might.

What would you say, if I did?"

"I don't know." He stretches and yawns, starts loosening his tie and unfastening the top few buttons on his shirt because the room's getting a bit warm. "Probably just show you where he keeps the Cif and make sure I use the other shower for a bit."

"He don't use Cif, does he? How come he don't use Cillit Bang?"

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C H A P T E R 2

"Is it better?"

"It's got a better advert."

"It's advertised by a wanker."

"And there it is, full circle. Using stuff advertised by a wanker to clean up mess from wanking. That's beautiful."

Lindsay starts laughing, he can't help it. "What species are you?"

"Fairy. So I'm told."

"You're not pretty enough to be a fairy."

"Get

fucked!"

"No

thanks."

"I'm well pretty!"

"If you say so."

"Admit it. You fancy me."

"I told you, you're not my type."

"Why do you need a type? Why can't you just accept the blowjob and be thankful?"

"Because I've got nothing to be ashamed of but it won't reach quite
that
far." That makes the kid laugh, and Lindsay feels giddy and pleased and ridiculous and hates himself a bit.

"What about when you come home?"

"You don't even know me."

"I know you've got nice eyes."

"My eyes aren't what you're planning to put in your mouth."

"EURGH!"

He slips his tie right off and tosses it vaguely in the direction of the armchair in the corner; it snags on the corner of the cushion, then drops onto the

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carpet and he glares at it like it's the tie's fault. "Go and play on the computer."

"Can't. They're having a Mortal Kombat tournament, they won't let me have a go."

"Danny's got every single console ever produced in the history of gaming. Play something else."

"I wanna play on the big telly, though."

"I can't help you there. You're just going to have to be bored."

"And talk to you."

"Go away. I'm busy." He's never been less busy in his life, lolling on top of the king-size bed with his shirt half-unbuttoned, sleepy-eyed and still feeling grimy from his flight because he thought he'd just have a little lie down for two minutes before he had a shower but the two minutes turned into two hours.

Maybe that's obvious, because:

"As if you're busy. You been holding your breath turning blue waiting for me to phone."

"I have not."

"Yeah you- aw, shit, my credit's running out. Oh
fuck
. Can you phone me back?"

"Maybe.

Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's

like

ages
away! What am I gonna do til tomorrow?"

"Sounds to me like you've got your entertainment sorted already."

"You dirty old man, you just want to-"

That's when the credit runs out, but Lindsay stays where he is for a little while longer anyway, with his eyes closed and the phone pressed to his ear, just breathing, just thinking.

Then he gets up and goes for his shower. A cold one.

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C H A P T E R 3

"I wish my hair was longer," Valentine says, over the roar of the slipstream and the Underworld thumping out the speakers, "cos then it'd blow in the wind like an old film star. I might grow it. Shall I? And it'll blow in the wind like Grace Kelly or something."

"Yeah." Lindsay keeps the car steady and tries not to smile. One half of his mouth succeeds. "You know what happened to Grace Kelly, though."

"She married a prince?"

"And?" Valentine looks at him blankly. "Never mind."

His hair's long enough to blow in the wind anyway. His cheeks are flushed from the sting of it, and the thrill of freedom after his week stuck in the house, and his proximity to the massive black binbags on the tiny backseat, crammed to bursting with banknotes. They're wearing seatbelts like they're children. He giggled like an idiot strapping them in, after they torched the Transit they used for the pickup and paid cash for a cherry-red convertible from a dodgy dealer with greasy hair and a greasier smile. Of course the car was his choice, as characteristically subtle as a slap in the face. "This one's Steven," he said of one

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of the bags, "and this one's Rosalie. Watch your head, Mr. Brown, cos Steven gets a bit carsick. Take it slow round the corners else BLEURGH! and you'll never wash the little carrots out your hair." He forgot his own rules somewhere past Shrewsbury, though, when the hills started getting bigger and the roads started getting narrower and windier like springs coiled around the mountains, and now he's whooping and cheering every time a sharp turn slams him against the door, or against Lindsay, and straining against his seatbelt to throw his hands in the air dropping down the steep slopes like he's posing for a rollercoaster photo. Every tyre-screech shoves him deeper into this delirious glee, every time they race through a puddle and the spray catches a rainbow behind them like a fleeting multicoloured shadow. He waves at all the sheep and cows. One time he gives two jubilant V-signs to a bemused farmer, as if
he's
the one they've scammed so brilliantly.