Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome (9 page)

"Forty-five days," Valentine echoes musingly, like he's turning the number over in his head. Lindsay spitefully wonders whether the kid can even count that high. He's eating jelly cola bottles and watching Trisha, with his feet up on the coffee table next to a messy pile of estate agent particulars he's been ignoring completely. "What, are you taking me out for anniversary dinner or something?"

"No. Fuck off. I want you gone."

"Yeah, right." He laughs a bit, and rolls his eyes, and holds his hand out to Lindsay. He's got two jelly sweets clinging to his fingers like they're some kind of sacrifice, or his twisted immature idea of paying rent, and Lindsay's so infuriated by it all he goes too mindblank for anger. He just takes the sweets and sits down next to him to watch the rest of the programme. He doesn't even
like
sweets. Valentine tastes of them when he leans over to kiss him through the ad break, with the corners of his mouth all sticky and grainy with sugar. It's disgusting, but by the time the three minutes are up he can hardly tell.

Another time, Valentine creeps up behind him when he's doing the washing-up and digs his own revolver into the small of his back. "Pow," he whispers in Lindsay's ear, and Lindsay's paralysed for a split second until something breaks and he turns round and hits Valentine so hard the kid goes flying over the kitchen and lands on his arse up against the fridge, with tears in his eyes and Persil bubbles standing out stark against his newly-black hair.

"It weren't even loaded," he whines. He's got his hand clamped over his face, like holding onto the furious red handprint will stop it spreading, but then he suddenly smiles. "Wait. Did you just
slap
me? You never even punched me, you
slapped
me like a big girl, what's all that about?"

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C H A P T E R 6

"I should shoot your face off, you fucking little turd." Lindsay dries his hands and retrieves the gun from where it ended up under the table, checking the cylinder just to make sure then putting it on the highest shelf of the dresser, where Valentine can't reach.

He turns back to the sink. The hot water feels scalding now on his stinging hand, but he scowls and ignores it, just gets on with the job. He can hear Valentine still in the room behind him, shuffling about but otherwise quiet. For a little while, at least. He's never quiet for long.

"You can hit me again, if you like," he says, completely casually like they're talking about the weather or the telly. "I don't mind. Is that what you like?

Cos I'm okay with that, if you want."

Unbelievable. "No. Get out my house."

"Yeah, but..." Lindsay freezes again when he hears Valentine get to his feet, and feels his skinny body press against his back, arms around his waist and Valentine's slapped cheek resting against his shoulder blade. He begins to relax, just slightly, a little scrap at a time, and goes back to rinsing off yesterday's plates. Valentine has a little grumble at being ignored, and cuddles him even tighter. "You know, though, if I was the jealous type, which I ain't, except sometimes, I'd say you're trying to get rid of me-"

"Oh, you're picking up on that, are you?"

"-so you can kidnap some
other
poor kid and have your way with him an' all."

"Fuck off, Philip."

Turned out Philip Valentine
is
his real name, although he hates it and goes all sulky if it's ever used. He quite likes Valentine, he's got this idea it's a bit cool and mysterious, a proper gangster name, but he grumbles at Pip, and claims Philip brings him out in a rash all over, although Lindsay's called him Philip in bed enough times because he likes seeing him go all pouty and angry and he's never seen any trace of
any
kind of blemish on his skin, unless it's a bruise he's put there himself with his mouth.

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Valentine bites him through the fabric of his t-shirt, very gently, on his shoulder. "I'll kill you," he says softly. "I'll do it properly this time, too, with bullets. You bring any other fucker home, I'll shoot you both. Here." One of his hands moves from Lindsay's waist up to cover his thumping heart. Very carefully, because he's trembling now, Lindsay tucks the last plate into a slot on the drainer, and slides his soapy fingers down over Valentine's, urging his other hand from his waist down to where his trousers fasten.

"This isn't your home," he says. "I want you out." One last fuck first, though. He loathes himself for that. It's
always
one last fuck, then the kid falls asleep and he can't kick him out.

"Yeah, yeah. You kidnapped me, though. I'm your responsibility now."

"I didn't, at all. You gave me your car and said you
wanted
to come."

"I do," he whimpers, going up on tiptoe so Lindsay can feel against his arse how hard he is. "I really really do. Please."

"You're so easy. You weren't hard like that a minute ago."

"It's from when you slapped me," he says, shamelessly. Lindsay wonders what would happen if he throttled the little shit.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I love you."

Christ Almighty, Lindsay thinks, not
that
again. He's stopped responding to it, any time Valentine says stupid things like that. Maybe he'll stop saying it if he stops getting a reaction. Instead he just takes the kid bent over the kitchen table, slapping him hard and fucking him harder, and when they come, minutes after they've started and only seconds apart, he notices Valentine's looking up at the gun, where the barrel's pointing over the edge of the shelf at them like a staring eye. That's the day their games started to get a little bit weirder, Lindsay will remember in the future. The kid's always had a fascination with his gun. He couldn't count the number of times he's felt clever little fingers pulling it free from where he often wears it tucked into the waist of his trousers, 73

C H A P T E R 6

a constant comforting weight there against his back, so he can hold it and stroke it, with awe and lust and mischief and almost-madness in his eyes. Lindsay starts leaving one of his revolvers on the bedside table at nights, instead of its usual place in the drawer. Valentine can't stop looking at it. Whether he's got his cheek pressed into the pillow and his arse in the air, or he's on his back with his legs thrown round Lindsay's waist, or on his knees on the carpet obediently working his mouth down until he's gurgling and choking and his nose is pressed against Lindsay's skin, he's
always
got his eyes fixed on the table, and the gleam of silver. Lindsay starts leaving the reading lamp on, like a spotlight.

Finally, one night, he reaches out for the gun mid-fuck and squeezes the kid's face in one big hand until he opens his mouth and he can force the barrel in between his teeth. "Is this what you want?" he asks as he cocks. Valentine says something incoherent that might not even be real words, and a massive shudder runs through him as he begins to come. Lindsay takes the gun back and pulls the trigger with it pointed between Valentine's fake-blue eyes. He throws it onto the mattress and carries on thrusting, slow and smooth, with Valentine's body soft like melting toffee in his arms.

"Thought you were gonna shoot me, old man," Valentine says, after.

He's still breathless, smiling and shining like it's Christmas.

"I don't keep it loaded in the house. Not since you started pulling it on me, anyway."

Valentine huffs a quiet little laugh against Lindsay's neck. He puts his hand up over his own cheek like he's remembering the slap, and that's how he falls asleep.

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

The games get weirder. Now the floodgates have been opened, the kid can't seem to get enough of being thrown around and slapped and tied to the bedposts and called names and threatened with guns. Slightly drunk one night, Lindsay wonders whether the kid's brain's on backwards somehow and maybe he'll up and leave if he starts being
nice
to him instead, so this time when they fuck it's less like fucking and more like something unthinkable he can't quite bring himself to name.

They start off in the living room, Lindsay slouched on the sofa with a wine bottle and Valentine sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of him, tipping a multipack of Skittles out of their little bags and dividing them into clumps of colour on the coffee table. The rattle of them hitting the glass tabletop is like a hailstorm when you've got a migraine. The telly's on because Film Four's showing Bonnie and Clyde, and Valentine's half-watching it and muttering responses to some of the lines in the most aggravating way as he pushes his sweets around.

"Do you have to?"

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C H A P T E R 7

"Have to what?" He picks out a green and a yellow and holds them up in the air, grinning foolishly when Lindsay leans over to suck them from between his fingers instead of taking them by hand.

"Talk along with the film. You're not Warren Beatty."

"No, course I'm not, it's pretty obvious which one of us you think's the girl in all this."

"Just stop it, okay?"

"Sorry." He reaches up behind him, blindly patting the cushions until he finds Lindsay's hand and brings his fingers to twist through his hair until Lindsay gives in and starts stroking. "I can't help it, it's my favourite film. Reckon I must've seen it like eighty times, I know it back to front and inside out." He tips his head back against the seat cushion so he can look at Lindsay upside-down, then in a fairly passable American accent he says, "The strangest damned gang you ever heard of. They're young. They're in love. They rob banks," and Lindsay kind of wants to punch him, and kind of wants to burst out laughing. He manages to restrain himself from doing either, but a bit of a smile seeps through and it seems enough for Valentine. He settles back against the cushion and rubs his cheek gently against Lindsay's hand, looking pleased with himself. The little twat's so easily pleased, Lindsay thinks in mild disgust, like a little fucking puppy.

He drains the last bit of wine out the bottle, sets it down on the carpet, and on an impulse he leans over and puts his hands under Valentine's armpits, trying to drag him up onto the sofa. It's not like he weighs anything much, but the angle's weird and he's squirming and giggling because he's ticklish, so it's a bit of a failure. They manage it between them, a joint effort, until Valentine's settled there between Lindsay's legs with his back pressed warm against his chest and their arms in a tangle around his waist.

"Lemme go, I can't reach my sweets now," he whines, but he doesn't sound like he really means it.

"You're sweet enough."

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

"Come on, that was rubbish. You ain't getting in my pants with lines like that."

"Really?"

"Well, no, not really, you are."

Lindsay goes back to playing with his hair. There's bits of postbox-red through the black and it looks absolutely ridiculous, although not quite as ridiculous as the splashed bathroom. Valentine makes a happy little sound and snuggles in to him even more, dropping his head back on Lindsay's shoulder and turning to face the telly again so there's more head available to stroke. He's gone all drowsy and pliant. Anybody plays with my hair, he said once, and I'm their slave for life, then Lindsay tugged in gentle warning and said he'd shoot anybody's hands off if they even came near and Valentine kissed him, surprised and delighted.

"Hey, don't go to sleep with your contacts in," Lindsay says, quietly.

He's always having to remind him. He tucks the fall of dark hair back behind Valentine's ear, and leans over his shoulder to bump a clumsy kiss against his cheekbone. He can feel the kid's smiling, sleepy and slow.

"Mmm. Might start wearing just one, I'll only go
half
-blind then. I'll look like Bowie."

"Are you tired?" He grits his teeth and forces himself on, with his tone of voice steady and quiet. "I won't pester you if you're tired. But... oh."
Not
tired, apparently. He moves his hand under Valentine's, he lets the kid direct him, slipping down between his thighs to nudge them apart, then up and over the front of his jeans. Valentine twists back for a kiss, messy and awkward with his arm bent up around Lindsay's neck. His other hand's holding Lindsay's tight to him.

Lindsay can feel his cock hardening under his palm; he's not even having to try, he's not even moving his hand, it's just happening because he's
there
. It was exhilarating before, having that much of a hold over someone. Now it's just aggravating. Even more annoyingly, he can feel the beginnings of a matching response in himself. It's like a switch being flipped. Valentine
always
wants it, 77

C H A P T E R 7

Lindsay
always
gives it. He's starting to wonder which one of them's the whore, when he lets himself wonder about it at all.

"Upstairs?"

"Yeah."

"Go and do your eyes first."

The kid smiles brilliantly and races off to the bathroom, shedding clothes on the way. Lindsay follows more slowly, picking them up and folding them neatly over his arm, although it's hardly worth the effort because he collides with Valentine in the bedroom doorway and gets his breath kissed away and then he drops them anyway to pull him in closer. He's small, he's like a wisp of smoke or a baby bird and Lindsay feels clumsy around him, sometimes.

"Yeah," Valentine said, the one time Lindsay felt drunk and open enough to mention it, "watch it, Lennie, you'll end up with a bullet in your brain." His surprise must have been as clear on his face as if it had been written there in marker pen, because the kid went a bit sulky, turned his eyes down and muttered,

"I ain't as thick as you think I am," but then he dropped to his knees and began unbuttoning Lindsay's trousers, and no more was said on it.

It's all tender touches and intense stares, now, Lindsay dragging his tongue slowly over the stretches of pale skin and the bumps of his ribs, holding him at the hips and urging him to thrust up into his mouth – he hardly ever does this, there's something about it that feels ridiculously intimate in a way that pushing the kid over the back of the sofa and shoving spitty fingers up his arse somehow doesn't, but this time he makes it wet and lazy and pretends he's in love, and he hopes so hard it's enough to scare the kid away. He seems to come forever, saying Lindsay's name in cracked broken little whispers and curling trembling fingers in his hair. Lindsay swallows thickly, and goes on gently suckling him until Valentine's breathing's gone back to normal and he's pulling at his hair, whining for a kiss.