Stockholm Syndrome 3 - No Beginning, No End (19 page)

"I'm just... building up this picture. Why he went to you. We thought Olly was hiding him."

 

"I think he just didn't want to be in London. You can't get any less London than Llandudno."

 

"Was he really that upset?" She sounds upset herself, not crying but her voice sounds dull and miserable.

"He said he didn't want to be around you any more after you gave false sob stories to all the papers pretending you were glad to have him back."

"They weren't false. Misjudged and clumsy, yeah, but not
false
. I think Phil was trying to apologise, make a grand gesture, something. You can't get much more of a public apology than spilling up your guts in the Sun. Obviously it never came across like that."
"No."

"We got the money for them the day they asked for it. I was plastered, I hardly knew what was going on, but Phil never rang the police or considered it might be a hoax or anything, he went to the bank right after they phoned. Why would he do that if he didn't care?"

This conversation is making him wish for a needle and spoon. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Your house, do what you want." She watches him light up but doesn't take one when he offers, just leans her face against her hand and looks down at the grain of the table. "He wouldn't talk about it," she says softly. "When they let him go. Then when you broke up and he came back again, he still wouldn't talk about it, still
won't
talk about it. I don't know what they did to him that was so bad he can't talk about it. I think I'm going crazy sometimes thinking all these hideous things because I don't
know
. That scar on his wrist where they tied him up too tight and the rope burn got infected, I can't stand seeing it, it makes me sick, I hate it. I think... things are getting better now, we're friends now, I never thought that would ever happen, but there's things I don't know and probably won't ever know and I hate thinking he's holding all that back because it's so awful he just can't let it out. Did he ever tell you? You don't have to say," she adds in a hurry. "I don't want details or anything if you don't want, but do you
know
?"

This is a bit of the lie they never bothered to create because they never expected it to be an issue. Everything's changed now, and she looks so hopeless he makes the split-second decision to end it. "He told me some things," Lindsay says slowly. "I don't think I know everything, but he's talked about it and he's alright."

"Really?"
"It's just something that happened a long time ago. Don't let it get to you, look at him now. He's as balanced as he's ever going to be, he's got a job and degree and friends, he's happy. Don't get stuck in the past, it's grim. Much more pleasant right here and now."

"I'd drink to that if I could." She's smiling again, a tiny glimmer of it around her mouth and eyes. "You'll do. Marry him, make him happy." "Never," Lindsay snaps, but he can feel himself trying to smile as well so he goes to prod a bubbling pot of potatoes to hide his face.
14.

It's ages before everyone goes home. Hours and hours. It's way past the Queen's speech they all laughed at his dad for stubbornly wanting to watch, it's past dinnertime, it's even past Dory's bedtime and she's gone sleepy and bratty by the time Phil picks her up as an excuse (Pip thinks but doesn't say) not to hug anybody goodbye.

"Thank Christ for that," Lindsay mutters five seconds after the front door's slammed shut behind them all. "I thought they were moving in."

"Shut up, Scrooge. That's my family." "Tunechanger."

The living room is a dump; sweet wrappers scattered everywhere, stray curls of wrapping paper and ribbon they missed when the binbags came out, glasses with smudgy fingerprints on them and half an inch of leftover drink at the bottom. Lindsay looks twitchy and shellshocked, like any moment now he's going to lose all control over his stupid picky urges and jump up to find the hoover. Pip sits on him so he can't, kneeling on the couch cushions one leg either side of Lindsay's and shuffling closer until Lindsay holds onto his arse like a reflex to coax him the last few inches.

"Got you another present." He's holding it in his hands, a small box wrapped in gold foil paper with a huge loopy black ribbon bow. Lindsay looks wary.

"I don't trust your presents."
"But this one's fun. You gonna open it?"
"No. It's a... vibrating LED cock ring or something." "I know where you can get one if that's what you want." "No."

Pip wriggles under Lindsay's moving fingers and unwraps the parcel himself, tying the chiffon ribbon around Lindsay's neck like a cravat before he starts unpicking the sellotape from the paper. "You're such a spoilsport. You're meant to be all excited about presents. Here. Happy Christmas, you miserable old fart."

Lindsay looks no less terrified, taking the box out of Pip's hands and looking at the writing on the side. "'True Romance – The Game Of Honesty For Lovers'. You make me sick."

"I wanna play."

 

"With your handcuffs and a belt?" It's the only time Lindsay's ever sounded hopeful about such a prospect.

 

"No. Get upstairs."

 

***

Lindsay seems to mind much less when he's halfway down a bottle of Bushmills. He's gone all quiet and lazy, flushed cheeks and curling smile. He'd do anything in this state, but since Pip's finished off nearly a whole small bottle of Malibu mixed with cherry coke he doesn't trust himself to take proper advantage. He just keeps on working through the cards.

"Next question. What turns you on more than anything else?" "You." "Elaborate." "Your big round peachy bottom." "You're very shallow, Lindsay." "Like a summer puddle." "Why ain't you playing properly? We're meant to be bonding."

"Urgh." Lindsay's lying on his back with his shirt unbuttoned, propped up halfway by a pile of pillows, and he turns his head to the side to awkwardly take another drink of whiskey. "I like it when you do as you're told."

"You like bossing me around."

 

"I like..." He trails off, walking the fingers of his other hand across the bare stripe of skin where Pip's t-shirt has lifted up.

"Being in control."
"Yes."

"See, you've got control issues. It's cos of your dad dying and cos of your drug problem."

 

"I'm sorry, did you get a psychology degree while my back was turned?"

"We're bonding. The point of the questions is so we talk. I've got control issues cos I had to look after myself when I was growing up cos my dad was out at work and my mum was pissed all the time. I read a book on it. That's how come I used to get off on you bossing me round so much, cos it meant I never had to deal with shit on my own no more."

"Pick another card, I don't want to talk about it."
"What would be your ideal Valentine's Day gift?" "A gun to shoot myself in the face with."

"You still ain't bought me that '63 Corvette you promised me like five years ago."

"I was drunk, I don't think it counts."
"That's what I want. You've got a month and a half to find one." "Don't hold your breath."
"Next question. Slow and sensual or fast and filthy?"

"Depends how much alcohol is involved and whether you've been getting on my nerves or not." Lindsay stretches like a cat. It makes a bit of hair tumble over his forehead and into his eyes, but he doesn't bother flicking it back out of the way. It's too long, he keeps grumbling about needing a haircut, but Pip's developing a mild fetish about it and can't bring himself to hack any of it off.

"I wanna brush your hair," he says suddenly. It makes Lindsay laugh, closed eyes and shining pointed canines.

"It doesn't need brushing."
"I want to."
"I can't move."

"You'll like it, I'll make it nice. I can do Indian head massage and everything. No girly brushing, just... yeah?"

"Do I have to move?" Lindsay's eyes are still closed, he's still smiling. He hardly ever looks this content, like there's nowhere in the world he'd rather be than lounging on his bed at seven o'clock on Christmas Day evening wearing a chiffon gift ribbon around his neck.

"Move forward. I'll sit behind you. Read the next question." "You didn't answer the last one."

"Oh, you wanna play now?" He loosens the ribbon from its bow and drapes it around the bedpost, slipping Lindsay's open shirt down his shoulders and kissing the nape of his neck softly, talking very quietly against the hot skin there. "Depends on mood, innit? Sometimes you just wanna get banged. I like it when you go slow. I like you looking at me but I know
you
don't like it, so whatever." He starts pressing his thumbs into the muscles at the back of Lindsay's shoulders, wondering if he's still a moaner like he was before, then laughing softly and kissing Lindsay's neck again when he finds out that yes, he is. "Is that good?"

"Mmmhm. Mmm."
"Read the next question, my hands are busy."

"No." His fingers stop stroking Pip's leg and reach up towards the bedpost, slithering the wide black ribbon free and letting it fall on the pillows. "I'll go as slow as you like if I don't have to look at you."

"I think I just came in my pants."
"Shame. Don't stop yet."
"Coming?"
"Touching me, you halfwit."

"You're so nice to me. You're so romantic, I love it." He slides his thumbs across, making tiny circles either side of Lindsay's spine. "Read the question or I'm stopping."

"What is your ultimate fantasy?"
"Blindfolding you, now you've suggested it." "Now who's not playing properly?"

Pip keeps his hands moving while he thinks, combing his fingers through Lindsay's hair to work out the tangles. "There ain't much we ain't already done, hey?"

"You warped me. I was a perfectly normal-"
"-drug addicted bisexual hooker-fucking criminal."

"
perfectly normal
sensible man with normal sensible urges before you."

"As if you was ever normal. You was just repressed." "Well, what is it?"

"I don't know." He's getting hard now, wriggling in place to press against Lindsay. "I like playing pretend, that's fantasy. Like, let's pretend you kidnapped me, and you tie my hands behind my back and blindfold me and I don't even know what you look like but I know you've got a gun and if I don't open my mouth and take what you give me then I'm gonna die."

"That's horrible."

"I never said it made sense, just it's hot. Or like let's pretend we're in some old stuffy boarding school and I cheeked my teacher and now I'm getting put over his knee and spanked."

"I hate it when you say spank. It's so Enid Blyton." "She was an old pervert."

"Anyway, I'm fairly sure they didn't get put over their teacher's knee. Maybe the desk. I don't know. Or touch your toes. You couldn't do that, your fat little belly would get in the way- OW!" he yelps when Pip tugs his hair hard.
"Be nice."

"Don't tell me to be nice
and
tell me you want me to punish you for not doing your prep. You wouldn't like it, anyway. You wouldn't like being caned, I'm not sure they ever hit with just their hands in schools."

"I dunno." He starts working his fingers through Lindsay's hair again, rubbing his scalp like he's doing a shampoo job in the old salon. "If any teacher tried hitting one of the kids in my school they'd have got knifed. How do you know I wouldn't like getting caned, anyway?"

"Well,
I
wasn't that thrilled..."
"You ain't
that
old!"
"No, you're just impossibly young."

"What happened?" Pip realises he's stopped moving his hands and starts up again, sliding his fingertips through Lindsay's hair, trying to concentrate on that and not on how sickeningly fascinated he is.

"Only once. Before we moved to Wales. I don't know if the comps still did it but my school was private."

"Toff."
"Shut your face."
"Did you have to bend over in your uniform?"

"I was eight. Don't you dare think dirty thoughts about me, I feel violated."

"Did you, though?"
"No. Twice on each hand. I wouldn't stop talking." "Naughty."

"It's sick. They'd do it in front of the whole class, it made your fingers swell up like sausages. You'd get this massive welt across your palm. It's disgusting, nobody should ever hit a kid."
"You hate kids."

"I want them not to exist, I don't want grown men to hit them with sticks."

"They don't still do it, do they?"
"No."

"Cos Dory's school's private. And if anyone there ever hurt her I'd kill them. Actually genuinely
kill
them."

"My mum tried," Lindsay says. Pip can't see his face but there's a smile in his voice. "I couldn't hold my knife and fork properly at dinner, I couldn't pretend nothing was wrong. My dad said just let it go, I played up and got hit for it and that's the end, issue dealt with, but my mum lost it and went round Mr. Lyth's house and when he opened the door she punched him in the face. He had a black eye for ages."

"Your mum's amazing."

 

"Dad said complaining about violence by using violence was stupid and setting a bad example, but I never got hit at school again." "You're right, it's sick. That ain't me being a hypocrite or nothing. It's different."

"Yeah."
"Don't hit me with a cane."
"I don't have a cane."
"Candy canes off the tree?"
"Don't think they'd hurt enough to be worth it."

"It's different. If it's playing. Like it
hurts
, course it hurts, but it's nice too. Even before when you did it for real, it weren't for nothing stupid like just talking."

"And you weren't eight, being humiliated in front of a room full of people."

 

"And that." "And power-crazed bullying sadists like that won't stop no matter how much you like jazz."

"Bastards. What's your ultimate fantasy?"
"Sitting on my bed having a shoulder rub that never ends."

"You're such a fucking useless pathetic old man," Pip says grumpily, but he moves his hands down from Lindsay's hair and back to his shoulders, gently kneading at the muscles until he makes more of those quiet sighing noises. "Nothing dirty?"

"I like when you wear dresses."

 

"Yeah, I knew it. You just wanna rub up against them frilly knickers."

"It's not the knickers. It's..." "What?"

"Bending you over something and lifting your skirt up. Easy access. It's so naughty."