Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome (12 page)

He couldn't find a way around that and grudgingly had to agree.

The plan they eventually came up with was ridiculous and clumsy and full of holes, like something out of a bad film. Valentine would wander back into his parents' house, questions would be asked and answered with lies, the police and press would be fobbed off with more lies and as many repetitions of "no comment" as it took – then, when the drama died down a little bit, the two of them would
just happen
to meet for the very first time, in an art gallery or the zoo or some other innocuous location decided nearer the time through furtive texts and calls from phoneboxes.

"Genius," Valentine said.

"More like insanity. You know it'll never work."

"It'll work."

"Not in a million years."

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"Course it will. What did I say that time? It's fate. Your gun, my ear, one in a hundred million. It's meant to be."

"Oh yeah? And what if it's not?"

"Trust me. I trust you."

"We might as well drive right to the police station now and hand ourselves in."

"You know what? I think you
like
having me locked up here, you bastard."

"Well, not necessarily
locked up
..."

"Only cos you're too chickenshit to go in a sex shop and buy handcuffs."

"Shut up."

"You're blushing."

"I'm going to shoot you if you don't shut up."

"Yeah, yeah, that old chestnut again?"

***

Lindsay spends the first night spinning the cylinder on his revolver, snapping it back into place, snapping it open, spinning it. It breaks after a few hours. He throws it at the wall hard enough to dent, and drinks himself unconscious.

***

He doesn't turn the telly on, or bother going out for papers. It's not that he's avoiding the issue. It's not. He just can't focus. He decides their next job will be to plant a bomb in Bushmills.

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***

Danny and Ty come over on the third day, but they're not interested in his vendetta against whiskey distilleries.

"You do know I'm going to have to put your wee pet down if he talks,"

Ty says, several times. Lindsay just nods. He's too busy studying blueprints and scribbling notes to pay much attention, at least until later, when they're gone, and then he feels cold and a bit like his skin's creeping off his bones – because he's known the other two since they were all teenagers and that's long enough to have learned that when they make threats, Danny is all bluff and Ty's all truth.

He still doesn't turn the telly on. Later, he thinks. Not yet. And he's glad he decided to leave Bushmills standing, because he needs another drink.

***

In his dream, Lindsay's walking near the house in St. Lizier. It's snowing. He knows he's dreaming because the cathedral bells sound like Gary Numan. He's laughing, a bit, when he wakes up to his phone ringing in electronic beeps, that annoying Cars tune. The kid changed it for a joke and he's not bothered putting it back yet, which is embarrassing when it goes off in Sainsbury's. His voice is scratchy with tiredness when he answers.

"Lindsay Brown."

"I'm lost, I think. I mean, I know where I
am
but I dunno where I'm meant to go next."

"What?" He sits up straight, digs his knuckles into his eyes to force the sleep away. "Where are you?"

"Prom. Down near the Grand. Where now? You're up that big hill bit,

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yeah? But where?"

"What are you doing here? I thought you had this amazing faultless plan."

"Are you gonna tell me how to get to your house or am I gonna crash right onto the pier and drive into the sea? Cos I fucking will. I ain't in the mood for messing about."

"You idiot." He wonders for a second whether he's still dreaming, but no, the kid's a raving imbecile and that's reality. "You're right, you're just on the other side. Go up past the hotel, stay on that road, just follow it round. You'll see my drive."

"'Kay."

He doesn't even say hello, when he bursts through the back door ten minutes later, but just flings the fridge open and snatches out a carton of orange juice, then goes on through to the living room to the cabinet where Lindsay keeps the drinks. He doesn't bother with a glass either, he just swigs from the carton and the vodka bottle and lets the screwdriver mix in his mouth.

"I ain't going back there," he says, when he's down a good couple of inches of the vodka. "Not for anything. I
hate
them."

He's one of those annoying people who look magnificent when they're angry and crying. Lindsay hasn't cried in years but he imagines he'd be ugly and blotchy and snotty. Valentine's flushed and bright-eyed and beautiful, and the effect is bizarre and startling because he looks disconcertingly girlish anyway, more than Lindsay's ever seen him before. He's wearing make-up, all dark and smudged under his eyes, and dark jeans tucked into emerald cowboy boots, and his hair's loose and long enough to come down past the collar of his pink Bagpuss t-shirt.

"They did all interviews and shit for the rags. Whored themselves off to the highest bidder and then went 'Oh, fuck it! Exclusives for
everyone
!' and there's all these sob stories about their beloved kidnapped only child coming back to them like they ain't been nagging on for nineteen years about how I'm a 99

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waste of oxygen and, like, the biggest fucking mistake of their lives. Poster child for why you should always wear a johnny. They ain't even bothered I'm back, all they're bothered with's how much money and fame they're getting out the fucking Sun for giving them interviews about what it's like having their precious baby home. I was like yeah,
right
, like I'm telling anybody I'm happy I'm home and they went off on one about how much of a fucking selfish cunt I am. I mean, don't mind me, ain't like I've been
kidnapped
or nothing-"

"Well, actually..."

"Shut up, shut up, I
know
I weren't really, that ain't the point, is it? They don't know, that ain't even the fucking point, they think I was and they still don't fucking care. I ain't surprised, they
never
cared, they always hated me. Bet they were glad I was gone, they thought I was dead and they were getting famous off it and they fucking loved it, and then I went and fucked that all up and it weren't no happy-to-see-you're-alive or nothing, they're just like, well, yeah, we ain't got our five million back yet but small change, eh? We've still got fifteen million, five's worth it for getting in the papers and on fucking Richard and Judy again, and, oh, yeah, by the way, you're a selfish fucking little prick and you better play along for the papers or else."

"Or else what?"

"Come on. My dad's a fucking East End thug, what do you think? When he throws a punch you know about it. You think noses grow this shape on their own? He ain't even got a drink problem or nothing, he's just a bastard all of his own volition, and my mum ain't no better, nasty fucking cow. Only reason they ain't divorced yet's cos they're both fucking terrified the other one's gonna get a better deal on all the money, I bet."

"Will you calm down?"

Valentine's thrumming like a plucked guitar string when Lindsay reaches for him. He takes the bottle and carton out of the kid's hands and puts them on the coffee table, and holds him by the arms to stop him pacing about.

"Why would they pay up in the first place, if they hate you so much?

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They never even went to the police or anything, they did exactly what we told them."

"Yeah, cos they knew it'd be a well good story! The police might've helped get me back, they never wanted that."

"But-"

"Shut up. I hate them. Fuck the plan, it's a fucking stupid idea. I ain't going back. Why ain't you kissed me yet, do you hate me an' all?"

Lindsay doesn't get a chance to answer – he opens his mouth to speak and finds an extra tongue in it, the kid's already launched himself at him, so he doesn't bother trying, he just wraps his arms around Valentine's skinny body and tries to hold him tightly enough to stop him shaking. It works, just about, but then the kid's muttering something about needing more vodka, so he lets him free and goes to sit on the sofa, just watching him drink.

"You look like a girl today," he says.

"You think?" Valentine laughs a bit, but he doesn't sound amused. He puts the vodka and juice back down. "S'pose I do. I amp it up when I'm round my dad, it fucks him off something rotten. Anything I can do to make him miserable, you know? Fucking cunt. I'll get changed if you want."

"No, it's okay. Just..."

The kid's close enough for Lindsay to be able to slip a couple of fingers through a beltloop and pull him to stand between his legs. He smiles when Lindsay starts working on his jeans button, and just stands there submissively, letting him at it, stroking the back of his head like a cat.

"Just get rid of it, yeah?"

"Yes. I mean, wear what you like, I really don't care, but I'd like it best right now if you weren't wearing
anything
."

It doesn't quite get to that stage. Valentine loses his jeans and boots and races to the downstairs bathroom in record time to fetch lube, then Lindsay's trousers are round his ankles, there's some cursory preparation, and Valentine's 101

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batting his hands away and sliding down on his cock, making pathetic whingey little, "Ow, ow, ow," noises because he's too impatient to take his time. He rests there for a minute, fingers cramped in Lindsay's shirt, and begins to move. It's all sloppy kisses and erratic, delicious thrusting, until suddenly:

"Let's kill them," Valentine says.

He's whispering like it's a secret on a crowded train, like it's not just the two of them. Lindsay wants to say
you're crazy
or
you're joking
, but whether the kid's crazy or not it's clear he isn't joking.

"Don't stop," he says. He means don't stop moving, but he lets the kid run his mouth off at the same time, just as long as it doesn't interfere with the shift of his hips, his fingers pulling the back of Lindsay's hair, the wet slide of heat on his bare cock.

"I was thinking it all the way driving here, I never even put music on, I worked it all out." Lindsay puts his hands on the kid's waist and he takes the guidance without seeming to realise, rocking against Lindsay to the pace he sets.

Lindsay drops his head back against the sofa cushion, he needs to
breathe
, but Valentine just leans in with him, pushing his face into his neck for snuffly kisses, biting and licking and punctuating what he's saying with tiny humming gasps.

"You've got a branch in London, yeah?"

"What? Christ, keep going, that's –
fuck
..."

"Your company's got a branch in London. So what we do, we kill my parents, then their house is mine, right? I'll come to you to sell it off. That's how we meet, me and you. Strangers doing business, we ain't never met before, and –

you can get involved any time you like, you know," he says, winding a couple of fingers in Lindsay's hair and tugging like an admonition.

"Ow. I'm involved!" He pinches him at the hips to demonstrate. "Bit difficult, you're kind of in charge here, but please believe you've got my attention..."

"I mean in the
plan
."

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"What? Jesus. I can't think. Can we plan after?"

"We're planning
now
." He bumps his nose against Lindsay's, laughs a little bit, angles differently to kiss him. It's forceful, clicking teeth and lots of tongue. Lindsay makes a noise he hopes isn't a whimper. As a sort of payback he grabs Valentine by the chin and forces him away, and covers his mouth until he gets the message and begins licking his palm in long, wet swipes.

"Okay," he says, as he wraps his slick fingers around the kid's cock and begins to stroke him. "Continue."

Valentine braces himself against the back of the sofa and raises up and sinks back down, slow and deliberate.

"My dad used to belt me when I acted up, right, til I told him I get off on it just to see if he'd get freaked out and pack it in, cos that's like almost-rape or something, innit? If you make it about sex. So then he broke my nose instead.

That was the first time he did it, think I was fourteen. And, here, look." He unwinds his hand from Lindsay's hair and holds it up in front of his face. His forefinger bends outwards slightly from the middle knuckle. "Year before, he broke my finger cos I painted my nails. Called me a fucking queer and said wipe it off, and I told him to get fucked, so he broke my finger. Just grabbed it and snapped it like a twig. My mum just laughed. Said if I'm gonna mouth off I deserve what I get. Respect your elders and all that. I was like, yeah, okay, I'm really gonna respect
you
pair, Mr. Fists and a stupid bitch who ain't got the brains or backbone of an earthworm. She drinks, too. My dad's stone cold sober but she's on the Stella twenty-four seven. You wanna see the state of her, she's disgusting. Ain't no wonder I turned out a nutter, is it?"

It's easy enough now, to get involved. He feels sick with rage, sudden as a lightbulb turning on.

"Thought that'd get you going," Valentine says. A grim sort of smile creeps onto his face. "Told you I'm yours. You don't like other people breaking your toys, do you?"

"Shut up." His hand on the kid's hip pinches again, more tightly, to stop 103

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him moving. "Just, shut your mouth for once."

Valentine mimes zipping his mouth closed like that puppet from Rainbow, and they both wait for the tornado in Lindsay's head to die down a bit.

It'd be so easy, he thinks. It's, what, a four-hour drive to London, if the roads are clear? They could be dead by dawn.

"You honestly want to murder your parents?" he asks, carefully. "It's not like stealing, you can't give the diamonds back."