Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome (44 page)

"Don't pester me. You
know
I love you. Happy now?"

"Oh

shit
," Valentine says abruptly. "Come on. Let's go."

Lindsay just stares at him for a second. "What?"

"Let's

go
. Move, let me down."

Lindsay steps away, confused, and Valentine hops down off the wall and snatches up his bag but before he can take more than a couple of steps there's somebody holding his arm.

"Knew it was you," the man says. He's a bit breathless, flushed in the face like he's been hurrying. "Saw you come out of Starbucks, I knew it was you."

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Valentine's gone very still. He's looking at the hand closed round his forearm, not the man's face, then he looks at Lindsay. The desperation couldn't be any more obvious if the word was written across his cheeks in pen. "Can we go? Please."

"We can go. Come on." He knows who the man is, of course. He
doesn't
know what he's going to do if the man refuses to let go, but he does, reluctantly, and Valentine comes to stand as close as he can to Lindsay without actually being inside his skin. He's rubbing the sleeve of his coat with his opposite hand, like there's something there he's trying to wipe off, and he still won't look up.

"No, come on, don't go. Can we talk?"

"No," Lindsay says. Valentine's father looks at him properly for the first time.

"I suppose you're his..." He trails off and waves his hand in the air like the right word's going to be there just waiting to be plucked and used.

"Boyfriend?" Lindsay supplies helpfully, even though the word makes him cringe. The kid looks up at him in surprise, almost smiling, and Valentine senior looks grim for a second then seems to compose himself and holds out his hand.

"Phil

Valentine."

He's shorter than Lindsay, and broader, but wearing an immaculately tailored suit that makes Lindsay, in his expensive designer jeans and coat, feel like he's unworthy even to lick the muck off the man's shoes. Still, he notices enough vestiges of chav to make his smile feel slightly less fake, when he automatically shakes the hand that's offered to him and feels the sovereign rings.

"I

guessed."

"Lindsay. I want to go." His voice is low and almost toneless. Lindsay doesn't think twice now about holding his hand. It's partly for the kid's sake, for comfort, and partly to piss off the other man. He remembers something Valentine said ages ago about wanting to do anything and everything in his

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power to aggravate his father, no matter how small, and no matter the consequences. Lindsay thought it was stupid and petty at the time, but now he kind of understands.

"Just one second, alright? One second." The kid's father fumbles in his pocket, produces a mobile phone, and holds a button to speed-dial someone.

"Will you just say hello to your mother? So she knows you're alright."

Valentine laughs, quiet and incredulous. He takes the phone but instead of speaking into it he throws it in the fountain, then wrenches his hand out of Lindsay's and goes racing off over the square. His father makes like to follow, but Lindsay stands in front of him and he stops.

"Are you still living in the same house you were when he... moved out?"

"Yeah. What's it got to do with you?"

"So he knows how to reach you if he wants to, right?"

"Well,

yeah."

"And he hasn't."

"No."

"What does that tell you?"

The two of them don't really look that much alike, the kid and his father, but they narrow their green eyes the exact same way when they're angry. "This is a family matter, alright?"

"Back

off."

"Or what? You threatening me?"

"Wouldn't dream of it. Threats are for people who haven't got the balls for action."

"Oh, I can do action, mate, you need me to prove it?"

Lindsay almost laughs at the bristling machismo and can't help imagining it like an old-style duel. Pistols at twenty paces. Fuck honour; he'd 357

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shoot Valentine in the back before he took more than one.

"Don't be ridiculous. Just... go and fish your phone out the water. Don't follow me."

He gets his own phone out as he's crossing the square and calls the kid but there's no answer so he starts punching in a text message instead. He half-expects Valentine to come after him and wallop him one and he's not sure what he's going to do – he's hardly experienced in street-brawling – but when he turns round at the top of the steps he can see the man still standing there by the fountain wall.

His phone buzzes in his hand, and he reads the reply: NR HOTEL

WHERE R U

The idiot must have run like hell to be there already. Lindsay doesn't quite run but he doesn't take his time about it either, and has to take his coat off on the way up to the suite because he's sweating. Valentine's pacing around in his socks when Lindsay gets inside. He must have taken his boots off and thrown them in a temper, they're on opposite sides of the room.

"We should've got rid of him when I said before." He sounds a bit strangled, like he's trying not to burst into tears, then all at once he loses it and his hands fly up to cover his twisting face. Lindsay doesn't know what to do for a second – the kid's all about wearing his heart on his sleeve and he cries easily, but it's usually involuntary eye-watering because he's just been belted round the face, or it's because Lindsay's making him watch old black and white films where repressed English people with cut-glass accents have to end their affairs and that's the sort of crying that calls for laughter, not comforting.

"Hey," he says, wretchedly awkward. "Come on, sweetheart. Chin up, yeah?"

The kid's shaking. Lindsay can't tell if it's fear but thinks it might be rage, and that's confirmed when he makes Valentine look at him and sees the way his eyes are shining, furious and full of hate. The kid grabs a tissue out the box on the desk and swipes at them clumsily, like he's annoyed with himself for

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breaking, but he's trembling too much to make a good job of it so Lindsay does it for him, mopping him up gently and then holding the tissues at his nose so he can blow.

"Listen to me. Calm down. You'll only give yourself a headache if you carry on."

"I hate him."

"I know you do."

"No you don't know. I
hate
him. And he hates me. Why's he following me round like a creep?"

Lindsay's been asking himself this, walking up to the hotel, and he can't really think of a good enough answer, but nor can he stop thinking about the way he'd left the man just standing there in the crowd, motionless and staring.

"Maybe he's sorry."

"Yeah, and? Too fucking late for sorry, innit? I hope he catches bubonic plague and dies in slow fucking agony the day before they legalise euthanasia, and then I'm gonna go and learn Riverdance and I don't care how fucking long it takes cos I wanna do it on his grave.
Cunt
," he spits, like a punctuation mark, then he struggles out of his coat and turns on Lindsay. "Hit me," he says, and Lindsay stares at him.

"What?"

"
Hit
me," he repeats, then says, "Come on!" when Lindsay hesitates.

"Why?"

"Jesus, just do it." Lindsay swats him lightly round the side of the head, and he makes a frustrated sort of snarling noise and says, "Properly, like you
mean
it, come on, like you really fucking hate me."

"I... no! Stop it. Calm down, okay?"

"Lindsay." He sounds like he's going to cry again any second. Utterly bewildered, Lindsay slaps him full-force across the face, and Valentine squeezes 359

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his eyes shut and stops breathing for a moment. "Come on, I ain't made of porcelain, you've hit me worse than that loads of times," he says, so Lindsay does it again, back and forth until both cheeks are flaming red, until Valentine says, "No, stop," and then he drops his hand to his side and waits for the kid to open his eyes. He hopes to god he's slapped him out of whatever's the matter with him, but his eyes – both green today – are like a stranger's.

"Philip..."

"
Don't call me that
!"

There's such sharp hatred in his voice Lindsay takes a step back without even meaning to, like it's actually a knife and not just a tone of voice. Valentine shoves him as he moves, so he stumbles and ends up in the armchair to the side of the desk, then the kid's dropping to his knees to get at Lindsay's zip.

"Oh Christ. Stop it. Listen to me." Valentine's cheeks are hot under his palms when Lindsay tries to turn his face up to look at him, but the kid's got his eyes resolutely closed again and he's working the zip and button by touch alone.

"Hit me again."

"No."

"
Yes
."

He does, rocking Valentine to the side so hard he has to put his hand out to steady himself so he doesn't go sprawling. Seconds later, like nothing happened, he's back and tugging Lindsay's jeans and underwear down insistently until he stands up briefly and helps, dropping them down round his ankles.

Immediately Valentine starts kissing him, licking the length of his cock over and over and rubbing with his fingertips, trying to get him hard when he's never felt less in the mood for it in his life.

"Come on," he's saying under his breath. Lindsay's not sure whether he's even aware of it. "Come on, come on, come on, come on, please, please. Do it again," he demands more loudly, still desperately trying to wake up Lindsay's flaccid cock.

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"No."

He's getting harder now, though. He can't help it. Valentine smiles like a madman and doubles his efforts and that's what makes him come untied, when the kid's sucking gets messy and slurpy and there's too much spit all over his chin and hands. The little bastard knows how to get him off. Valentine's acting on like some coy little madam in a crap porn film, smirking with his mouth full and gazing up through his eyelashes, making tiny delighted sounds like he's never wanted anything so much before. It's all horrific clichés and Lindsay
hates
that it gets him going like this, but it does, so much, every time. He braces his hand against the edge of the desk when Valentine starts fisting his cock, sweeping the rough of his tongue just over the head, clumsy and wet. He's dribbling down between his fingers and it's disgusting and incredible, but then he stops and sits back and Lindsay hears how loudly he's been breathing and tries to steady it.

"Come back here. Don't you dare wind me up like that and then stop."

"I will if you hit me again."

"Why?"

"I want you to. I thought you liked it."

It's

different
this time. Surely the kid's not too thick to realise that.

"But-"

"
Hit
me," Valentine insists. "Make it hurt." He shuffles forward on his knees, as close to the chair as he can get, but doesn't touch Lindsay again; the kid's twisting his fingers together in his lap now, frantic and gulping like he's going to cry. Lindsay feels like his sanity's about to splinter. "Please, please, you have to, I never ask you for
nothing
, please just do it."

"What are you talking about? You always ask me for everything."

"Okay, then, but you always do it, so don't change the rules now."

He knows it's true. That's just the way they work. As much as he grouses and sneers and makes a big show of authority, he can't deny the kid a thing. If he 361

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wants a vintage Aston Martin so he can play at being James Bond, he gets one. If he wants to go on top, he can. He says he's never been to Africa and Lindsay goes online and books flights that same day to Morocco because he wants to see the smile when he presents Valentine with tickets. When the kid suggests setting a camcorder up in the bedroom so they can watch the tape back later and laugh at their stupid sex-faces, Lindsay goes along with it, wincing all the way, because he always says no and he never really means it in the end.

This is love, he supposes, and it's mental. He's glad he's never been in it before.

He deals out a sharp crack across the cheekbone that makes a little sound stick in the kid's throat, then he winds the other hand in his loose hair and clenches his fist, pulling so tight it
must
be hurting, and wrenches Valentine's mouth back to his cock. He's making more noises; Lindsay's not sure if they're words or not but he can feel them buzzing around him as he yanks on the kid's hair and shoves him down and down and down until he's choking for air.

Lindsay doesn't
have
to hold him there, because Valentine's sucking eagerly, but he does anyway, and when he's almost ready to come he grabs the kid's hand and bites angry purple teethmarks into his crooked forefinger so he doesn't cry out.

"Wait," Valentine says. It's muffled because his mouth's full, so Lindsay lets go of his hair and he tries again. "Wait, stop a minute."

He lets the kid gets his breath back, stroking his wild hair and sucking his bitten finger gently. He doesn't know what to think so he doesn't really think anything, he just watches Valentine breathing, with his mouth sticky and red and his eyes still closed. He opens them suddenly, and catches Lindsay out.

"Tell me when, yeah?"

He bends his head to start licking him again, and slips his bitten hand down to find Lindsay's and bring it to his head with the other one, covering both Lindsay's hands and directing him to clench his fingers so he's pulling at his hair more cruelly than ever.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Okay. Don't stop. Make it hurt. Tell me when,

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promise."

"Soon." He drags on Valentine's hair until he's whimpering, shoving his mouth down hard and letting him up to breathe and shoving him down again.

"Now, now." He collapses back in the chair and releases the kid's hair, and he's got his eyes closed when he comes but he knows it's over Valentine's face, he can tell by the way the kid's touching him and the little hitching whimpers in his breathing. Before he's even recovered properly Valentine's clambering on top of him, drawing his legs up and curling in close against Lindsay's chest. He's got the box of tissues and he's wiping his face off. Lindsay sort of wants to do it for him but he doesn't really feel like he's got the strength so he just lets him carry on himself and strokes his hair instead, tender where just a minute earlier he'd been yanking it almost out of his scalp.