Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome (46 page)

"Have his car. Just go."

"He-"

"I'll deal with him. You did start it, though."

"I started it? Jesus, Lin, it's a
toy fucking monkey
."

"And you're getting a Ferrari 360 for your shitty Toyota. Please, I'll phone you later, just
go
before somebody does something they regret."

"What, like ripping off his head and shitting down the stump? You think I'd
regret
that?" He takes the keys, though. Lindsay knew he would, he's been eyeing up that car for months. Danny's still gaping when he gets in the passenger side, he's still not said a word. Probably best, for his own sake. The mood Ty's in now, the
last
place Lindsay would want to be is with him in a car.

Valentine's in the kitchen, shaking with rage, and he's on Lindsay before he's got a chance to say anything or even make much of an attempt to defend himself, shoving hard at his chest and battering at him with both his fists like he's banging on a door. He's
never
hit Lindsay, not in anger or self-defence or anything, in all this time. He's too worked up to make a good job of it, but the attempt is startling enough – after everything between them, the thing that's made him crack is a fucking toy monkey. Unbelievable.

"You could've stopped him and you never, you let him rip Mister Bollo and then you gave him my car like a fucking
prize
or something, I hate you, I hate you I HATE YOU."

Lindsay punches him. Another first. He's never
punched
before, he's only ever slapped. It's not as hard as he can go, it's not hard enough that it's going to leave any lasting damage beyond a bruise on his cheekbone, but the kid recoils like he's been hit by a bus. For a second Lindsay thinks the anger's going to gush out of him like water from a broken dam, and he
hopes
it is because then they'll be back to normal and he knows how to deal with him when he's crying and 371

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pathetic, but the kid snarls at him, "You fucking
cunt
, I ain't scared of you no more. This is domestic abuse, this is, I'm taking you on Jeremy Kyle," so he does it again, no harder but in the same place, and Valentine falls back against the wall. He
is
crying, but it's nothing like the other times he's cried, when he gets bratty or upset and vulnerable and needs either discipline or cuddles, depending on the situation. This is new and terrifying. Lindsay has no idea how to deal with it. His knuckles hurt. He's got this odd fancy he's sliced his fingers off on the kid's razor-sharp cheekbone, and he covers his fist with the other hand to make sure everything's still there.

"Go upstairs. I told you to stay where I put you."

Valentine stops rubbing at his cheek and takes the few steps to where Lindsay's standing. "Make me," he says, harsh with loathing. That's what flips the switch. Lindsay's not really sure how they get upstairs. He's vaguely aware of the kid shouting and struggling and swearing, but nothing's really clear until they're in the bedroom and he's got one hand viciously twisted in Valentine's hair to hold him still so he can slap him over the swelling cheek, hard, four times, until he's stunned enough for Lindsay to be able to grab a couple of scarves off the floor and tie his wrists to the bars at the end of the bed without getting scratched to shreds. Valentine recovers enough to struggle and wriggle like an eel when Lindsay's trying to pull down his jeans, kicking out at him and yelling and cursing and calling him every horrible name he knows.

"Alright," Lindsay says mildly. Calm. Always, always calm. Valentine finally stills when he hears the clink of a buckle and the gentle rasp of leather sliding past denim.

"Oh.

Don't."

Lindsay folds the belt in half first, then changes his mind and wraps the buckle end around his hand. He remembers it hurts more that way. Valentine's twisting round to look at him, or rather to look at the strap dangling from his fist.

"Don't. I'm sorry. Please, I-" He breaks off and makes an odd little sound when the belt lands on his bare bottom, a sort of gasping sob. "Lindsay. I

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said I'm sorry."

"I don't believe you."

"I am, I am, I swear, I'm sorry." He's pulling against the scarves, but Lindsay's become good at tying knots. Another crack with the belt. It's not even that hard. Another, another, another. The colour's flooding into his pale skin.

Lindsay's not hitting nearly hard enough to bruise, as much as he
wants
to flay all the skin off the kid's bones, but it's hard enough to colour him deep pink, hard enough to make him really cry again, resting his forehead against his clenched fist and gulping back sobs, whimpering useless apologies. Lindsay ignores them, and grabs his hips and yanks him back a few steps so he can't lean against his hand any more, he has to wrap his fingers around the horizontal bar he's tied to.

"Shut up." He hits again, and notices how the kid's arms are trembling.

"I can go all day and night if that's what it takes. Do as you're told."

"I

can't,

I

can't
." Valentine's snivelling and choking, crying like a child, but the awful rage has gone. Lindsay unwinds the belt and drops it on the carpet.

It's not personal enough. He scoops his left arm under the kid's body, holding him still, and starts smacking with his open palm.

"You don't behave like that." Smack. "Do you understand?" Smack. "I don't care what people do to you-" Smack. "-you do
not
hit." The kid's sob sounds like a humourless laugh, so Lindsay slaps him harder on the back of the thigh and he subsides. "And you don't talk to me like that." Smack, smack, smack. "Not
ever
." Smack. "And you behave like a grown-up when we've got company-" Smack. "-because otherwise they're going to find out what a pathetic little baby you really are."

"Yeah,

they

will
find out, cos I'm gonna ring them up and say you like me calling you daddy when you're fucking me and just think what they're gonna say then."

Lindsay goes silently into the bathroom to fetch lube. Valentine squirms when he feels the wet fingers.

"Don't. I don't want to."

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"Yes you do."

"I don't want to."

"You

always
want to." He twists three fingers up inside him, then slips his own jeans down around his ankles, strokes himself all the way from half-hard with his slicked hand, and fucks into him so forcefully and so suddenly they both cry out. Valentine's still in tears.

"I said stop it. I don't want to."

"I don't give a toss what you want. Shut your mouth or I'll belt you there, too."

"Lindsay-"

He reaches down to grab another scarf, and ties it over Valentine's mouth. "Much better," he murmurs, and presses a hand on the kid's back to make him bend to a better position. He goes white-knuckled around the bars when Lindsay starts fucking him in earnest. He's uncooperative at first, twisting himself around and letting his knees collapse so Lindsay has to drag him up again and wrap his arms around Valentine's waist to hold him there, but he's broken before long, he starts ramming himself back against Lindsay's thrusts, and his gag isn't tied tightly enough to properly muffle how he's saying
yes, yes,
yes
, and
harder
and
more
and
yes
.

Lindsay comes first, but Valentine's so close it only takes a couple more strokes and he's biting his gag and whimpering, coming hot and hard over Lindsay's hand. He leaves the kid there and locks himself in the bathroom, only realising now just how badly he's trembling, and just how delicate this balance is between them, and hoping so hard it's not screwed up beyond rescue. He has a wash and a drink of water and then he can't think of any more excuses not to go back into the bedroom, so he goes. Valentine's still bent over exactly as Lindsay left him, pink-bottomed with a dribble of come on the inside of his thigh, fists clenched tight around the bar, sweat shining on his lower back where his t-shirt's pushed up. He somehow looks
more
obscene in the mid-morning sunlight.

Something like this belongs in the dark and the early hours of the morning when

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everybody's meant to be asleep.

Lindsay hesitates over the scarves. "Are you going to be good?" he asks.

Valentine doesn't look at him, just nods his head. Lindsay frees his wrists first, then the gag. He half-expects he's gone too far and wrecked everything and Valentine's going to fly at him again with his curses and fists and Lindsay won't know what to do to stop him this time, but it's not like that; the kid rushes at him, but it's only so he can throw his arms up around Lindsay's neck and burst out crying again, harsh heartbreaking sobs hot and wet against his skin.

"Oh, don't," he says, awkward as hell. "Come and lie down." He gets the kid tucked under the covers and slides in next to him, and finds the monkey and its arm. Valentine snatches them from him and tucks them in under his chin where he's got his face buried in the pillows. Lindsay rubs his back slowly, trying to soothe his shaking. His palm still stings, but he ignores it.

He's got such a temper. He
knows
he has. It's always like this. There's always a lot he wants to apologise for, after, but that's not how it works. He's never read a rulebook, but he knows instinctively that's not how it works. It shatters through Valentine's defences when he acts like this, it breaks him down to the simplest base parts – the need for love, the need for instruction – from which they can start to build him up again. If Lindsay apologises he's going to break down as well, and what good would that do?

"He's

old
, sweetheart," he says gently, rubbing Valentine's back in big circles and down to his roasted bottom. "He was going to fall apart sooner or later anyway, you know he was. But it's nothing you can't fix, is it? You've got all that wool. You can make him better again, can't you? I know you can."

"You don't understand." It's almost impossible to get what he's saying, his voice is shuddering so much from crying. Lindsay has to stroke his hair back and touch his face to get him to lift it out of the pillows and look at him so he can hear properly. "Cos you
can't
understand. He's
mine
."

"I know, sweetheart. Stop crying, now. It's okay."

"No it ain't okay and no you
don't
know cos you always had nice stuff 375

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and nice people and I never did." He stops, to gulp in air and try to control himself. "I know it's just a stupid little toy monkey, I ain't dim, I
know
it's just a filthy fucking rag, okay? But he's
mine
."

"Calm down." He brushes his fingers through Valentine's hair, gentle and slow. Gradually his crying starts to taper off. He puts the monkey's foot in his mouth. Just this once, Lindsay can't bring himself to tell him off for it. He just goes on running his fingers through the tangled strands of hair until Valentine's finally quiet. "I
do
understand."

"How?"

"You're not the only one who knows what it's like to love a stupid little multicoloured rag with a big nose."

Valentine lets out a sudden little burst of laughter, bright and surprised and pleased. Lindsay kisses his forehead and holds his hand under the covers, and somehow they don't need to speak again for a very long time.

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377

Pip Valentine

C H A P T E R 3 3

Pip has been standing in the corner for half an hour now. The burning sting on his backside has faded to a sort of dull heat, but he's feeling the pain in his arms instead. He's not allowed to take his hands off his head because he's not allowed to rub the soreness from his smacked arse. Even when it's stopped hurting he's still not allowed to take his hands off his head til Lindsay says so.

That's part of the... thing. He always wants to call it a game, but it's not always a game, not really.

He can hear Lindsay in the room behind him, going through paperwork or bills or something boring like that. He sounds alright, he seems cheerful enough, he's even sort of humming to himself a bit. He's nothing like he was earlier, jumpy and pissed off and pretending not to be nervous, getting himself all in a state til Pip bit his lip, readied himself and dropped a glass on purpose and wouldn't clear the shards up when Lindsay told him to. He got a hell of a going over for that – more than he deserved, he thinks, trying to shift his arms a bit to ease the ache without drawing attention to himself. He doesn't mind, not really. If this is the only way he's allowed to help with the job, he'll be the fucking best human-sized stress ball there's ever been.

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The rustle of papers behind him stops, replaced by the gentle pad of socked feet on the carpet. He goes still immediately, never mind the ache in his arms. He even holds his breath to be stiller, and only lets it out in a long, quiet whoosh when Lindsay kisses over his clasped fingers, slips an arm around his waist and tugs at his wrist with the other hand so he knows he's allowed to take his hands off his head now.

"Okay," he murmurs, right against Pip's ear so the touch of air and whiskers makes him shiver. "What's going to happen next time I ask you to do something?"

He's using the warm voice that means he'll probably want to play soon.

Pip leans back against him, just a little bit, just to check if it's alright, then more when Lindsay puts his other arm around with the first. Lindsay's hard, pressing the rough denim of his jeans against Pip's roasted backside.

"I'll do it," he says, not much more than a whisper, covering Lindsay's clutching hands with his own and finding the little gaps between his fingers so he can wind them together. "No questions and no arguing, I'll do it."

"You said that last time."