Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome (15 page)

He snarls, "
Fuck
!" under his breath and throws the monkey onto the bed with his what-ifs and his pride, but just as he's about to run downstairs and out into the twilight to start looking for him he sees the kid out the bedroom window, picking his way carefully down the hill behind the back garden. He's only just visible in the dim light, and soaking wet from the sheeting rain.

Lindsay stops dead, then forces himself to stay calm when what he really wants to do is pick the monkey back up, rip it to neat little shreds, and throw them in Valentine's face. By the time he hears the patio door click open and the squelch of wet muddy footsteps on the kitchen lino, he's back in the living room with his tobacco tin, perched on the arm of the chair rolling his smokes and pretending he hasn't been freaking out. He can sense Valentine there in the doorway but he doesn't look up, he won't be the first to speak. Of course he is, though. He's
always
the first to crack.

"Care to tell me where you've been?"

"Walking." After a while, when Lindsay doesn't speak again, he adds,

"It's raining," and then Lindsay looks up and stares at him, as blankly as he can manage. His hair's plastered to his head and face and neck, he's splattered with mud, there's rainwater streaming off him like he's just jumped in the sea fully-clothed. He's clutching himself and shivering, trying to rub life and feeling back into his bare forearms – still, he's remembered to take off his muddy boots in the kitchen, like he's proving he still knows how to behave himself.

"Go and get changed," Lindsay says, very calmly. "Dry your hair. You'll catch pneumonia, if I don't murder you first."

"Lindsay-"

"I'm sorry, did I just say that last bit in my head? I thought I told you to

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go and do something."

He hesitates a second more, then nods and goes. Lindsay can hear him in the bedroom, the slam of the wardrobe and the faint roar of his hairdryer. He just carries on rolling smokes, very slowly and methodically, taking his time to make them neat and exactly the same size in the hope it'll keep him from exploding. It seems to be working, but then Valentine comes back down and lurks in the doorway again, looking nervous, and Lindsay feels more riled than ever. He lights up and drags deeply and savours the burn and taste and lets Valentine just stand there like an idiot, wanting to speak but too scared to.

"I've got an old suitcase you can have," he says. He's still not really looking at Valentine, he's mostly just inspecting the burning end of his cigarette like all life's secrets are hidden in its glow. "Under the bed in the spare room. Go and pack your things."

"What for?" He's not speaking much above a whisper.

"I'll drive you back to London."

"But... I don't wanna go back."

"Too bad. I've changed my mind, I don't want you here any more, acting up and running off like that. Go and pack." Valentine doesn't move, he just looks at Lindsay like he's about to burst into tears. "Am I talking in my head again?"

"No, I heard you. I'm sorry. Really. I never meant it, I was just... upset, I dunno, I'm a stupid fucking brat, I'm sorry. Please don't make me go."

"Okay, we'll go
without
your stuff if you won't pack. I can have a nice bonfire tomorrow when you're out of my hair."

Then Valentine takes the few steps across the room to where Lindsay's half-leaning, half-sitting on the chair arm, and bends over his thigh. It's an odd, awkward angle, it's too high to be anything but. He has to brace one hand on the cushion at the back, the other on Lindsay's knee.

"You told me off like this yesterday," he says. He sounds so desperate and earnest it's like he's pleading for his life. "Don't make me go. I promise I'll be 121

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good, I swear, I'll do everything like I'm told, I
swear
."

Lindsay's got no intention of taking him anywhere, he just wants him feeling frightened and sick and half a hair away from completely insane. Good, he thinks, it's working. He's not sure making it physical is a great idea, because right now he feels like he could quite happily break every bone in his scrawny little body, but when it's on offer like this he can't make himself resist. "Hold this," he says, passing Valentine the half-burned cigarette, then he puts his right hand on the kid's back to stop him getting up and slaps him on the arse, hard. He doesn't stop. Last time was calculated and methodical, counted out steadily to make his point and then it was over. This time he just goes on smacking, as fast as he can and as hard as he can. In seconds his palm is roaring hot, but he carries on. Valentine's breathing's all in tatters but he's true to his word, he
is
being good, he's hardly making a sound and he's not trying to pull away. But:

"Lindsay," he says, suddenly. Lindsay still doesn't slow or stop.

"Not a word. You asked for this, you're going to take it."

The kid shuts his mouth obediently, then seconds later he hisses and jerks in pain and drops something. The cigarette, Lindsay realises, feeling a momentary stab of shame for forgetting, for not letting him speak. He lets Valentine scramble away to pick it up and drop it in the ashtray.

"There's ash on the carpet, sorry. It ain't burned or nothing, it's just ash.

I'm sorry, I shouldn't've dropped it, I'll clean it up."

"No you won't." His mouth's very dry. He wants to rub his palm against his trouser leg to soothe it, because the sting feels like an itch, but he doesn't want the kid to see. "I'll do it. You're going to bed in a minute and I don't want to see or hear you again for the rest of the evening."

"Okay."

"Sit down. There." He nods at the sofa and Valentine sits on the middle cushion, biting his lip like the pressure's hurting him but still not saying anything, just watching Lindsay with wide eyes. "Don't move, do you hear me?

Ah-ah, you nodded," he adds, thrilling in the little cruelty and how it makes

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Valentine's face fall. "I mean it, you're in enough trouble as it is. Do
not
move.

Don't even blink."

He steps around the muddy footprints in the kitchen, and briefly considers mopping the floor to waste some time, make the kid sit there and sweat even longer, but he can't. He runs the cold tap until it's freezing and fills a glass, drains it, fills it again, and goes back into the living room. Valentine hasn't moved, he doesn't even turn his head when Lindsay comes in the room.

"Oh, you
can
be a good boy when you want to, then?" he says. He's aiming for a sneer but he can't quite keep the surprise out of his voice – he thought the kid would have moved the position of his hands or something, at least, or looked up at his voice, but he's like a statue. "Look at me, Philip." He's using the name on purpose, trying to ruffle him, and he stands just a little bit too close so the kid has to tip his head right back to look up at him. "Do you want a drink of water?"

Valentine hesitates, like he's considering whether or not it's a trick question, then shakes his head. "No thank you. I had one upstairs."

"Okay." He drinks it himself, almost the whole glass, then sets it on the coffee table. He doesn't look away from Valentine, just folds his arms and stands there for a minute, towering above him and watching him fight not to tremble or look away. He's scared, that much is obvious, but Lindsay remembers the sick feeling he'd had in his stomach upstairs, like a broken umbrella slowly unfurling inside him. The little bastard isn't scared enough, not even close, and now he's angry again when he thought he was getting past it. "Stand up," he says, abruptly. Valentine jumps to obey. Lindsay takes his seat, and they stare each other out for a minute more until Valentine starts shifting uncomfortably, shuffling his feet and looking away and back again.

"What shall I do?" He sounds miserable. Lindsay's pretty sure that if he told the kid to go back outside and walk right over the edge of the cliff he'd do it, he's that eager to please him and make things right again.

"Shut your mouth, for one." Valentine nods his head, silent, waiting for 123

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more. "Now take off your clothes. Everything. Quickly, don't dawdle. I want you naked and back over my knee in ten seconds. Head this way." He stretches his hand as Valentine strips off, trying to keep it casual because he doesn't want to show the kid any hints of weakness. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it's hot and buzzing, like feeling the vibrations from an electric toothbrush. Besides, he's better with his right hand. He picks it up as soon as the kid settles himself awkwardly over, doesn't give him a chance to prepare himself or anything, he just carries on like before, the sharp, rapid smacks landing on bare flesh now instead of denim. He makes it hard. He wants it to hurt. He wants to see how long the kid can stay still and not make a noise, how much he really
means
his apologies.

After half a minute, he's gasping at every smack. Soon after that he makes his first little whimpering sound, and then every little crack in his resolve sets the others off like dominoes – he starts saying
ow
, then he starts saying
please
, then he starts to cry and the words all run together and he's right where Lindsay wanted him.

"Ow,
ow
, please don't, please, I
said
I'm sorry!"

"Yeah, you
said
, that's your problem, you never know when to fucking shut up, do you? No wonder your parents hate you so much, two decades of you's enough to turn a
nun
to murder."

He shudders and goes still at that, still flinching but not trying to get up any more, and muffles a sob against the cushion. "I weren't running away," he says, all tears and wet hitching breaths. "I love you, I wanna stay with you, I was just cooling off. Just walking."

"Well,
don't
. You didn't say. I looked for you and you weren't there. I need to know where you are." It suddenly seems so important to get that across.

He grabs Valentine by the hair and wrenches him up so he's sitting face to face, straddled over his lap, and he cups the kid's face in his hands and tells him again.

"I need to know where you are, do you understand me? All the time. I
need to
know
."

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"Okay."

"If you run off again, I swear to god I'm going to break every bone you've got."

"Okay."

"Alright. Go to bed, then, and we'll leave it. You can get up for the toilet, but I don't want to see you down here again."

Valentine scrubs his eyes with his hands, smearing tears away quite without shame. "In the spare room, right?"

"Yes."

He sighs, very quietly. "Will you come and say goodnight before you go to bed?"

"I'm not waking you up. We'll have a talk in the morning, okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

"Good. Now kiss me." He taps his fingertip against his cheek, and Valentine puts a gentle kiss there before he leaves the room to go upstairs.

Lindsay listens to the soft pad of his bare feet down the hall and up thirteen carpeted steps, then lets his breath out in a long whoosh and lights up one of his perfectly-rolled cigarettes and rubs his itching palm against his trouser leg until it feels numb.

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Lindsay's not sure what to expect when he suggests a night out at the pub, but it's definitely not what he gets.

"Oh," Valentine says quietly, then hastily adds, "Yeah, yeah, good idea, okay." He doesn't sound like he means it, though; he sounds like he's only saying it because he thinks it's what Lindsay wants to hear.

"We don't have to," he says, a bit baffled. "We can stay in. I was just saying. You kept complaining you felt like a prisoner, I thought you'd
want
to go out."

"To your local. With your mates."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing!" Of course he's lying – and it's a proper sulky teenage lie, too, muttered out through pouting lips as he sits there staring at the carpet. Lindsay just waits, as patiently as he can, trying to ignore that stab of irritation he always feels when the kid gets bratty like this. It pays off before things get
too
unbearable: "Do they even know you're gay?" Valentine blurts out. "Your mates.

Your mum. People at work, everyone, does anyone even
know
? Cos I just lied to

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my best mate for you when I went back home, he was going out his fucking mind thinking I'd been murdered and I never even knew he gave a fuck but he did and I just
lied
about what happened, and you ain't even got no idea how fucking nuts I was about Olly for
years
up 'til I met you and I could've had him the other day like
that
-" The snap of his clicking fingers is like a gunshot. "I never, though, I told him I'm in love with this brilliant man and I ain't letting that go for nothing, not even him, and now it's gone back weird again, and, I dunno, fuck knows, I'll probably never see him again now. I do love you, too, even when you're fucking horrible to me, even if you never say it back, but I ain't going out and sitting in a pub with you so I can listen to you tell everyone I'm a
friend
."

"Aren't we friends?" Lindsay says carefully, because it's a nice innocuous thing to say while he tries to quiet the stupid jealous roaring in his head. Valentine just laughs, but not like he's amused. He's using his thumbnail to flick tiny chipped pieces of paint off the nail on his middle finger, dusting the cream carpet with little black flecks – another thing to get infuriated about, but that's what the little bastard wants so Lindsay fights himself calm.

"Yeah, we're friends." He's quiet again, not looking at Lindsay. "You've got to come out sometime, though. If there's anything in the world
sadder
than an old bloke getting his kicks fucking me in the arse and pretending he don't, I dunno what it is."