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

Valentine is pink-cheeked when he finally pulls away, and he looks pleased with himself. "You feel better
now
, right?"

 

"A bit."

 

"Alright. Get your breath back, old man, we can find somewhere to eat."

 

***

They can't agree on anything, riding round town in a cab for forty minutes peering through the window at each other's suggestions and shooting them down. It's just like the old days, endless squabbling that can't decide whether it's cheery banter or genuine annoyance. "Fuck this," Valentine says eventually. "We're getting a takeaway." That's okay. It'll mean he has to stop trying to hold Lindsay's hand.

They wander down the riverside with their cardboard boxes of chow mein. It's the second time in two days they've been down here, it's starting to become a habit. It's hardly the most romantic place in the world, a massive brown river in the middle of a filthy city, but Valentine doesn't seem to care. He's not even talking much any more, stuffing his face with food instead and then just walking along quietly when his empty box is in the bin. They spent so much time messing around in the studio and fighting over where to go that it's getting dark by now, not that London's ever properly
dark
. There's a billion streetlamps and windows standing out against the indigo sky and reflected in the black river like electric stars. A little way ahead of them, Tower Bridge looms over everything like a sort of majestic chaperone; just to the side of that, the white walls of the castle are illuminated like it's Christmas. It's still warm but there's a faint breeze making Valentine's hair blow into his face, and he turns round and walks backwards for a while so he can keep it out of the way. Lindsay can't eat any more now he's being watched so he throws his box in the next bin.

"Do you know how hard I'm going to laugh when you walk into a lamppost or something?"

"Get stuffed. I know this town like the back of my hand. Ain't that a stupid thing to say? How many people actually sit there staring at the back of their hands learning what it looks like? That's weird, I wouldn't be mates with someone who thinks that's a good hobby." He still turns back round, tucking his hair behind his ears, and starts walking normally again. His fingers brush against Lindsay's a couple of times; Lindsay can't decide whether it was an accident because of how close they're walking, or Valentine's after something he doesn't really want to give. Yesterday was different. Yesterday felt like make or break. Now it's here, now it's all happening and it's
real
, the urge to prove himself isn't nearly as strong.

"Where are we going, then?"

"Dunno. Just walking. I like walking round London at night, I do it all the time. Not for no reason, just cos... it's home, innit? It's brilliant, you can't ever get bored of London cos even if you live here for like a hundred and fifty years you still won't ever know everything about it. There's always something new. Like, you're walking round somewhere you've known since you was born and you look up and there's an old clock on the side of a building you never seen before, or there's a little gargoyley face over a window or something. Don't you think it's cool?"

"You'll get murdered and dumped in the river if you walk round London on your own at night."

"Yeah, right. That's just narrow-minded Yorkshire propaganda. Go back up north, you old square." He snatches at Lindsay's hand suddenly, winding their fingers together and then covering them with his other hand and squeezing tight so he can't escape. "HA! Got you. Lure you in with casual conversation, then the superglue on the palm trick and you'll never escape for the rest of your life."

He doesn't pull away. That's what Valentine wants, a reaction. He's not getting one, good
or
bad. Lindsay just keeps his face blank of any expression, just keeps on walking with him even though he hates this holding-hands rubbish. It's not even about being uncomfortable because complete strangers might suspect he's gay, which is what Valentine seems to think his problem is. He was never bothered about being seen in restaurants with Valentine last time, and what could possibly be more homosexual than two men having dinner together at a table with candles on it? Maybe two men booking a double room in a hotel – another thing he never had any problem doing. It's just public displays of affection. His whole life they've made him cringe no matter
who
the perpetrators are. People getting all snuggly together in a cinema, all the hand-holding that's there everywhere you look, or the very worst thing of all where vile couples giggle and simper all over the place and hand-feed each other strawberries in a restaurant or on a picnic blanket in a crowded park. It's repulsive. Nothing in the world makes him feel so violent. He wouldn't even use a gun, he could just pummel their faces in until there was nothing left but pulp, that's how disgusting and offensive he finds it all.

Valentine's walking along happily, swinging their hands gently now he's realised Lindsay isn't struggling, completely oblivious to anything that isn't his own stupid clingy neediness. "
Do
you wanna go somewhere?"

"Where?"
"Dunno. Anywhere. Out."
"Come home with me."
"You're insatiable."
"Well, you're very talented."
"Thanks."

Slight alarm bells now. Valentine's not going for it. He would have jumped at it before, he probably would have initiated it himself. It was usually
his
idea when they were out and he suddenly decided they'd be better off in bed. Now... nothing. He's just walking along quietly, holding Lindsay's hand.

"Or we can go out. If you want."

 

"Nah," Valentine says after a moment. "I might just go home. Early start tomorrow."

"Is something wrong?"
"No." He's such a fucking liar. Lindsay looks at him until he goes on. "No, I swear! Nothing's
wrong
. I just been thinking today." It's probably Olly's fault. Lindsay wants to smash his smug face in as well, now. "I been thinking like... me and you should start over. Pretend we're strangers, start from the beginning. Go out places, take it slow, just have fun and stuff and work out where to go from there, not just move me in your house and fit me round your life again."

"Were you really that miserable before?"
"No comment."

"Don't
lie
to me, then. I asked you all the time if you were happy and you always said yes."

"I know. Sorry. I've grown up a bit since then. Stuff's different. I don't wanna take stuff off people no more. I don't need looking after like a little china dolly." He stops talking and glances round furtively as if he's checking there's nobody standing too close and listening in. "Like telling me what to do and everything, like how I got my arse smacked if I played up-"

"Stop talking."

"No, it's important, I'm just saying! Just... I don't need it no more. I needed it before, it weren't like abuse or nothing, Olly thinks it's weird like I was your prisoner but it
weren't
like that. I swear I was happy being with you, it was just different. And how it all happened, even the weird stuff weren't really weird cos it worked, I needed it like that and I think you needed it too, right? Like it don't matter if you're insane if you find someone else who's insane in the opposite way cos then it fits like my Hedwig tattoo. But I ain't crazy no more, I don't need you looking after me, and what I was thinking today..."

Lindsay's half-afraid to ask but he does anyway. "What?" "What if that's all there was?" Valentine says, quick and desperate like it's vomit. "If I don't need you looking after me no more are you still gonna want me?"

"You're such an idiot."
"Wha-"

Lindsay holds Valentine's face in both hands and kisses him right there in the middle of the path, cutting off his word and turning it into a gentle, pleased sound of surprise breathed out through his nose. There are people everywhere. Lindsay wants to be sick, it's like he can
feel
all their eyes on him, but he does it anyway and when he finally moves away a good minute later Valentine seems to have turned from himself into a silly bashful schoolgirl, blushing and smiling and not quite looking up.

"Oh," he says, like that explains everything.
"Yeah."
"Thank you."

"That's a shit thing to say when somebody's just ripped all his principles in half to make you feel better."

"Thank you very much?"
"You're welcome."

"Is that okay, then? Just... I never had a proper proper boyfriend before. I mean, I only had one before you and we never went out places, he just threw me round and fucked me. I wanna go out places and hear what you been doing all this time. I wanna learn how to be proper friends with you cos we weren't like that before, I don't think. I want goodbye kisses on the doorstep feeling all naughty cos my mum and dad's just like ten feet away in the living room. Just to test it. Like, trying it out to make sure it ain't broken for good, you know?"

"I think I liked you better when you were stupid and impulsive." "Ah, shut up. You're just wounded you ain't getting a blowjob tonight." He's holding Lindsay's hand again, and he brings it up to his mouth so he can kiss it.

"You watch too many dumb American teen movies." "Yeah. Fifty First Dates."
"
Fifty
?"

"Make them good ones, I might say ten. Now be a gent and come and find me a cab, alright?"
2.

The deal is simple: no complaining, no wimping out, they just have to put up with the other one choosing somewhere to go. It should be simple, but when Lindsay tells him to "dress nice for dinner" what the hell is that supposed to mean?

"What are you slamming around for?" Phil says, as Pip's running up and down the hall rescuing his stolen clothes from Dory's room.

"I just... ain't got nothing to
wear
." "Are you kidding or what?"

"No, I ain't got nothing
nice
, Lindsay says dress up nice for dinner, what the fuck is
nice
meant to mean? Like, a suit?"

 

"Dare you to go in top hat and tails."

"Get bent." He slams his bedroom door but Phil just opens it again and stands there in the doorway with his arms folded, looking at the sartorial carnage.
"Jesus. How can
you
say you've got nothing to wear?"

Pip throws two handfuls of coathangers onto his bed, each holding a different shirt he bought for some reason and now never wears. There's a white linen one like his favourite of Lindsay's, a dark purple velvet thing with a high collar, one in black that laces up corset-style in the back above cascading gathers of fabric, another white one with ruffles all down the front and little black buttons, a rough grey silk blouse he got to go under a dress last New Year for a party in the drag club, one in dark red with massive pointed cuffs... "I ain't got nothing to wear what's
nice
."

"Come to mine instead, you can wear a bikini for all I care." "Yeah, there's a difference between the Michelin
man
and Michelin
stars
, thanks."

 

"What's he taking you out somewhere nice for anyway? You'll only embarrass yourself."

 

"I'll embarrass
him
you mean, I don't give a monkey's what no one else thinks."

 

"So just wear what you feel like and shut up."

"You're missing the point." He sweeps all the shirts off his bed and flings himself down on his back. "Lindsay's picking tonight. I'm taking him out clubbing next time, he ain't wearing a nice suit for that."

"You don't have to wear a fucking
suit
, would you get over yourself?"

 

"He said dress up nice." "Yeah, but he also tracked you down from Christ knows where and reeled you in like a fish, I
think
he might like you alright as you are." Pip stares at him until he looks away, still uncomfortable with all attempts at being friendly. "Spose you're right."

"Of course I'm right. Fucksake, grow some bollocks and stop acting on just cos you think your fancyman likes you better when you ain't being you."

"So help me pick something then. Let's bond. We can go shopping if you want, I can give you a makeover."

"Maybe when hell freezes over, hey?" Still, he's almost smiling now as he comes across the room, treading carefully on the little patches of carpet between the scattered clothes. "Where you going?"

"Gavroche."
"Bit flash, ain't he?"

"Yeah. We been there before loads of times, it's alright, just well up its own arse."

"Dress code?"
"Smart casual."
"So what did you wear before?"
"Whatever Lindsay told me to."
"Right."

"I might..." He trails off, scanning the room for anything that's not crimson or hot pink. "Dunno. Can I get away with velvet jeans?" "Yeah, if you wanna look like a pimp."

"Pimps don't wear skinnies, daddy." He spots them and leans over the edge of the bed to grab at the cuff. "They're black. I ain't got much that's black, might be okay."

"There's tons of black in here."

 

"Yeah, but... black satin, black tartan, black with sequins on it, black and feathers..."

"So what? Since when have you gave a fuck? Stop whingeing, wear that-" He jabs his finger at a black waistcoat slipping off its hanger, then looks round for more inspiration. "That white shirt, them faggy trousers, them boots, that jacket, job done."

"I'll look like Russell Brand."

 

"Yeah and you don't see him getting turned away from nowhere for looking like a frilly tit, do you? Your money's as good as his."

 

***

He
feels
like a frilly tit the next evening, wandering into the restaurant with sweaty palms like they've never seen each other before. "I'm meeting my-" he starts, but cuts himself short just before he can say 'boyfriend' because this woman looks like she'd have about as much disdain for the word as Lindsay does. "Partner," he finishes weakly. "He's already in the bar."

His dad picked well, going by Lindsay's face. "I was halfexpecting those stupid red jeans."

"Yeah, I ain't a
complete
social retard." He goes up on tiptoe to kiss Lindsay's cheek, sod the five-star audience. "Do I look like Russell Brand?"