Stockholm Syndrome 3 - No Beginning, No End (21 page)

"Why are you telling me this?"
"You keep telling me to talk to you."
"I don't mind. If you want to. Honest, I don't mind." "You
should
mind. I was awful to you."

"Lindsay, nobody in the whole world ever looked after me like you do, how is that awful?"

"Because..." He stops talking, looking stupidly down at where Valentine's started gently stroking the back of his hand with the lightest touch of his fingertips.

"I don't give a fuck what's right or wrong. You hit me cos I was an irritating rude little twat, you told me what to do cos I would've just ate sweets and smoked weed all day if you never. I don't know if it sounds shit or what but if I'm doing alright now it's cos I actually bother to think sometimes now, like oh yeah I wanna do this thing or play my music so loud it hurts but what if it's bothering someone? Maybe I won't do this thing, then, or maybe I'll put headphones on. Just stupid baby things but they all add up, you know? I ain't such a selfish mindless brat no more, ain't that a good thing? I never used to think about nobody but me and how shitty my life was and how anyone who didn't let me do whatever I wanted was just a horrible bastard trying to make it worse, but now I
don't
make people want to batter me all the time and hey, you know what? My life is fucking brilliant now and I wouldn't've got here if you never dragged me."

It's not the first time, and it's surely not going to be the last, that Lindsay can't help noticing who's
really
in charge here and always was. Nobody's ever made him feel as small and pointless and pathetic as Valentine manages without even trying. He takes his hand out of Valentine's hair and lets him turn round to press a soft kiss onto Lindsay's lips, just standing there miserably without responding because it's taking all his effort to stay there at all and not run away from his stupid outburst.

"If you want me to come to your jazz wankers' dinner, I will." "No. You don't have to, you'd hate it."
"But do you
want
me to?"
"It's not up to me."
"I'm asking you."

"No." He makes himself move, sliding his hands up the rough fabric of Valentine's shirt and drawing him closer against his chest in a desperate, clinging sort of cuddle. "You'd hate it, honestly. You'd ruin everybody's night with your moody brat face."

That makes Valentine laugh. He's gently mimicking Lindsay's movements from earlier, trailing his fingers up the back of Lindsay's neck and into his hair. "You just can't stand the idea of being away from me for more than five seconds, can you?"

No
. "Arrogance is ugly."
"Ain't arrogance if it's true. You just can't stand the idea of you being stuck there with people in black tie all being smug about your brilliant collective music taste while I'm out having a wicked time dancing with Olly and getting wankered on alcopops." He's smirking again. Lindsay can't see his face but it's so evident in his voice. He's trying to get a rise. "Such a shame you won't be there, innit? Cos you know I get all affectionate when I been drinking. Who am I meant to kiss at midnight? Spose it'll have to be Olly..."

It's an invitation and Lindsay accepts it, loathing his weakness and Valentine's fucking
charity
but completely unable to stop: shoving Valentine away, throwing him onto the bed, kneeling over him, yanking his hair again to slap his face in the same spot as before and snarling, "Don't you dare. If you ever even
look
at anybody else I swear to god I'll skin you alive, do you understand?" This is just a game in the way a West Ham/Millwall match is just a game. Valentine's playing along, making himself look angry and defiant – but it's all a mask for what's really happening, the thing that makes him give Lindsay's hand a final gentle squeeze before dropping all the way into it and yelling and kicking and cursing and hitting back until Lindsay finds Valentine's buckle-up handcuffs in the drawer beside the bed and binds his hands behind his back, peels his stupid jeans down around his stupid boots, starts hitting him so hard and for so long his shoulder aches and his palm seems like it's on fire. He feels sick with himself, he can barely stand it, or the way Valentine's voice changes from furious shrieks and swears to trembling desperate pleas and finally to sobbing apologies and promises. This should be calming him down, it always did before; back in Wales and France, Valentine learned how to read him like a book and always did something wrong on purpose when he knew Lindsay was in a jittery mood so he'd have an excuse to get it all out. There's nothing so different here, except that Valentine's closer to thirty than his teens now and it just feels like some vague unexplainable type of wrong.

"I won't do nothing, I
swear
," Valentine's saying, stumbling over the words in a voice thick with crocodile tears. He's not even flinching at the slaps, he could take ten times this. Lindsay's not sure which idea is more disturbing: doing it for real like they used to, or playing like it's a big cheerful game of charades. His hand is flaming but he's not ready to stop, and nor is Valentine if that whiney noise when Lindsay hesitates is anything to go by, so he snatches Valentine's hairbrush off the table next to the bed and uses the back of that instead. Valentine laughs, quiet and amazed and breathless, curling his fingers tight around each other and whimpering into the pillows at every impact.

"You're laughing, you're spoiling it."
"You don't even know how much I love you sometimes."

It's impossible to keep up this pretence of a game when Valentine's reacting like this, squirming against the covers and making beautiful desperate happy noises. Lindsay throws the hairbrush across the room and uses pinches and slaps to get Valentine exactly where he wants him, facedown in the pillows with his knees tucked beneath him and his arse in the air so Lindsay can spread him wide and start kissing him there, brushing his lips across the warm red cheeks and down between. It's really just to regain the upper hand; it's obviously the last thing Valentine ever expected, from the harsh way he sucks in his breath at the first sliding wet touch of Lindsay's tongue, and that means Lindsay's won. He's never done this to anyone before – the idea revolts him and the one time Valentine did it to him he spent the whole time wishing for death – but it's not so bad. It's less invasive than swallowing a mouthful of semen, after all, and at least he's fresh out of the shower...

"Hold still," Lindsay says, though Valentine probably doesn't hear; he's writhing around and thumping the mattress and shouting into the pillow too much to notice. Enough of this. Lindsay unfastens his trousers with one hand, holding the other cupped in front of Valentine's face and ordering him to spit, slicking himself ready and pushing into him hard enough to make him sob again.

"Undo my hands?" Valentine says, making it a stuttered question and not a demand. Lindsay wraps his arms round Valentine's body again and rocks back to sit on his heels, bringing Valentine with him and holding his hips tight for balance, thrusting up hard into him and forcing him down.

"Just say you like jazz and I will."
"You're
such
a cheat."

"Alright." He can't stroke Valentine off
and
hold him steady at the same time so he doesn't bother touching him, just keeps his hands where they are with their manicured nails digging little semicircles into Valentine's sweating flesh. His cock bobs there, wet and straining and ignored, poking about ridiculously as if he's trying to fuck thin air while his hands twist and pull in the leather cuffs behind his back.

"Please," he splutters after another minute, "I can't stand it, please, it hurts, I need-"

 

"You need to say it."

"Fuck you," Valentine says, dropping his head back against Lindsay's shoulder and looking at him so adoringly it's almost sickening. His cheeks are flushed pink and his hair is sticking to his forehead in dark sweaty strands. They'll both need another shower after this, but Valentine's said before there's something brilliantly filthy about a quickie you don't have time to wash away properly...

"Fuck
you
."
"Yeah, I had noticed... oh my god Lindsay,
please
-"

"Do you love jazz?" Lindsay murmurs in his ear, walking the fingers of his right hand over his tattooed name down to brush against the dark hair between Valentine's legs, ready to touch him if he'll only say it, but there's a defiant, dancing gleam in Valentine's eye and he's almost laughing again.

"I fucking
hate
jazz!" he shouts, probably loud enough to embarrass the neighbours, and cracks up laughing until Lindsay shoves him down on his front again and then he's got no breath for anything but gasps.

***

It seems a shame to leave the club early but Lindsay can't really make himself mind all that much. The music and company and food and wine and atmosphere were all faultless, and he's missing the best bit by leaving before midnight, but Valentine's on his mind and he's had enough quality champagne to plummet straight into that disgusting mawkish mood he always recognises but never manages to get rid of once it's there. Luckily it's not there very often, but it's in full force tonight. It's icy cold out, not raining any more although it has been, and his breath hangs in front of his face in a fog of warmth as he says goodnight to the doorman and heads down Frith Street in search of a cab, tapping out a text message as he goes.

Coming to find you. Stop blowing Olly, you tart. x

He thought it might be hard finding a cab tonight of all nights, but it's a strange time to be hailing one; of course everybody's at a party by now, less than an hour before midnight. One stops for him as soon as he's out on Shaftesbury Avenue, and he slumps in the back seat after telling the driver the address, rubbing his hands together against the cold and pulling his scarf right up over his chin. Valentine's there on the street already when the cab pulls up at the side of the road outside Trash Palace, sitting piggyback-style with his arms around Rob's neck and his feet swinging, chatting and laughing with some people Lindsay doesn't know.

He opens the door and calls out. "It's freezing, get in the car."

Valentine laughs and kisses the top of Rob's bald head before he hops down. "See you Monday, yeah? Everyone, this is Lindsay. Lindsay, everyone."

"Hello, everyone."

He ignores the chorus of hellos and shifts across the seat to let Valentine slide in beside him, chattering away drunkenly before he's even closed the door. "Fucking packed in there, I never seen nothing like it! Ain't normally that busy even on New Year's. And you'd think I'd learn but nooo, course not, I have to go out in boots I never worn before, fucking killing me dead. I done a dance-off with someone who challenged me cos he said he'd swap shoes if I won and I won but his were well too big, should've checked first innit? Ah well, least I won, and hey for your information Olly ain't even in there so shut up. Mate, can you take us, um, can't remember the name, just take us through like Fleet Street and stuff and I'll say when to stop, yeah? Yeah, so anyway Olly and the kids went out for food somewhere and they're all coming, oh
fuck
my feet hurt. Did you have a nice wank?"

"Very nice, thanks."
"Who was there?"
"Amy and Giles, Erica from the library, Will, Susan-" "Susan's a bitch."
"So's Olly and you don't hear me complaining."
"Except when you do?"

"Yeah. And they all told me I'm an idiot for going to stand with the tourist plebs in Trafalgar Square and missing the rest of the night but I said I want to spend midnight with you and if tourist plebs are the price I'll gladly pay it a hundred times over. Then Will pretended to throw up."

"I don't know who Will is but I bet he's single."
"Yes."
"Jealous."
"Maybe."

"Thank you for coming," Valentine says suddenly. He slides even closer and finds Lindsay's cold hands, holding them together between his own and blowing on his fingers. "You're such an old man, you're always cold. Ain't you brought gloves?"

"Obviously not. You're welcome."

"Cos I know it meant a lot, your shitty thing tonight. And I wouldn't really have minded if you wanted to stay. Cos, you know, we ain't gonna see nothing cos fuck all happens anyway, we'd have been better off staying out, you know? But it's something you should do just once, innit, do New Year in Trafalgar Square? And we never done it before, we grew up in London and never done it before, and it's nice hanging out with the kids anyway. But I know it ain't your thing and you would've had a nicer time in your wank club so I mean it, it's dead sweet you coming out with us."

"You're drunk. You talk too much when you're drunk."

"I ain't even drunk, I had like three drinks, I'm just happy, they played S Club for me
and
they played the Sweet, I'm just off my tits on joy." Like it needs demonstrating, he lets Lindsay's hands go and plants a big loud kiss on his cheek. He stays there for a few minutes, just leaning his head against Lindsay's shoulder, then sits up again to speak to the driver. "Mate, I really dunno where we're going, can you let us out here?"

This is the first big mistake, Lindsay thinks later when he's running the night through his head on a loop, but how many people really bother to be cautious about letting their phones and wallets show these days? He pays the driver and Valentine gets his shiny new phone out to find out where Olly is, the car drives away, they start walking, and then Valentine's not there any more. It happens as suddenly as that.

There's a tiny space between two buildings, a fire escape glinting somewhere at the back, some big bins, the muffled sound of somebody trying to shout when there's a hand over his mouth. It feels unreal, totally unnatural, and he doesn't panic, he just steps into the shadows after them. The man shouts something, an enraged snarl of pain, then there's the sound of a scuffle though Lindsay's not sure which of them is smacking the other. Valentine says quite calmly, "He's got a knife." Everything happens so quickly like pages speeding by in a flickbook, and when real time slams back into itself, Lindsay's hand is twisted around a fistful of the man's hair and he's crashing his face into the brick wall, dragging him away, crashing him back a second time. There's blood on the wall and on his hand and in sickening little droplets on his skin.