Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome (6 page)

The wind coming in off the sea whips some of the notes away and sends them tumbling down the hill, catching in the long grass. Lindsay manages to grab some of them and shove them in the glove box, but that's at least four hundred quid getting blown away down through the forest.

"You idiot, we're meant to be keeping a low profile."

"What, ragging a bright red sports car round the country? It'll be a nice surprise for someone, don't be such a fucking Scrooge."

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C H A P T E R 3

He stops throwing cash around, though, and a few minutes later he seems to have calmed down. He's holding Lindsay's eyes in the rear-view mirror, and eventually he smiles. Small and a bit embarrassed, but still a smile.

"Hey, I just thought of something," he says. "Ain't they gonna have a problem with it? Your goon mates?"

"With what?"

"Me and you."

Lindsay wants to argue against the 'me and you', but even more than that he wants to come, so he doesn't.

"No," he says. "I mean, they never have before. More benders there are in the world, more chance they've got of getting a shag they don't have to pay for. They encourage it, if anything."

"Pervs. They like it. They want you."

"Don't be daft, they're ball-deep in prossies every spare second."

Valentine shuffles forward and drapes his arm down through the gap between the two front seats, down over Lindsay's bare chest where the two halves of his shirt have fallen apart. He's still got a handful of banknotes; he lets them go so he can dance his nimble fingers across the sweaty skin, and the paper flutters down to cover the top of Lindsay's legs. "They ain't having you, you're mine now."

"Would you just stop it?" he snaps, and grabs Valentine's wrist. He's absolutely not used to attention like this, though, and part of him is loving it.

Craving
it, more and more and more of it like how he felt this suffocating need to shoot up ten seconds after he said he was giving up heroin three New Years ago. He remembers the way the shattered windscreen looked, Claxton with his throat torn open by the bullets and shards of glass in his blank staring eyes, and imagines the eyes being green. He only notices he's tightened his grip like a vice when he hears the kid say his name – Valentine's not used his name yet today, he realises, or not his first name anyway, and now he's saying it over and over like a

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metronome until it doesn't make any sense, it's just another noise like the crash of waves or the squawk of seabirds.

"What?"

"You're hurting."

"Sorry." He lets go. Neither of them speaks for a bit. He hears Valentine quietly repacking and retying the binbag, then he's cramming himself back through the gap between the seats, leaning down to retrieve his CD wallet from the footwell.

"How quick can you come?" he asks, blithely flicking through pages of discs like the moment never happened. "Two minutes and fifty-four? I'll suck you, I don't mind. Or you can do me if you want, that's okay too."

"What? Jesus." Lindsay's laughing again, despite himself, and really trying not to.

"Come on. What did I say earlier? No fun if it ain't a challenge. I've got Led Zeppelin if you need eight minutes. Two fifty-four, old man, think you can manage it?"

Lindsay thinks that's probably going to be about two and a half minutes too long, but doesn't mention it. "Christ. Okay, why not, I'll try."

"Genius." Valentine grins at him, all sunshine and wine, and the opening notes of a song Lindsay doesn't know float down the valley like clouds.

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C H A P T E R 4

The house smells weird and musty, even though it's not been empty much longer than a week. As soon as they get inside Lindsay starts opening windows, every single one of them, and Valentine wanders after him around the house like he's a vapid tourist following the guide, nosying in all the rooms and making comments here and there like, "It's a bit bare, innit? You want a painting on that wall," and, "Jeeesus, look at the size of your telly, fucking hell," and a vague mumbled comment about not needing a spare bedroom that Lindsay doesn't quite hear but understands well enough anyway and chooses to ignore, because it makes him feel a bit hot and wilted like a picked flower.

Back in the kitchen, Lindsay finds his stack of takeaway menus in the drawer and chucks the Indian one on the table, in front of Valentine. "I'm not going back out again for shopping," he says. "Take your pick."

He should really have checked first whether the kid even
likes
Indian, he thinks later, polishing off his jalfrezi while Valentine picks at a pathetic anaemic-looking chicken korma.

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"There's probably a tin of soup or something you can have if you want,"

he offers, and Valentine hurriedly starts shovelling food into his mouth.

"No, no, this is alright," he says, unconvincingly. "Yum. Spicy food. My favourite." He's just finished his third beer, like he's trying to drown the taste.

Lindsay hides his amusement behind his bottle.

"You could've said you don't like Indian. Why are you trying to be polite all of a sudden?"

"Dunno." He pokes his fork at his food a bit more, then drops it in the heap of rice and pushes the plate away. "Cos you might be insulted or something."

"Why would I be insulted? I didn't cook the food." That sulky pout is just too tempting. He leans over without warning and kisses Valentine, licking at his lips until he opens them and kisses back. Two seconds later, Valentine's making a horrified muffled noise into Lindsay's mouth, wrenching himself away and flying over the kitchen to fumble the cold tap on and fill a glass.

"You a fucking sadist or what?"

"Korma ponce."

Valentine gives him the finger as he drains his second glass, spilling some out the corners of his mouth in his haste. It matches the way his eyes are watering. Lindsay finishes his food and his beer, and smiles. He's not sure when this became an aggressive game instead of a fun one, but it's one-nil.

The kid follows Lindsay into the living room after he's calmed down a bit, comes over to sit on the arm of his chair and reaches out to play with his hair. Lindsay ducks away, muttering, "Get off!" and Valentine does as he's told amiably enough, but he's still perched there on the arm watching him. Lindsay raises his eyebrows and waits. When there's still nothing, just a staring-contest, 49

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he prompts him: "Well?"

"Well what?"

"What do you want?"

"Are you gonna fuck me or not?"

"Can't," Lindsay says. He starts flicking through the cable channels to cover up how flustered he suddenly feels. "Haven't got any condoms."

"So?"

"What do you mean
so
?"

"I don't mind."

"
I
mind. Christ only knows where you've been, you could be crawling."

"So could you."

"How dare you?"

"You started it." After a second, he reaches out to brush his fingers through Lindsay's hair again, and again Lindsay slaps his hand away. "Oh, come on. I'm clean, I swear."

"And why should I believe that?"

"Cos I'm asking you to?" He's making it sound like he thinks
he's
the reasonable one, like Lindsay's a boring old bastard who doesn't know how to have fun, and that's so stupid. "Just... you're a fucking career criminal, ain't you?

Take some
risks
."

"And catch everything you've
risked
with your other tricks? I don't think so."

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"Fucking hell," the kid mutters under his breath. He springs up off the armchair to stand in front of Lindsay, spreading his arms slightly like a gameshow dollybird presenting the prizes, only he
is
the prize. "I'm in perfect health. Look at me. I'm amazing.
Look
at me, Mr. Brown, and tell me honestly, do you
really
think I ain't fussy about whose grubby hands touch me?"

Skintight blue jeans with that silly side-buckled belt and a sparkly keyless keyring hanging off one loop. Blue and grey stripy t-shirt with tattered rolled-up sleeves and a few strategic holes. It's clearly not old enough to have come by these injuries naturally – Valentine must have slaved on it himself to get it looking so distressed, or paid through the nose in some pretentious Camden boutique to look this self-consciously
cool
. Pointy silver Cuban-heeled boots.

Painted nails. No make-up today, but he spent the entire drive from the clifftop to the house obsessively trying to sort out his hair in the wing mirror, after Lindsay tangled his big hands all through it and muttered hoarse pleas and praise as he thrust and came in the kid's mouth.

"You don't have to call me Mr. Brown," is all he can think of to say, although some terrible perverted part of his psyche goes quite delirious with lust every time he does. The kid smiles, in a way that only barely curves his lips but seems to shine out through his eyes with the force of a million suns.

"Lindsay, then," he says quietly, cocking his head to the side and watching Lindsay coyly, clearly just
gagging
for a reaction to this ridiculous burlesque. "Lindsay.
Lindsay
. I like your name. I like
saying
your name. I wanna say your name while you're making me come. I couldn't last time. You had a gun in my mouth, remember?"

He's doing his best not to squirm around in his chair, blazing hot and uncomfortable and trying to fight down the need to fling the kid over the coffee table and just have him right here and now. He
hates
the effect Valentine's having on him. It's never been like this before, not with anybody. It's all been friends with benefits, or this agreement with the chief constable that's kept him 51

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out of trouble, or misjudged attempts at heterosexuality in university, or a string of short-term affairs that never went anywhere because whoever it was that said blokes don't nag about feelings and the importance of honesty as much as women was a fucking liar, or all the times Butterman bought them three expensive prostitutes when they were hiding out after a job and, completely missing the point, patiently said, "Yeah, but she's got an arse as well, ain't she?"

when Lindsay reminded him of his inclinations. The needle scars inside his elbow feel itchy every time he remembers the old days, all the stupid things they did when they felt invincible on this heady cocktail of drugs and youth and unbelievable success. He feels the same now – drunk, high, wild. It's one thing blaming the madness of the job and the fairytale romanticism of speeding a sports car full of money through Snowdonia, but bringing all this into his
house
?

That's another thing entirely. His homes are the only places in the world he ever feels truly safe. Now there's a bomb standing in front of him, twirling its hair around its finger and tick-tick-ticking down the seconds, waiting to go off in a massive mushroom cloud of glitter.

Oh, what the hell. "Upstairs," he says, standing up, and the kid breaks out into a proper smile and kisses him. It's a bizarre, awkward trip up to the bedroom because Valentine won't let him go; he's staggering backwards on his stupid heels, hands roaming all over Lindsay, clutching at his hair and face and arse and back and kissing him messily. He stumbles on the stairs and
still
won't let Lindsay go when he falls down on top of him, which Lindsay can't mind as much as he'd like to. He's got his knee between the kid's legs, pressing against the carpet, and he can feel the hard jut of Valentine's cock against his thigh.

"You gonna take me right here, Mr. Brown?" he says, with a filthy smile, breaking off the kissing barely long enough to get the words out before he's at it again, insistently invading Lindsay's mouth with his tongue and shifting his hips, grinding up against him. Lindsay tries to speak but the words are lost and swallowed down so he snakes a hand up between their bodies, pressing the curve between his thumb and fingers hard against Valentine's adam's apple and forcing him away so he can try again.

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"I said
go upstairs
."

"Can't, you've got me pinned." Hand at his throat or not, he's still laughing and glowing like crazy. Lindsay navigates to his feet, clinging to the banister so he doesn't go toppling down half the staircase, and offers a hand to hoist Valentine up. Only one kiss this time – a strange, sweet, almost innocent little peck on the lips – then the kid turns round and thunders up the rest of the stairs, disappearing around the corner. He's sitting in the middle of the bed when Lindsay goes in, having a fight with the zips on his boots and then chucking them across the room and peeling his t-shirt off. He's just starting on his belt when Lindsay slides a drawer open and throws a bottle of lube on the bed next to him.

"Get ready," he says.

Valentine lifts himself up a bit on his elbows to look at him, frowning.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Brushing my teeth so I don't burn your poor dear tongue any more." He leaves the bathroom door open, but he can only see Valentine's feet reflected in the mirror from this angle – and himself, looking flushed and rumpled with his cock tenting the front of his trousers with embarrassing insistency.

"Oh yeah. I left my bag in the car, you got a spare toothbrush?"

"Sorry."

The kid raises his voice so Lindsay can hear it over the running tap.

"Can I borrow yours?"

"That's disgusting," he says, muffled by a mouthful of foam. There's a little pause.

"Well, yeah," Valentine says, "but it don't matter, does it? It's only a 53

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toothbrush. I've had your
cock
in my mouth."

"That's exactly what makes it disgusting."

When he goes back into the bedroom, after removing his glasses and splashing cold water on his flaming face and taking a minute to calm down so he doesn't come in his pants like an overexcited teenager, Valentine's got wet fingers up himself and he's trying to remove his last sock at the same time.