Stockholm Syndrome 2- 17 Black and 29 Red

17 Black and 29 Red
by Richard Rider
Dedicated to LJ. Copyright © by Richard Rider 2009
1.
April 2010

It's coming up for summer, supposedly. It's halfway through April, but the rain is whacking at the cab windows and Pip's head is throbbing as if leaning it there against the glass means he can actually feel each drop landing like a hammer. It's not even real rain. He
likes
real rain, the stuff they got in StLizier. Real rain comes down in big fat drops and makes little splashy stalagmites on the surface of the swimming pool. Everything's green on the ground and the sky's all sorts of blues and greys and purples like a great big bruise, except when the sun shoves a finger through the cloud and brightens everything up. There's something magical about the light down there in the mountains. Dawn and twilight and the special way the light has when it's stormy, there's nothing like that in London. London rain doesn't fall, it just kind of hangs in the air. There's no colour in the sky, everything's this one miserable murky shade of grey. There's a feeble anaemic sort of sun trying to get through now, but the cloud's having none of it.

London at night is a million wonderful neon colours. London on a rainy afternoon is grey. Just grey.

He hasn't got much life left in his phone, he stupidly left the charger plugged into the wall socket at the hotel in Toulouse. He turns it on anyway to check if he's got any messages, not surprised when he hasn't, and punches in a text to Olly.

put kettle on m8 will b there in 10 xx

He could have driven up himself and got the ferry, but then he would have had to sell his car in London anyway and live with the miniscule chance that he might see somebody driving it. Much better this way, even if it meant flying and having a panic attack because he didn't have his monkey to hold on to. The girl in the seat beside him held his hand and whispered calm French nonsense at him until they were level in the air and he could breathe properly again, but it wasn't the same. He misses Mister Bollo. He misses Lovecattt. More than anything he misses Lindsay, sharp like a knife in the guts, but there's nothing he can do about any of it so he keeps his eyes closed and his aching head against the cool window, waiting for things to make sense again.

Olly's got the front door open before Pip's even finished paying the driver, and he leans there against the doorframe obviously trying really hard to look casual. It's not working, he just looks worried. "Swish bastard, you never got a cab all the way from the
airport
, did you?" he says, as Pip's coming up the path with his bags. "What's wrong with the train?"

"I sold my car, thirty thousand euros cash, thought I'd splash out." He drops his backpack down off his shoulder and hands it to Olly then follows him into the house, but he doesn't get any farther than the front hall because he starts crying so suddenly he even surprises himself. He's not sure exactly what sets him off, but he can't breathe or see or move, he can only stand there shaking and snivelling like an idiot.

"You ain't starting all this again.
Joe
don't cry as much as you and he ain't even two yet." Olly sounds terrified but he's there right away, hugging Pip fiercely which kind of makes it worse because he's not tall enough or big enough, he smells wrong, he doesn't do it properly. He hugs with his hands on Pip's back, still and clutching. When Lindsay does it he puts a hand in Pip's hair and strokes him there at the nape of his neck, or he rubs big warm circles into his back with the palm of his hand. When Lindsay hugs it's something alive and ever-moving, ever-changing. Olly's doing it wrong. It's not his fault, he just doesn't know, it's nobody's business to know how your ex-boyfriend hugged you so it's not his fault.

"I sold my car," he says again to explain his hysterics, spluttering and stammering, and Olly laughs a bit against his neck but not in a mean way.

 

"Yeah, right, that's the biggest problem you've got, is it?"

 

"Shut up."

 

"You're the one creating."

 

"I don't know what to do."

 

"You could blow your nose for a start, you look like a swamp monster."

That makes him laugh, and he starts to calm down. Ten minutes later, nose blown and face washed, they're curled up at opposite ends of the couch with cups of coffee and he's trying to explain again. "I don't know what to do," he repeats, picking at the chipping black paint on his fingernails because he doesn't feel like looking up.

"Can't you phone him and... just talk or something?"

 

"No. I ain't phoning him, he's got to phone me, but he won't cos he's a stubborn fucking arsehole."

 

"How do you know he won't?"

 

"Cos I
know
."

 

"Okay."

"I know him. He just won't." Pip stops talking and has a drink and picks at his nailpaint some more. He's been thinking about what to say, whether to say
anything
. Olly is the only person in the world he never kept secrets from, until Lindsay, but all of what's happened is so horrible he's not sure he can say it and risk Olly hating him as well. "I left cos he was being all cold and wouldn't talk to me or nothing but he was only like that cos I done some things and said some things I shouldn't've. So I ain't sure if I dumped him or he dumped me first just without saying so, but I know it's my fault. So I'm leaving him alone cos I don't wanna make him sad no more. So I can't phone him."

"You know who else is a stubborn fucking arsehole?"

 

"Shut up."

"Alright, I've gotta pick the girls up from school anyway. Joe's sleeping, you mind staying here? You won't slit your wrists or nothing if I leave you on your own, will you?"

"Might."

"Drama queen." Olly unfurls his legs from under him so he can put his boots back on, but then he doesn't stand up, he just sits there looking at Pip, biting his lip as if there's something he only half-wants to say. "I'm glad you're back," he eventually says, very quickly and very quietly. "Not the
reason
, but... yeah."

Looking back on it later Pip thinks here is where it really started - but then maybe it started years ago and this was just where it changed.
2.
Dear Phil and Beverley.

I've started this over like 8 times because it keeps going wrong I cant make it sound right. I'm not doing it again, this will have to be good enough.

I just wanted to say I know I was probably dead horrible to live with. Its easy when your a stupid self absorbed bratty teenager to feel like nothings your fault when really looking back on it now I cant think of that many times you were horrible to me when I wasnt the one who started it, all that mouthing off and swearing and stuff and staying out too late and not saying where I was and everything. I was awful and I'm sorry. Somebodys got to be the one who says it first and it should be me I think because sometimes it feels like the only thing I'm any good at is fucki screwing up and I dont want that no more. Again: I'M SORRY.
I been living away for a while but I just moved back to London litrally today and you might not even want to see me or nothing after how I acted last time I come back and when I seen Dad Phil Dad in town last year but I had to let you know I was back just in case. Its ok if you dont want but I would like to see you. God this sounds all stupid and formal I knew it would. I'm ending it now. Here is my email adress
- [email protected] Thats the best way to get me for now because I left my phone charger behind because I'm an idiot so I'm borowwing Ollys internet until I buy a new one.

I hope your both ok and I will see you soon.

 

Love (if you want)

 

Pip

 

***

There's a face at the living room window long before he gets up the nerve to stop peeking through the hedge and actually let himself in the gate. Of course he's spotted right away, and he doesn't even have to knock on the door before it's opened and his mum's there, smiling sort of nervously, and his dad just behind her, wearing an unreadable expression. For a second nobody speaks. Then Pip starts to say hello, but halfway through he looks down because the eye contact is getting uncomfortable and the rest of the word sticks in his throat and stays there, lodged so tight he can barely even breathe.

His mum is massively pregnant.

"Oh," he manages eventually. He can't stop staring, just standing there
staring
at the bulge. He's too surprised even to feel anything much, except this sudden need to get away, but he can't because his dad swears and chases after him, grabbing him tight just above the elbow.

"Please, Philip. You've gotta
stop
running away any time you've got a problem!"

"Then you've gotta stop putting your hands on me when
you've
got one," he spits back, wrenching his arm away and cradling it to himself. His broken finger is singing again. He broke the same one punching Lindsay clumsily in the face as his dad broke one time Pip told him to go and fuck himself when he was asked to take off his nailpaint.

Phil steps away, raising his hands like surrender. "Let's not make a scene, alright? Come inside, let's talk."

 

"I don't wanna talk to you no more, this was a fucking stupid idea."

 

"But it was idea."

"Yeah, and it was a
fucking stupid one
!" he shouts back, but then he accidentally catches his mum's eye again and he's talked into staying without any more words being spoken.

The house is different - or the
house
is the same, but things
in
it are different. He takes his boots off automatically as soon as he's through the door, but the rack isn't there where it used to be so he leaves them lying lopsided beside the stairs. The living room furniture is different. They've got more photographs up than they used to. There's one he doesn't remember seeing before of him as a toddler, engrossed in building a messy sandcastle too close to the lapping waves on a beach he doesn't recognise. There's one of him and his dad playing with Harry Potter Lego one Christmas morning, one that gives him a painful jolt in the stomach of him aged about six holding his grandad's hand and walking in the park. Pictures of him when he was older too, pulling an exaggerated tragic face in his Claudius costume from a school play in sixth form, and a big one right in the middle of the mantelpiece of him standing between his mum and dad making a really camp OK sign with his thumb and finger and winking at the camera on A level results day. Tucked into the bottom of the frame is a small ultrasound scan of a fuzzy blob that must be his surprise brother or sister.

He feels horrible. He feels sulky and bratty and difficult again. It must be this place, memories or habit or something, and now shock. He sits at the same side of the smallest couch he always used to when he lived here and curls up, knees to his chin and socked feet on the cushion, hiding his face in his folded arms and taking some deep, slow breaths to calm down. Somebody sits beside him - his mum, he realises from the way she sighs as if she's in pain. He has to look up then to check, but she just smiles tiredly and speaks to him for the first time as she's brushing a bit of fringe away from his eyes.

"I'm alright. She's been giving me hell for a week, she's ready."

 

"She?"

 

"Yeah."

"Right." Nothing for a minute. He's still got his knees hugged to himself, but he's resting his chin on top now instead of hiding. He came here with only the best intentions but now he's all shaken up like he's been tumbledried and spite happens so easily when he's upset. "You still drinking like a fish? She's probably got two heads." He doesn't miss the tiny frown she makes at that, but he doesn't feel any sense of victory from it, he just hates himself.

"She's got one head, two arms, two legs, ten fingers, ten toes. I haven't had a drink in almost two years."

 

"Is it his?"

 

The frown is deeper this time, but she doesn't look angry, just upset. "Of course."

"You could call her Karen. That's a nice name, ain't it? Dad," he adds, very quietly, looking up at Phil and kind of almost willing him to lose his temper and come over to throw a punch because that'll give him a proper excuse to leave. Nobody moves, the silence just gets more and more painful. He's not supposed to know about this girl, this sister he's never met who was born when he was five after his dad had an affair with some slag at work. He never
did
know, not until after the Lottery win when there were all those hushed furious late-night conversations about maintenance payments the woman suddenly wanted. He was always good at finding out things he wasn't supposed to know.

"I'm having a smoke," he says suddenly. He can't get out of there quickly enough. The back patio door bounces open again when he closes it too sharply, but then he can't close it properly because his dad's there in his way, following him out into the garden. "You ain't stopping me smoking, my life ain't none of your business no more."

"You wanted to see
us
, remember?" Phil says, deadly calm.

"It's nice," Pip says awkwardly, searching desperately for something non-argumentative to say as he shakes a cigarette out and lights it. "The garden and stuff. It's different. You get someone in to do it?"