Stockholm Syndrome 2- 17 Black and 29 Red (14 page)

The monkey sits there between them like something awful, a declaration of war or a massive barrier, a raggedy old knitted Great Wall - at least until Valentine reaches out to take it, and then it's an olive branch. Years ago, when he was very tired or he got upset over something, Lindsay would let him bring it into the bed, and he's holding it now like he held it then, with his hand around its body, its gangly limbs slotting perfectly into place between his fingers. The newer stitches stand out like they're neon, from where Valentine had to sew its arm back on after the fight with Ty.

Lindsay realises Valentine's about to cry, and feels sick and inexplicably terrified.

 

"Don't."

 

"What?"

 

"You know what."

"Sorry." He squeezes his eyes shut and cuddles Dory close to him, hiding his face against the top of her head. She twists round to try and see the monkey he's clutching behind her back; after a few seconds he lifts his head back up, perfectly calm, and shows her. "Remember I told you about Mister Bollo?"

She looks unconvinced. "He ain't so nice as Rab."

 

"Spose not. Rab's only a baby, Mister Bollo's twenty-six, he's a proper old git now."

"Oh." Then she completely ignores it, sucking on her rabbit's ear again instead and looking round the room at people, fidgety and restless on Valentine's lap.

"She's bored. We should probably go."

 

"Alright."

 

"Thank you for the drinks."

 

"Yeah."

Valentine picks a bit of fluff off the monkey's nose, gently rubs its faded ear between his thumb and first finger like he used to do in his sleep. Lindsay's not sure if he even knows he ever did that. "Thank you for looking after him. I weren't sure you would. I... god, I don't know. Thank you."

"It wasn't difficult, it's not like it eats much..."

"Don't take the piss, I'm being serious. It's... you know how much he means to... oh fucking hell, shut up, Pip, shut up shut up." He stands abruptly and puts Dory back in his chair. "Just one more minute, honey." Then to Lindsay: "Hug."

"What the hell for?"

 

"Cos that's what friends do."

This is probably the fucking worst thing Valentine could ever ever ask of him and the idiot doesn't even know. Lindsay gets up and hugs him tight, hoping it'll be less hideous if it's on his own terms, if he gets to direct how close it is, how long it goes on for, where their hands go... nice idea, but it collapses on on itself the second Valentine touches him. He can feel warm breath against his neck, smell that same kids' cherry shampoo he still uses, and he almost almost slips his hand up into Valentine's long hair to rest at the back of his neck like he always used to do, but he stops himself.

"I'll phone you," Valentine says. The words come in a soft breath right against Lindsay's ear, and he suppresses a shiver. "We could... I don't even know. It's your birthday soon, ain't it? We could do something."

"It's Thursday. You and Olly can come round if you like, I'm having some people over for dinner. If you want."

 

"Yeah. Okay, cool, that sounds ace. I mean, he's meant to be working but I'll see if he can swap nights with someone."

 

"You've got my number now, just... whatever. Phone. Yeah."

"Yeah. I will. Alright." He finally moves away and gives Lindsay that familiar old massive smile. "It's really good seeing you again. You ain't changed at all."

Something a bit wry and bitter creeps into Lindsay's voice when he replies. "I have a bit."

 

"Alright. Then I can't wait to hear what you been up to. So, see you on Thursday, yeah?"

Lindsay just nods. He watches Valentine swing Dory up onto his hip again, leans back in his chair to watch them through the window for as long as he can. Valentine's still got that stupid little monkey in his hand, completely shameless, not bothered at all that anybody might see him with it.

They disappear out of view, and Lindsay finishes his cooling coffee wondering whether it might have been better to stay in Canada after all.
11.

The party's a bit fucking horrible. It shouldn't be. It should be fun, it's a
party
, there's good drink and a nice house and Lindsay's a brilliant cook and he likes meeting new people, going over and over their names in his head so he doesn't forget, Amy-Giles-John-Susan-Stephen-Andrew, but he just can't relax. He hung out his bedroom window to smoke a couple of joints before he came out, hoping it'd calm him down a bit, but it's just made him ravenous and paranoid. Lindsay's friends won't stop giving him snotty looks. They're all too clever. It's not like there's anything
wrong
with being clever, but they all seem the kind of people who use big words on purpose because they know it's intimidating for the pretty Cockney rockstar man in nailpaint who looks as out of place in a beautiful Georgian house in Dulwich as a platypus would.

He gets annoyed with it before long. As if it makes them something special just because they got their degrees in Cambridge or wherever. He's forgotten their names already but one of the women, Susan or Amy, actually laughs at him when the subject comes up.

"So where did you get
your
degree?" she asks, smirking gently behind her wine glass as if she's expecting him to admit he rolled out of secondary school without even a GCSE. Fuck that.

"I done A levels in Westminster and I just finished in London College of Fashion." That makes her falter a bit, nasty bitch.

 

"Oh, well. I don't suppose they send many children off to study
fashion
from Westminster, that'll have been an interesting change for them."

Pip doesn't know what the fuck her problem is, but the urge to look at Lindsay and plead for help with his eyes is almost unbearable. He doesn't do it. He can't any more, he doesn't have the right. It's so hard not to kick off, absolutely cut her apart with some amazing bitchy vitriol, but he doesn't want to do that either. He just drinks some wine and tries to think up a subjectchange that's not going to be completely jarring and obvious as an escape route, but then Lindsay clears his throat and Pip looks at him after all.

"That painting up there above the fireplace. That's Valentine's."

"What?" He whips round in his chair to try and see, tilting back on two legs and craning his neck. The layout of the house, the open-plan living room turning seamlessly into the dining room, means he didn't notice it from his place at the table but he can just about see it now, skewed and foreshortened because he's too close to the wall it's hanging on. It's a huge oil he did for Lindsay's birthday five years ago, a disembodied pair of hands dancing on the keyboard of a baby grand piano in the middle of a sawdusty circus ring under a ragged knackered old red and black striped Big Top - thirty square feet of headaches and sleepless nights because he was always shit at managing his time properly. He
had
thought six weeks was long enough, but he was still working on it at four in the morning on the day he had to give it over. He couldn't even wrap it up in a big faggy pink satin bow like he'd planned because the paint was still wet, so he just had to tell Lindsay where it was and then run out of the house and down the hill into town to buy bread and milk for the day because the idea of being there when he saw it and having to see his face made him feel queasy. He didn't mind if Lindsay hated it, he could take being
told
it was all wrong, he just didn't need to
see
the sneering. He felt stupid afterwards, trying to slink quietly back into the house without being seen and getting caught tiptoeing through the back door. Lindsay took the paper shopping bag off him without a word, put it on the kitchen table, and kissed him until he calmed down.
What's it going to take to make you realise how wonderful you are?
Lindsay murmured against his ear, holding him close and stroking his hair, and Pip just closed his eyes because he didn't have an answer. Nothing ever looked like it did in his head, but how can you explain that? He can hardly believe Lindsay kept it, but:

"Of course I've still got it," Lindsay says, like he's reading Pip's mind. "Do you still paint much?"

 

"Not really. Ain't got much time, I just doodle tattoo designs."

"Well, then, there you go. That's my retirement. You might be worth a lot in a few years if it all stays so rare. Susan's an art dealer, she was raving about that one before you got here."

Susan, then. She shuts her mouth and looks like she's trying to fade back into her seat, just a bit mortified. Pip wants to bust out laughing but manages to hold it in. He tries saying thank you with his eyes and a little smile and Lindsay gives him a wink. The night's a bit better after that, he starts enjoying himself, stupid things like finding out that posh git Andrew is a massive Bowie fan and they've got the same line from Ashes to Ashes tattooed on their arms, or the bit where he mentions his sister and Lindsay looks at him really oddly.

"What?"

 

"What sister?"

 

"What do you mean what sister?"

 

"I mean what sister, you never said anything about a sister." "You
met
her, you spaz, Dory."

 

"She's your
sister
?"

 

"Uh, yeah."

 

"God. Oh... god, I thought she was yours."

 

"EURGH! Lindsay, Jesus! I don't know how you managed to miss the fact I'm a
little bit queer
..."

 

"The world makes sense again now. For a while there I thought the universe was on the brink of collapse."

Pip feels a bit stupid then, realising the others are just watching them crack up laughing. Do they know? He's got no idea, he's never met them before, he doesn't know how close they are to Lindsay, how long they've known him, which bits of his life they're aware of. It seems like it'd be polite to explain, but accidentally outing your ex-boyfriend to a gang of people who seem judgemental at their
most
friendly...

Lindsay does it for him. This week's full of surprises. "Sorry," he says, laughter fading off to the occasional uncharacteristic little giggle. "Valentine and I lived together for a while."

"Yeah, I was his mid-life crisis."

 

"You little bastard, mid-life crisis? I wasn't the one driving the cockreplacement Ferrari."

 

"You bought it!"

They're alienating people again, having their own little party across the dinner table. This has to stop. Pip shows Lindsay his middle finger and turns round to talk to someone else, but every time he accidentally looks over and catches Lindsay's eye they both start smiling again.

***

It's honestly not as if he
meant
to lurk round and be the last one left, but Pip goes out in the back garden for a smoke and when he gets back inside the place is empty.

"Hello?"

"In here." He goes through to the kitchen. Lindsay's there stacking plates in the dishwasher, and Pip starts taking off his jewellery so he can run hot water into the sink and wash up the wine glasses. Lindsay finds this funny for some reason, looking at him sideways with a little quirk on his lips that's threatening to turn into a proper laugh. "Olly's housetrained you."

Pip flicks some bubbles at him. "Shut your face. Where's Giles and Amy?"

 

"Gone. They've only got a babysitter til midnight."

 

"Nice of them to pop out and say bye."

 

"Oh, don't. They weren't being like that, they're just in a rush."

Very quietly, unconvinced: "Yeah." He concentrates on wiping the delicate glasses clean, rinsing off the bubbles, the gentle tinkly noise when he upends them on the draining board. "Your mates think I'm a dick."

"No they don't."

 

"Yeah they do."

"Well don't think you're a dick, so pack your sulking." Of course that makes him smile, giddy and happy, but only for a moment. There's no noise coming from behind him now, Lindsay must have finished with the dishwasher but he's still standing there. Memories roar like bile: the time Lindsay slapped him for playing with his gun and then bent him over the kitchen table and fucked him so hard he had matching angry black bruises on his hipbones where they crashed against the wood. Helping with the washingup that first Christmas at Fran's house, when Lindsay crept up behind him and swept his hair out the way so he could kiss his neck so softly, slip his arms around Pip's body and just stand there cuddling him until the water was too cool to wash with. The other time with the gun, the Russian Roulette and the deadline and that puddle of tea on the lino. Smelling something burning once and both of them trying to fumble at the right oven dials without looking because Pip was on his knees with his mouth full and neither of them could bear to stop, not even to prevent a potential disaster. He remembered he came downstairs in the morning sometimes and Lindsay was sitting there in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a cigarette and the newspaper, pretending he wasn't the one who wrote "I love you" on the fridge in neon magnetic letters. The bad things, too. Lindsay proper punching him in the face for the first time ever after what he did to Ty's car. And after everything kicked off, cringing in the living room while Lindsay yelled himself hoarse and tore the kitchen apart.

He twists a bit to look over his shoulder. Lindsay's just watching him, but he drops his eyes when he gets caught. "Leave that, I'll do it later."

"It's alright, I'm finished now." He stands the last glass on the drainer and dries his hands while the water gurgles away down the plug. "I should go, it's late." He should, but doesn't want to. He wastes time slipping his rings and watch and bracelets back on, hoping hoping hoping Lindsay's going to say

"It's not that late. You want another drink?"

It's a bit awkward and horrible ten minutes later, sitting in the living room drinking beer and not saying much. It feels like it's been working up to something, right from that first reunion in Starbucks, but maybe that's wishful thinking; it's probably all in his head, he thinks, picking at the label on his bottle so they don't have to look at each other, and the tension's only there because Lindsay knows what he wants and doesn't want it too. If he wanted it he would have texted four years ago, the second Pip got in the car to drive away. Everything's different now. Different and awful. He wonders whether it might have been better if they never met up again at all, and then he wants to cry.