Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome (48 page)

"Good boy," Lindsay breathes, and drags Pip across the room by his hair until he's flaming with pain and such insistent desire he wants to cry. He collapses onto Lindsay's lap at one end of the sofa, squirming to feel more of Lindsay's cock against his own and earning a hard slap on the thigh for it.

"Maybe
not
so good, eh? Stay still."

Pip hesitates for the smallest fraction of a second, then squirms again, slowly, with intent, until Lindsay laughs with his eyes and sighs with his mouth.

"Very subtle." His voice is gentle and teasing, just like his hands as he inches them up Pip's thighs. "You'll behave yourself, little man."

Desperate, terrified, hopeful: "Or what?"

He barely manages to get the words out, because Lindsay is tipping him over, crawling between his legs and laying wet, open-mouthed kisses all across the front of his pyjamas, then pulling at the drawstring and kissing his skin.

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"Or I'll stop," he says simply, and draws one long lick up Pip's cock. "I will."

So Pip goes as still as the grave, or he tries to, but he can feel his pulse thundering in his neck and he's breathing too hard and he's not sure where to look, Lindsay's mouth working his cock or Lindsay's hand working his own, so his eyes keep flickering between the two until Lindsay makes it easier on him; he stands up, he undresses the both of them, and when he lays back down on the cushions and pulls Pip down with him it's
different
. It's awkward for a second until Pip realises what he means, and then he feels like he's going to come without even being touched again. He vaguely remembers doing it a few times before, usually drunk, but not for a long while – Lindsay says he doesn't like it and can't see the point of trying to concentrate on two things at once, so they don't bother. Now, though, now he's got Lindsay's lips on him, his tongue, the barely-there graze of teeth, and he suddenly sees the trouble: he can't do it as well, he
can't
. The muscles in his arms are thrumming from trying to hold himself up and it's taking everything he's got just to keep on breathing.

He manages some shaky kisses, curling his tongue around Lindsay's cock, but Lindsay slides his hand into Pip's hair and presses him closer. "Come on," he says softly, "we both know you can take more than that." He sucks him deeper and scratches his neat fingernails across Pip's backside, still tender from earlier, and that's what does it; he feels the sharp flare of pain and the clench of Lindsay's throat around his cock and he's coming so hard he feels faint after, like he's never going to move again. Lindsay does the moving for him: reaching down to grab the pyjama shirt off the carpet, finding the tube in the breast pocket ("You little whore, did you think I wouldn't feel that when you were kissing me?"), sliding slippery fingers between his legs and inside him and all over his cock. He's being so slow, it takes
so long
, but when Pip gets frustrated enough to mutter, "Ohjesus,
please
!" it's like Lindsay becomes someone else, like turning on a tap, throwing Pip down on all fours in front of the cold hearth and fucking him with fingertips branding into the flesh around his waist, rough and hard until his knees and palms feel scraped raw on the carpet that always seems so soft when you're only walking on it.

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Of course, all this trying to reorder time doesn't work. Lindsay kisses the back of his neck when he's done, a tickly snuffly sort of kiss with his whiskers getting caught in Pip's hair, then goes off to wash up and get dressed. Pip sits up, aching everywhere, leans against the cool bricks of the fireplace and scrubs his nose hard with the heel of his hand to try and stop the unbearable burn there before it turns into silly childish tears. It's okay, he thinks. It's okay, really.

Nothing's going to happen. Not to Lindsay.

***

He dreams like a cartoon, all bright colours and thick outlines, so bruises are rainbows and blood is Fireman Sam-red. When the shaking starts he tries to hold on, to cling tight to the colours with his fingernails, but it's insistent and his grip isn't enough. The dream fades like morning fog, and when he opens his eyes it's Lindsay there shaking him awake. The window's still dark, it's still the middle of the night, and the ceiling light's off but the telly's on; it's enough for him to see Lindsay's face and how twisted it is, how his hair's standing up all over the place like he's been pulling at it.

"Wake up," he's saying, but it's more like snarling. There's a sharp noise, and almost instantaneously the hot bloom of pain on Pip's cheek. He can't wake up fast enough, he never can. It's like trying to swim up from the bottom of a lake when you've got your feet tangled in weeds. Even when Lindsay grabs at the collar of his shirt and yanks him up off the sofa cushions so he's sitting, even then it takes a minute of blinking and rubbing his eyes until he's awake enough to really focus.

"You're home." He puts his hand over his slapped cheek and looks up at Lindsay, still blinking. "How'd it go?"

"Don't give me that." Lindsay lets him go, shoving him roughly back against the cushions, and turns the volume up on the telly. It's one of the news channels and he's still not awake enough to take it in properly, it's all a jumble of

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BBC voices and flashing lights.

"What?"

"Look."

He starts to pick bits up, the woman behind the desk talking about breaking news, some security firm, inside job, anonymous tip-off.

"'Two armed men were shot dead by police'," Lindsay repeats, very slowly and clearly so he can't possibly miss it.

That's like the trick, like a magic spell. Pip suddenly feels alert, wide awake, almost
hyper
-awake like he's really been drowsing his whole life and this is the first time he's properly woken up. He hears the woman go on about how it's not clear whether the men were working alone, investigations are ongoing, more news as it comes in, but he's not watching her, he's looking at Lindsay.

"Shit," he says weakly. "What happened? You're okay, yeah? You never got hurt or nothing?"

"How did you know?"

"What?"

"How did you
know
?" Lindsay repeats, in a dangerously calm voice, then he's got his hand there at Pip's throat holding him down against the cushions, squeezing just hard enough to be scary. "You said something would happen. You said let them do it themselves and get shot. You set us up."

"No I never!" He clamps his own hands over Lindsay's, trying to prise his fingers away; Lindsay's grip only gets tighter so talking's almost impossible, but he's got to try anyway. "You're a fucking mentalist, like I'd even do that. I was just saying it
could
be dangerous and I was right, weren't I? Had to've gone wrong sometime, every time you ever pulled something and it went right it changed the odds, it had to go wrong sooner or later, I was just scared cos, what if something happened and you got hurt, what am I meant to do then?" He can finally feel tears, dribbling down the sides of his face and into his hair, maddening tickles he can't wipe away because he's still got his hands on 391

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Lindsay's, and now they've started he can't make himself stop and it all escalates into huge choking sobs. Lindsay finally relaxes his grip, just a little bit, just enough for him to take in a big wheezing breath and try again. "I only said I don't want you going without me cos if something happens I... like before, like it went all tits up before, I was gonna shoot myself, I really really was. What am I meant to do without you? I ain't got nothing else, I was just
scared
, Lindsay, I-"

He gives up because he can't breathe enough to talk any more; his throat is hurting too much and his nose is running and the struggle's made his bath-damp hair flick all into his eyes. It's a proper ugly, desperate cry, he must look a right state, but he doesn't know what else to do and even if he had a plan he just can't stop.

"Okay," Lindsay says eventually. "Okay, that's enough, now." He pulls Pip up again, more gently this time, and slips his arms around him. Pip clings desperately, trying not to cover him in snot, trying so hard to stop his trembling, but Lindsay's hand rubbing big warm circles into his back only makes him cry harder. He feels like a complete idiot. He can make himself cry whenever he wants to, he thought it might be a good last-ditch effort to get the hands off his windpipe, but he's not got the knack of
stopping
crying on demand – and it's
real
now, it's nothing to do with anything calculated, it's like the tears were the lock on some mental Pandora's Box full of worries and doubts and this crushing terror. What-ifs never did anybody any good, but now they're all racing through his mind like it's a marathon and he doesn't know how to stop them. All he can do is let them run themselves weary and drop down dead.

"Let me go, sweetheart," Lindsay says, but Pip only clings tighter and shakes his head and desperately mutters
no no no no no
against his neck. He can feel Lindsay's fingers in his hair again, twisting and stroking gently, and a kiss on the top of his head, and when Lindsay speaks next it's so quiet it's almost as if he feels the words vibrating through his hair directly into his brain, rather than hears them. "I'm just going to the kitchen. I'm going to fetch you some tissues, and I'm going to make you some hot chocolate, and then I'm going to come back in here. I'm not going anywhere. The stove, that's as far as I'm going. Can you let

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me do that?"

He wants to say no again until he's blue in the face, but he manages a shaky nod and lets his arms drop so Lindsay can stand.

"When I come back in here you'll have stopped crying, won't you?"

Another nod, although Lindsay doesn't see it because a video clip of flashing lights and two dark bodybags just came up on the telly and he's standing there transfixed, with fists and jaw clenched and horrible, blank eyes. After a few moments, when it cuts back to the studio, he turns around and leaves the room without another glance Pip's way. Pip sighs and hugs a cushion, unrolling a sleeve so he can wipe his streaming eyes and nose – then he gets another cushion and pulls them both over his head like massive earmuffs, because an awful noise just started up in the kitchen, a slamming door and the crash of breaking glass, thuds like Lindsay's kicking the wall, the screech-thump of chairs being dragged and flung around, and then nothing except terrible, wordless shouting. The cushions muffle it but they're not enough to hide it completely and Pip wishes for a second his eardrums would explode so he wouldn't have to listen – at least he's not crying, though. If he ever heard Lindsay crying, he thinks, he might just die on the spot.

When the noises calm down a bit and then stop altogether, he still keeps the cushions there either side of his head because it feels nice. It feels really good, all warm and comfy. Amazingly, he realises he's sleepy again, even with everything. He's always found it as easy as breathing to fall asleep, unless he's in the car. He doesn't even want the chocolate, when Lindsay finally comes back in the living room with his mug, but he drinks it anyway.

"Tastes funny," he says, so exhausted he's slurring a bit.

"Brandy in it," Lindsay says shortly. "For the shock."

Pip almost laughs, finding a last bit of energy somewhere to lean over and put the empty mug on the carpet. "What, are we Victorians now?"

"If we were Victorians I'd feed you laudanum."

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He doesn't realise he's fallen asleep until he wakes back up, to Lindsay shaking him again, telling him to get up and then carrying him when he's not fast enough, bundling him into the back of the car and speeding somewhere, a million miles an hour, maybe two or five or ten million miles an hour, he can't tell. He can't have been sleeping that long because his mouth still feels sweet and warm from the chocolate and it's still pitch black outside, except there's flashing lights somewhere but this time they're not on the telly. He can't remember much looking back on it after, just flashes and blurs – he can remember a woman with black browline glasses and cool, firm hands who keeps calling him Philip even when he tries to tell her not to. He can remember saying yes to something because he can remember Lindsay in the car telling him, "Say yes when they ask you for consent, okay? I want you to say yes when they ask you, do you understand?" He can remember feeling pure bewilderment and then terror and tears again but it's not because he's crying on purpose, it's because there's something slippery being shoved in his mouth and into his throat, snaking down and down until he thinks it'll kill him, and even when he gags it doesn't go away.

There's stuff coming out his mouth, it's like being sick without proper retching but it's worse than any cramp he's ever had because this sucking isn't normal, the noise of it, feeling stuff being forcibly
pulled
from his body. He remembers wanting Lindsay and wanting Mister Bollo and, for the first time in years and years, desperately wanting his mum.

It's quiet, after that. He gets a room all to himself, with stiff white sheets and a pillow that's too flat. There are nurses bustling around doing stuff, he's not sure what. They seem nice. Proper old-fashioned, fat, no-nonsense, middle-aged nurses, it's not like Holby City where everyone looks like they're only there because they're taking time off from modelling. He tries to ask one of them where Lindsay is but she calls him Philip and he shuts up. He almost forgets that's his name now. Lindsay started calling him just Valentine instead, so that's what everybody else did too.

Lindsay's there, suddenly, there just outside the doorway, talking to the woman in the Marilyn Monroe glasses. Pip can't hear what they're saying but he feels better knowing he's close so he just stays there in bed, still and good. He

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lets the nurses' and doctors' words float over his head, and he waits and waits for whatever's going to happen next. He's still tired, but he never wants to close his eyes again.