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Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome by Richard Rider Page B
Authors: Richard Rider
Tags: Romance, Contemporary
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him on the forehead with it and then it's a flurry of desperate hands and a hot, wet mouth.
He thinks about boring things and horrible things – shopping list for Sainsbury's, mental note to get the MOT sorted on the Transit, Tony Blair taking it up the arse from an enthusiastic George Bush, what name to use on his next fake ID, the mastectomy scar his mother proudly flashes at anybody dumb and polite enough to sit still and take it when she's had a gin too many, how much he fucking loathes Gerry Rafferty, the smudge of birdshit on the kitchen window –
even so, it's no easy task keeping control. The kid's good at this. He's not smart but he's a fast learner and he's had enough practice to be close to perfect; he knows exactly how Lindsay likes it, the pace and suction and exactly where to put his fingers, and he's never usually one for rushing a job best done slowly but then he's never been threatened with an actual bullet before. He wonders whether the kid's still so afraid he's crying. He hopes he is. He can't tell, the top of his head looks the same as it ever does. Black, red, stupid.
Lindsay moves a bit, just very slightly, just so the corner of the worktop is digging painfully into his back. He concentrates on that feeling instead, he presses harder, he visualises little blood vessels bursting and spilling and the mottled colour the bruise is going to be, anything it takes to keep a hold. With a wave of relief that's almost like nausea he realises the song's almost over, and when it's finally faded to its finish he pulls his cock out of Valentine's mouth with his hand, using it like a sort of shield in case the kid takes it on himself to panic and bite. "Not good enough," he says, and he tucks the barrel of the gun against Valentine's ear in pointed mimicry of the first day they met, and pulls the trigger.
"You absolute cunt ," Valentine says. He swats the gun away and rubs his ear. "You palmed that bullet. Like fucking Paul Daniels."
"I don't need to think about fucking Paul Daniels, thanks."
90
S T O C K H O L M S Y N D R O M E
"That Debbie's a saint. You're still an absolute cunt."
"Was that Tarantino enough for you?"
"That weren't Tarantino. It weren't funny or clever. That was derivative."
Lindsay hesitates, fighting the sudden inappropriate urge to laugh. "It was what?"
"Derivative. You're nicking off Tarantino trying to be cool but it ain't working."
"That's a long word for a little man."
"STIs? You're turning crazy, I'm turning smart."
"Hah, I don't think so."
Valentine reaches up to move Lindsay's hand away and begins kissing him again, but tiny, tickling, feather-light touches this time, all up and down the underside of his cock. "You want me to finish?" he murmurs, and Lindsay shivers. The urge to grab the kid's head and fuck his mouth until he chokes is almost unbearable, but that's what he wants so there's no way he's doing it.
"No," he says. He shoves him away, into the puddle of spilled tea, and refastens his trousers. "Clean this mess up, I'm going out."
***
The shower's going when he gets upstairs, noisy and hot. Tendrils of steam are creeping out the open bathroom door. He sits on the bed and waits, and waits, staring at the carpet and just listening. There's a creak in a pipe somewhere, when the water's on this hot. He listens to the sounds of the silence when the rainstorm of water gets switched off – the squeak of the shower door opening, a cough and a sniff, Valentine's wet footsteps on the tiles. The tap comes on, he listens to the teethbrushing and gargling and spitting, then the faint 91
C H A P T E R 7
scratch of hair being vigorously rubbed dry, then:
" Shit , you scared me, I never knew you were back."
Lindsay tries on a smile that feels incredibly fake, and the kid hesitates and seems to think about returning it, but in the end he just tucks his towel more securely around his hips and comes over to sit on the bed next to him.
Silence.
When Valentine
He thinks about boring things and horrible things – shopping list for Sainsbury's, mental note to get the MOT sorted on the Transit, Tony Blair taking it up the arse from an enthusiastic George Bush, what name to use on his next fake ID, the mastectomy scar his mother proudly flashes at anybody dumb and polite enough to sit still and take it when she's had a gin too many, how much he fucking loathes Gerry Rafferty, the smudge of birdshit on the kitchen window –
even so, it's no easy task keeping control. The kid's good at this. He's not smart but he's a fast learner and he's had enough practice to be close to perfect; he knows exactly how Lindsay likes it, the pace and suction and exactly where to put his fingers, and he's never usually one for rushing a job best done slowly but then he's never been threatened with an actual bullet before. He wonders whether the kid's still so afraid he's crying. He hopes he is. He can't tell, the top of his head looks the same as it ever does. Black, red, stupid.
Lindsay moves a bit, just very slightly, just so the corner of the worktop is digging painfully into his back. He concentrates on that feeling instead, he presses harder, he visualises little blood vessels bursting and spilling and the mottled colour the bruise is going to be, anything it takes to keep a hold. With a wave of relief that's almost like nausea he realises the song's almost over, and when it's finally faded to its finish he pulls his cock out of Valentine's mouth with his hand, using it like a sort of shield in case the kid takes it on himself to panic and bite. "Not good enough," he says, and he tucks the barrel of the gun against Valentine's ear in pointed mimicry of the first day they met, and pulls the trigger.
"You absolute cunt ," Valentine says. He swats the gun away and rubs his ear. "You palmed that bullet. Like fucking Paul Daniels."
"I don't need to think about fucking Paul Daniels, thanks."
90
S T O C K H O L M S Y N D R O M E
"That Debbie's a saint. You're still an absolute cunt."
"Was that Tarantino enough for you?"
"That weren't Tarantino. It weren't funny or clever. That was derivative."
Lindsay hesitates, fighting the sudden inappropriate urge to laugh. "It was what?"
"Derivative. You're nicking off Tarantino trying to be cool but it ain't working."
"That's a long word for a little man."
"STIs? You're turning crazy, I'm turning smart."
"Hah, I don't think so."
Valentine reaches up to move Lindsay's hand away and begins kissing him again, but tiny, tickling, feather-light touches this time, all up and down the underside of his cock. "You want me to finish?" he murmurs, and Lindsay shivers. The urge to grab the kid's head and fuck his mouth until he chokes is almost unbearable, but that's what he wants so there's no way he's doing it.
"No," he says. He shoves him away, into the puddle of spilled tea, and refastens his trousers. "Clean this mess up, I'm going out."
***
The shower's going when he gets upstairs, noisy and hot. Tendrils of steam are creeping out the open bathroom door. He sits on the bed and waits, and waits, staring at the carpet and just listening. There's a creak in a pipe somewhere, when the water's on this hot. He listens to the sounds of the silence when the rainstorm of water gets switched off – the squeak of the shower door opening, a cough and a sniff, Valentine's wet footsteps on the tiles. The tap comes on, he listens to the teethbrushing and gargling and spitting, then the faint 91
C H A P T E R 7
scratch of hair being vigorously rubbed dry, then:
" Shit , you scared me, I never knew you were back."
Lindsay tries on a smile that feels incredibly fake, and the kid hesitates and seems to think about returning it, but in the end he just tucks his towel more securely around his hips and comes over to sit on the bed next to him.
Silence.
When Valentine
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