Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome by Richard Rider Read Free Book Online Page B

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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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