Taken In Hand - 1. The Tale

Holding up the corners of a red velvet cloak, the man took particular care in folding the garment just so. It wouldn't do to crush or flatten the deep velvet pile. He inhaled the scent coming from the freshly-laundered material as he completed the manoeuvre. It was one of his favourite aromas – denoting as it did, the all-important state of cleanliness. With reluctance, the man put it to one side, next to a rail of other clothing items which appeared similarly pristine. He sat down at a desk with a sigh. The cloak was going to be returned to storage. Not far away, but he would miss it. Now he would have to find someone else to revitalise it, to again make it the joy to wear that it had so recently been.

Aston approached the stuccoed Victorian splendour of the Grand Theatre in some trepidation. It was his first day as an unpaid summer intern, and he was keen to find out what went on backstage. He'd been told to report to the theatre's manager on arrival, but as he stood in the ornately-decorated foyer, he couldn't see where to go. Or indeed, anyone to ask. So, what now? They must be expecting him. Aston was weighing up which of the many doors to go through, when an African-heritage woman in overalls emerged briskly from one of them.

On seeing him, she came to a halt. “Hi. Can I help you? The box office isn't open yet.”

“Yeah, please. I'm Aston West, here for a month's internship?”

“OK …” The woman sounded puzzled. “Nothing I know about, but then I'm only lighting crew. We're usually the last to be told stuff. Who're you meant to report to?”

“The manager.” Aston couldn't remember the man's name.

“Oh, you mean Quentin?” Her eyebrows went up. “He won't be around for another couple of hours at least. There's no matinee on Mondays.”

The woman scratched her head as she thought. “Let's see … I've got nothing on that can't wait for a while. I could show you round, get you orientated, if you like?”

“Thanks. That'd be great.”

“OK. I'm Yemi, by the way.”

Before Aston could reply, Yemi had unclipped a walkie-talkie from her belt and was starting a conversation.

“Wes, I'm going to be late back.”

To Aston's ears, the answer was lost in a burst of interference.

“Yeah? You can do that on your own, no problem.”

Obviously Yemi wasn't having the same trouble he was. Another inaudible reply elicited a snort.

“Why? Because there's a handsome young man just appeared in the foyer, as if by magic.”

Her throaty chuckle made Aston glow.

“Yeah … Bye, Wes.” Yemi turned her attention back to Aston. “OK, let's get going. So, this is the foyer …”

A couple of hours later, having been introduced to everyone, including Quentin, Aston was having lunch in the theatre's bar area. Yemi was sitting opposite, munching purposefully through a large ham and cheese sandwich. Aston was picking more carefully at a couscous salad.

Yemi noticed. “You'll burn that off in no time, working here. Let me guess … The boyfriend likes you as you are – no putting on weight, no slacking?”

This time her chuckle made Aston blush scarlet.

He nodded. “Is it that obvious?”

“What? That you're gay? Why should you hide it?” She smiled at him. “Don't mind me – I won't tease you about it again.”

Aston relaxed a little. “My boyfriend's called Paulo.”

“Nice name.”

Yemi took a couple of bites more from her sandwich before then leaning closer to Aston.

“Don't spread this around, but you should be careful in your dealings with Claude.”

“Claude?” Aston had forgotten most the names he'd been told.

“Costume department. Claude Hinson – he's the head. Anyway, watch out, Aston. Claude's hands are rumoured to wander.”

Aston found his work schedule and peered at it. “Great. I'm starting there tomorrow.”

“You'll be fine. Don't get too close, that's all.”

His eyebrows went up. “OK …”

Yemi looked at the time. “I'd better get back. Can't be missing all day long.” She stood up.

Aston felt sorry to be losing her. “Thanks, Yemi. You've made me feel really welcome.”

“My pleasure.”

After his new friend left, Aston mentally marked up Claude as a lech, and finished his salad. He had an afternoon working on reception to look forward to.

The following day, Claude Hinson was sitting at his desk, reviewing some written instructions he was going to give the new intern. After taking a few sips of coffee, Claude dabbed at his lips with a napkin. He hated feeling untidy or dirtied in any way. As he did so, his eyes fixed on the newcomer, a young man. This was the prettiest specimen he'd seen in a long time – a slender, willowy twink with what appeared to be natural blonde hair. It wouldn't need much effort to dominate him, to take him in hand, as it were. Twinks were natural prey – they weren't fit for anything else.

Claude's lip curled in distaste as the man got up and walked to the other end of the office in search of something or another. He couldn't be anything other than a slut. That much was obvious – only the promiscuous paraded around with such a pronounced sashay. And the young man knew the power of his swaying, slim hips, and his arse. Such a young, firm, lucious arse it was too. Claude felt faint stirrings down below and tried hard to ignore them. He agreed with his mother's long held view that sex was dirty. Bodies were so unclean, messy, disease-ridden. The thought that people wanted to be … intimate with each other was disgusting to him.

“Excuse me, Claude?”

The intern was now standing in front of him. His skin was clear, fair, and clean-looking. Maybe he'd risk touching the young man's skin at some point.

“Is it OK if I go to lunch? My boyfriend's waiting for me outside.”

Claude nodded, then watched as the young man left. This time his attention was focussed on the other man's clothing – how it caressed some parts of his body, and hung invitingly off others. Those clothes knew him well – the thought of them being ripped off prior to kissing, or even intercourse, made Claude feel ill. Love, desire, passion held no meaning for him. There were however, other emotions, equally strong, which he did relate to. The young man might prove very useful yet.

After two or three days passed, Aston had no evidence of Claude's lechery despite working for most of time in the costume department. Not that he'd got that close to the other man. The costume master appeared a prissy, dessicated, meticulous man, the sort who'd probably never had to live with someone else. According to Yemi, he didn't have any friends either. Secure in the knowledge he had a boyfriend, and a healthy, perhaps over-active, sex drive, Aston pitied other people who were less fortunate.

That morning he was trying to do some basic repairs to the hem of a skirt that had got caught on something. His phone rang – it was Paulo, for the third time since he'd left home.

Hi, gorgeous.

“Hi, again.” Aston felt the need to be restrained. Claude was well within hearing distance.

What's up? Didn't I fuck you enough last night? You were certainly walking oddly this morning.

Aston moved his mouth even closer to the phone. “I'm at work. Behave.”

All that did was to encourage Paulo to whisper in his ear the most sexually explicit fantasies he could think of. After a minute, Aston was scarlet – the heat coming partly from embarrassment, partly because he was getting all fired up. His cock was going to be blatantly visible in his tight jeans. Aston took a moment to rearrange himself. He looked up, and there was Claude, staring at him with intense disapproval. Shit!

He cut in to his boyfriend's monologue. “Shut up, Paulo! I've got to get back to work.”

The resulting raucous cackle burst out of the handset as if he was there in person. Aston ended the call as soon as his fingers could find the right button. He put the phone away.

“Sorry, Claude. My boyfriend was being stupid. It's his birthday.”

There was no reply from the fgure brooding at the desk. Aston got back to his sewing, still pink around the ears. Thank god the afternoon was to be spent with the lighting crew.

The following morning he was back in the costume department. It was interesting work, but Claude was always there, lurking like a spider in the centre of a web. Aston was struggling with more repairs – he was lucky his mum had gone out of her way to make him self-sufficient, but it only took him so far. And his mind was full of the previous evening's birthday celebrations. Paulo had been more than usually amorous. Their extended sexual adventures were still giving him an inner glow. Aston was conscious he had a smug, satisfied smile on his face. He tried to settle down without much success. Then he heard the dry rasp of Claude clearing his throat.

“I have a job for you, young man.”

He never called Aston by his name. Aston looked up, relieved at the possibility of doing something else, away from Claude's brooding presence.

“Yes?”

“I need certain items retrieving from the costume store. Here's a list.”

Aston reached over and took the piece of paper. It was covered in Claude's spidery handwriting.

“Do you know the way to the store?”

“Err …” Aston tried to remember whether it had been on Yemi's tour. “I'm not sure.”

A thin smile appeared on Claude's face. “Let me assist you. It's an unusual place and sometimes difficult to locate.”

The theatre's backstage was a warren of unmarked corridors, each with an identical row of doors. Maybe he should've tied a piece of string to the workroom door. He'd already spent fifteen minutes looking for the costume store. Aston sighed – his navigation skills were notoriously poor. His mother claimed that he'd got lost between home and school on several occasions. Claude's dry, precise directions should've been easy to follow. After all, he'd worked in the theatre since it had been built, but each corridor seemed to merge into the next.

Finally, Aston found the right corridor, though he had a sense he'd already been there. The door actually did have a sign: Costume Store. If he had been there previously, how could he have missed it? Keen to get the errand done, he pushed at the door. It opened with ease, yet the air that greeted him was stale and cold. Aston frowned. That was odd – surely the store was in use all the time? His hand groped to the side for the light switch. Once found, a couple of flickering fluorescent tubes came on.

The young man smiled. A perfect set-up for a scene from a horror movie? As if – the house usually staged romantic comedies, with the odd whodunnit for variety. Perhaps he'd better make sure the door was kept ajar. Aston looked for something to wedge the door open, but there was nothing suitable. Shrugging his shoulders, he brushed by a couple of the clothing rails, disturbing dust and cobwebs as he went. Weird. Even if it was a reserve store, surely the costumes should be kept clean? The colours would fade. What if they were needed in a hurry? Claude didn't strike him as a man who'd neglect things.

Hastily, Aston consulted the list. Claude's thin handwriting was difficult to read. A silk petticoat was first. As far as he was aware from his work on reception, there were no historical productions coming up. Hmm … Was this a fool's errand? It seemed more and more likely. Still, he had to find them all or Claude would have his reason to make his life hell. Aston looked around until he saw a rack of underclothes.

The continual blink of the lights was unsettling. His surroundings were alternately bathed in a yellowish light, and then pitch black. His eyes were already objecting. Aston stood at the rack, enjoying the feel of the silk on his skin, light and delicate. Both soothing and arousing, like the touches from Paolo on his earlobes, his nipples. The touches felt almost real, not imaginary. The gentle press of a finger on his cheek, tracing a path down to his lips … Aston shivered, and made himself concentrate. He found what he needed.

A tartan plaid was next. Locating the rail of Scottish-themed clothing took him some time. It was hidden in one of the darker corners – obviously they got even less use than the rest of the costumes. Here, the rough wool and tweed dragged at his skin, reminding him of morning chins and growing beards. Paolo always sported a five o'clock shadow. Aston loved the scrape against his skin in all kinds of places, including his most private.

He lightly pulled the material over his lips, only to be startled by a corresponding rasp across the back of his neck. Aston spun round to find nothing behind him, only an empty aisle. Imagination or not? As he turned back, he felt a brief, textured kiss on his forehead like the ones Paolo sometimes gave him. A shiver went down his spine. Some sort of hangover from the previous evening? Perhaps his pheromones were doing something very odd? Aston decided to keep his guard up.

He moved swiftly onto the next area, trying to calm himself. The masculine scent of leather caught his nose as soon as he got close to the footwear section. God, he loved it. He needed to locate a pair of riding boots, but some belts hanging nearby made him smile. One experiment from the night before, enjoyable, daring, naughty. Paulo's suggestion. Just a soupçon of pain …

As he wandered through the footwear in search of the boots, one of Aston's hands was suddenly captured and constrained. Bound with a belt of soft, supple leather, unlike the old, hard, unloved specimens he'd seen earlier. Only it couldn't be. There was no-one else in the store. Was there? The tightness increased suddenly, as if a buckle was being pulled close. Painfully so – the metal of the buckle bit into his skin.

“Owh!” Aston thrust both his hands in front of his face.

No belt, not tied. Nothing. But the pain was there, hot and throbbing. This was starting to freak him out. He stared carefully at his wrists. In the intermittent light, a mark, red and angry, bloomed on his left wrist. The imprint of the metal buckle was clearly visible. A knowing, light-pitched chuckle in his ear made him spin round again.

“Who's there?”

The still silence mocked him.

This was a hazing ritual of some kind. It had to be. Theatrical special effects, the lighting department, hidden speakers. Maybe that was why Yemi had befriended him? He didn't like to think so. Well, he'd show them. Aston held the list in shaking hands, trying to focus on the next item – a formal shirt.

The rack held dozens of them, all different. Under the dust, he saw one in a rich mid-brown that matched his boyfriend's eyes. The cool cotton was inviting. Aston's hand went to brush off the layer of dust. Wait – he was being watched. He froze mid-action. There were eyes all around, seeing his most private parts, peering into his soul. Stripping him naked.

Aston gripped his own clothes close, his skin crawling in fright. God, was he going mad? He looked around frantically. No eyes, or cameras, or blinking red lights. Nothing but old, dusty costumes, unloved and uncared for. So only in his imagination, or not? Aston shivered. It had felt all too real. Why should the technical departments have access to such equipment? They weren't needed for the productions put on there. Maybe it was just him?

Aston took several deep breaths and wiped his forehead. Was he going to finish the list? Yes, otherwise, he'd never hear the end of it. Grabbing the shirt requested, he fled the area, moving as far away as possible.

The last thing on the list was a velvet cloak. Aston traversed the length of the store until he found the racks of heavy, substantial outer garments. The cloak stood out immediately – the deep red of the fabric was rich and inviting. Aston, chilled and shivery, tried it on, leaving the other items he'd collected on the floor. The garment enveloped him, its lush folds offering comfort and warmth. He snuggled closer into it, wrapping himself into its embrace. He tied the tapes round his neck as the final touch.

Aston started to relax under its care. Suddenly the pressure exerted by the tapes increased, the grip on his neck hardening, tightening. He couldn't breathe. Fingers scrabbling uselessly against his assailant, Aston sank to his knees. As he blacked out, his last thoughts were of Claude and his hands. His revenge.

On his way back from work, Paulo Bianchi saw his boyfriend walking ahead of him. This was a little odd because the bus from the theatre dropped him virtually outside their door. He hurried up until he was level with Aston.

“Hi, gorgeous. No buses? Or did you fancy the exercise?”

Aston gave him a strange look and carried on walking, drawing ahead slightly.

Paulo frowned. Maybe he'd had a bad day a work. Aston had made some comments about one of the department heads being an alleged sexual harasser.

He tried again. “Good day at the theatre? What did they have you doing?”

Aston stopped walking and turned round. Paulo looked at him with concern – his boyfriend's expression was pale and wan.

Aston waited for him to catch up. “What theatre? You mad? You know very well my internship's at that boring accountancy firm.”

Paulo did a double take. “Pardon?”

“You're winding me up. I know you are, you bastard. God, it was so boring there today – screen after screen of figures, and that lech, Colin Hough, leering in my direction, just waiting for the opportunity to breathe down my neck. Fortunately, I managed on my own. Eugh! The idea of him trying to get his paws on me gives me the creeps.”

Aston shivered. Paulo meanwhile was trying to get his head straight.

“Every evening this week you've been talking about working at the theatre. Let's see … Ehm … someone called Yemi showed you round? That's right – you really took to her.”

“Who?”

The two men stood, looking at each other, both thinking the other was occupying some kind of fourth dimension.

Aston frowned. “When I arrived at the accountancy firm on Monday, one of the temps, Yasmin, showed me round. You know, the general tour sort of thing. I phoned you soon after from the landline, complaining about the dreariness of the place.”

Paulo got his phone out, brought up his call log and flicked through it until he found the call in question. There was a number he didn't recognise – it certainly wasn't Aston's. On impulse, Paulo pressed to call back the number. As he listened, the dialling tone stopped to be replaced by a voicemail message: This is McGrath and Shawcross, accountants. The person you're trying to reach isn't available right now. Please leave a message.

As he killed the call, Paulo was feeling lost. Had his mind been playing tricks? Surely he couldn't have imagined that many conversations? He and Aston continued the short distance back home in silence.

Later the same evening, the two men were getting ready for bed. Neither of them felt in the mood for any fun. Paulo watched his boyfriend undress, partly for pleasure, partly out of concern. Aston had remained pale and withdrawn all evening. His attempts to reopen their earlier conversation had been firmly deflected.

An angry, red mark on Aston's left wrist caught Paulo's attention.

“What's that?”

“What?”

Paulo showed him. Aston looked puzzled.

“Don't remember anything about that. Is it from last night's session? You used a belt.”

“Yeah … loosely. And I made sure the buckle was well away from your skin.”

Aston shrugged. “Maybe you got caught up in the moment. We'd both had a bit to drink. It'll go away soon enough.”

Paulo examined his conscience. He'd been in control of himself, otherwise he would never have started any restraint play. Ever since their return home, his world had felt alarmingly out of kilter. What had been going on? Was it him? Did he need to see a doctor? A psychiatrist?

He looked up and noticed a line, red again, at the base of his boyfriend's neck. Again he pointed it out.

Aston looked in the mirror, turning this way and that, looking at it closely.

“Odd. I wore that leather choker yesterday. You know, the one you gave me. Raised a couple of eyebrows amongst the old-timers. Must've tied it too tight. Hmm … A strange day, yesterday? Let's some sleep, love. Hopefully, tomorrow will be better.”

Paulo found that hard to believe, but he held his tongue and went to bed.

After the evening's performance, Claude Hinson sat at his desk, a red cloak fresh from the laundry, folded up neatly in front of him. He was happy. A treat, long-awaited, was now his. He stood up and donned the cloak, making sure it sat straight on his shoulders. Carefully, he sat back in his chair, wrapped himself tight, and waited for his own private show to start. As the sense of fear and dread slowly grew in intensity, Claude breathed out a sigh of satisfaction. Pleasure.

It was a pity he couldn't use the twink again – his emotions were fresh and intensely hued. Unfortunately the risk of altering memories multiple times was too great. He'd never actually attempted it, but the warnings were there. The deepening black of the young man's terror was now shot through with vivid, bloody red. Pain. Oh, how he enjoyed it. He felt alive. Claude leant back, the cares of his day ebbing away. How long 'til the next time?

The following morning, Paulo made a detour via the Grand Theatre. He hadn't said anything to Aston about it at breakfast. He stood in the foyer for several minutes before someone, a cleaner, apparently, noticed him.

“Box office doesn't open until midday.”

“Err … that's fine. I'm here about an intern who's working at the theatre. Aston West?”

The cleaner looked blank.

Paulo tried again. “There's someone called Yemi who's on the lighting crew?”

“Na … Nobody of that name works here. And we've no interns. Never had.”

Paulo's head started spinning again. “You sure?”

“Yeah. If you don't mind, the exit's that way.”

The cleaner pointed the way. Paulo obliged, feeling as dislocated as the previous evening. Once outside, he got his phone out and dialled his local surgery.

“Hi. It's Paulo Bianchi here. I'd like to speak to Dr Martin about getting a psych consult. I'm not well.” … “Yes, it's urgent. I'm having aural hallucinations.” … “Thanks.”

He found a low brick wall to perch on, and waited until the time for his appointment, contemplating his new-found insanity. What would happen to him now? Paulo Bianchi held his head in his hands and cried.

When Yemi Adebayo opened the door to the costume workroom, Claude Hinson was in his usual place. He looked up from his work and gave her a brief, thin smile.

“Yes?”

“Thought you'd like to know … There's a new intern due next month.”

“Really?”

“Yep. And this one's for you.”

“Unlike the woman who appeared last time.” Claude shivered with distaste.

Yemi shrugged. “You can't always have what you want. Still … he's pretty, and cute. From his photo, at least.”

“Excellent. Keep up the good work. Your bank balance will be all the better for it.”

“I need it.”

After the woman left, Claude leant back in his seat.

Life was good again.