Shaken - 1. Chapter 1

In a shadowed corner of the dimly-lit function room, Aaron leant against a pillar and watched his co-workers as they gossiped loudly in groups, next to the free bar. Some took advantage of the cheesy 80's playlist to show off their dance moves on the compact central arena. Taking a sip of his sparkling cranberry juice, the young man's lip curled. Even a mid-week night at The Tower would easily produce talent to put that lot in the shade. He might've given a demonstration but for his part-healed ankle.

One dancer fell over her own feet and collapsed into her partner's arms; the pair of them ended up on the floor. The torrent of inebriated giggles and squeals that followed temporarily drowned out Whitney Houston's I Wanna Dance With Somebody until a couple of the onlookers helped to restore order.

He yawned; a quick glance at his phone showed it was still too early to leave. Social event it might be, but the HR apparatchiks kept a close look-out for the no-shows and those who slipped out early. A faint smile appeared. Not that he gave a fuck – being good at his job was what mattered. His line manager knew it as well. Still, he wouldn't gain anything by rocking the boat. Enduring another thirty minutes would be OK. Aaron sighed; it wasn't as if a hot date awaited him at home or indeed anyone. A scowl followed – an expression his face slipped into all too often since Richard left.

“The wind'll change direction and leave you looking like that forever.”

Startled, Aaron looked to his left and spotted his line manager a metre away. She watched him with amusement.

The frown remained. “Pardon?”

She moved closer. “Simply an observation that you're evidently not enjoying yourself – against company policy, I might add.”

He shrugged. At the same time, he ran a practised eye over her party wear; it was smart and stylish without that 'I'm trying too hard' edge. “Hi, Tricia.” A neutral smile replaced what was there before.

“Party's going with a swing, don't you think?”

To his mind, that was largely due to the free booze. A glance towards the bar showed a steady level of patronage. Another shrug followed. “Not my idea of fun, but yeah, it's livening up.”

“Your own contribution has been conspicuously limited.”

A smile lurking on Tricia's face told him not to take the comment too seriously.

“I'm sure someone somewhere is marking your card as a consequence.” She gave a nod. “Couldn't Rod be with you this evening? You should join in more: social bonding, adding to your networks, and all that.”

“It's Richard. We've not been an item for a while, as I'm sure you've heard.” Aaron turned away to survey his partying co-workers en masse. It did nothing to lift his sense of world-weariness. “I know everyone here I need to.”

His manager rolled her eyes. “The arrogance of youth.”

“Hey!” He held up a hand. “I'm twenty-eight next month.”

“And you don't look a day over twenty if that.” A fully-fledged smirk appeared.

Aaron peered over his rimless, barely-there glasses. “Hmm… I'm sure that's some form of sexual harassment.”

“You wish.” Tricia peered into the wider expanse. “Dave's somewhere in the crowd. Not many people have brought their significant others.”

He took another gulp of his drink, cranberry suiting his sour mood. “Maybe they thought a staff social didn't stand much chance of trumping a night in with pizza.”

His companion studied the tall glass in his hand. “What on Earth you got in there?”

“Cranberry on the rocks.” Shifting weight from one leg to the other brought on a twinge. A painkiller before bed would be a good idea. “I'm on medication, if you recall?”

“Ah, yes. Running accident?”

“Cycling.”

“Same sort of thing. Anyway, as you're a kind of de facto designated driver, I've a job for you.”

“Err… I don't drive?” Wherever this was headed, Aaron doubted it would be to his liking.

“That doesn't matter. I'm employing a figure of speech. Malcolm Smithson from Customer Service needs a buddy to see him home safe.”

“What?!” The young man spat out the remnants of an ice cube. “What the fuck's wrong with ordering an Uber?”

That earned him a quizzical look. “And I thought gay men majored in empathy.”

“Yeah?” His tongue took control. “Strangely enough, I suck at singing showtunes as well.” The inflections towards the end caused a thinning of Tricia's lips.

His boss jerked a thumb towards the bar. There at the end, a large, dark-haired form slumped over the counter. His prospective charge was clearly the worse for wear.

The scowl returned. “Jesus wept. The fucking bar's been open an hour and a half tops.”

“I believe there was some pre-loading involved. Anyway, as you can see, he'll require more help than merely being poured into a cab.”

Aaron stared at the flabby, semi-comatose figure. Even from a distance, the guy hadn't seen the inside of a gym since school, and that must've been at least a couple of decades ago. The ill-fitting, plain trousers, and white, probably multi-pack shirt were another turn-off.

Shifting position again, the fading ache in his ankle started up. He smiled to himself – a perfect opt-out. “Sorry, Tricia; of course, I'd help a fellow worker but…”

Tricia's eyebrows shot up.

“My ankle's still not good and…” His voice trailed off under her scrutiny.

“Aaron Fletcher, I watched you walk here from the office with scarcely any hint of a limp. I'll help you this end. Maybe there's someone at Malcolm's place you can phone? They'd have plenty of warning.”

Aaron muttered a “Doubt it” under his breath before grudgingly accepting his fate. Tricia was perfectly capable of handing him a tele-sales list of no-hopers on the following day and for several days after that. Each quarter's bonus kept the credit card afloat; he had no intention of screwing up the next one because of Malcolm bloody Smithson.

His boss brandished her phone. “Here's his address.”

He glanced at his own device as the necessary information appeared on the screen.

“Lucky he's only about five minutes away from you.”

He decided a sarcastic 'Happy thought' was best left unsaid.

As they both marched towards the bar, more and more heads turned to watch their progress. Aaron remained fixed on the job in hand, filtering out the rising crescendo of speculation. At least he now had the excuse to go home, even if it meant being labelled a management lackey. The DJ cranked up Wham's Wake Me Up Before You Go-go to ear-splitting levels in an attempt to win back his punters.

Instinctively, Aaron put a finger in each ear before snatching them away again, conscious they were both on display. However, as it became clear to his co-workers nothing exciting or social media worthy was likely, the twin attractions of booze and dancing regained their sway. Slowly, the assault on his hearing relented as Wham's power was dialled back down.

Tricia leant in. “So, how d'you want to play this?”

Aaron blinked. “Err… has someone ordered the Uber?” Even at the reduced level, being close to one of the speakers meant talking loudly. He knew the rasp would play havoc with his throat.

“Yeah – that's all sorted. The car will be here in ten; it's on the account so you'll get home as well.” Her lips pursed. “That's assuming you don't take too long getting Malcolm settled.”

For a moment, dissent bubbled up again. “Why me, for fuck's sake? I'm no nursemaid.” Halfway through, Wham suddenly faded out, leaving him high and dry.

Tricia blanked him; instead she took the last few steps towards the bar. “Hi, Malcolm.” With a couple of repetitions, each increasing in volume, she finally got a response.

Malcolm's bleary-eyed face looked back, darkened by a flush. “Wassup?”

“Malcolm, Aaron here…” Her outstretched arm dragged him into view. “Aaron'll see you back home safely.”

“Wha'?”

Finally, Malcolm's clouded mind seemed to realise who Tricia was. Using his arms, he levered himself off the bar counter in an attempt to sit upright. No sooner did he achieve his aim than he wobbled and threatened to topple off the stool.

“Whoa!” Aaron caught the other man round the waist to support him. “Shit, he's pretty out of it.”

Being that close, his nostrils clenched in anticipation of old sweat and spilt alcohol. Instead, the predominant note came from a light cologne. Aaron frowned; it was pleasantly citrus and totally at odds with the rest of the guy. It wouldn't help with getting the other man home though. Aaron rarely consumed enough alcohol to get happy, never mind to feel inebriated. Smithson tried to turn round. The younger man tensed, wondering if he was about to get embraced or even worse, kissed by a drunk suddenly turned amorous.

Casting around for solutions, an idea surfaced. He caught the bartender's eye. “You got any cold caffeine drinks, mate?”

“Yeah. How many?”

“Just the one'll do, thanks.” He had no wish to share the car with Smithson needing the loo desperately.

He opened the can and poured it into a glass. “Here, Malcolm, take a drink of this.”

A few minutes later, they both occupied the worn and faintly malodorous back seats of a clapped-out Ford Mondeo.

The Sikh driver let his unhappiness be known as he got in the front seat. “I do hope your friend wouldn't be sick. It cost me a couple of hundred quid the last time the seats needed to be cleaned.”

Aaron shrugged. The entire vehicle didn't strike him as being worth that much. Without replying, he recited Smithson's address. The car got going; when it took a left-hand turn, his charge lolled up against him. Little change was effected by a sideways shove – the other man's bulk resisted any movement. Another couple of tries digging an elbow in his ribs also failed to rouse his fellow passenger. Aaron grumped, resigning himself to being a prop for the duration. If his favourite shirt was mutilated in any way, he'd make the company pay.

The driver addressed his rear-view mirror while they waited at a junction. “What's his problem? It's only nine o'clock. Why is he already pissed?”

As much as Aaron agreed with the sentiments, he wasn't about to say so. “He'll be fine in the morning. You concentrate on the road.”

A hope the caffeine might keep his fellow passenger functioning proved futile; loud snores now reverberated in his left ear. A hissed “Malcolm!” only resulted in a brief interruption.

He tried again, louder this time. “Wake up, you drunken fucker!”

The other man snorted a couple times but didn't properly surface. He snuggled up closer, moving his head to find a more comfortable position on Aaron's collarbone before giving his neck a quick kiss. The younger man flinched. A sudden belch wafted an uninviting stink of beer and whiskey chasers past his nose, obliterating any other scents. Aaron rolled his eyes; the other guy had put away a significant amount of booze.

He wondered who Malcolm Smithson really was, as the taxi slowed for a set of traffic lights on the way. The other guy didn't feature in any of the work gossip he heard, nor was he discussed on any of the WhatsApp groups. A frown appeared; not that he was the subject much either. That was his main reason for joining the groups: keeping watch, joining in only as much as strictly necessary, while he hoovered up anything interesting. Faizal Khan from Logistics had only been around for three months or so; he was already a hot topic due to his pursuit of certain members of the opposite sex.

Without warning, his charge woke up and sprawled back onto his own seat, only to start a tuneless rendition of Boy George's Karma Chameleon. The flapping hands attempted to mimic the singer's actions presumably. Aaron set his teeth – the end of the journey couldn't come soon enough.

Finally the car drew up outside a low-rise block of flats.

Aaron elbowed the other man, who'd sunk back into a doze. “We're here.”

“Wha'?” A pair of eyes blinked owlishly back at him.

“Jesus!” He took a deep breath. “You're home, Malcolm. OK?”

“Home?”

“Yes. Home.” He pointed towards the side window.

“Oh.” Puzzlement passed over the other man's face. “So why you here? You my date?”

Aaron heard tuts coming from the front seat, the driver's turban emphasising the shakes of his head.

“What is your problem, mate?” It felt good to take out his frustration on the driver. “He hasn't puked in the car. Everything's fine. You're being paid to wait, yeah? So fucking wait.”

The man checked the time. “Fifteen minutes only; then I'm off.”

“Fifteen?!” Aaron sized up what he had to do. “Yeah? Make sure you do bloody wait, otherwise this'll be the last job you do for the company.”

It looked likely to take that long to assist Smithson into the house. Getting out into a persistent drizzle, he strode round to the other side and opened the door wide. The sound of an open-mouthed snore greeted him.

“For fuck's sake!” Aaron bent down and squeezed his top half in through the open door. “Wake up!” His barked command made the other guy surface. “D'you wanna stay in this shit-hole of a car all night?” He ignored further tutting from the front seat. “Come on; shift yourself!” He thrust out a hand.

In slow motion, the other man grasped hold. With much heaving, curses, and the odd bruise and scrape, Malcolm Smithson finally stood on his own two feet. Sort of. One arm around his charge's waist again, Aaron felt he was taking part in a slow-motion, three-legged race as they set out along the path. They made it to the block's communal door.

Aaron grimaced. “Got your keys, Malcolm?” He should've asked earlier.

“Err…”

“Keys!”

“Oh, yeah.” The guy fumbled around for a moment. “Err… somewhere.” An expression of befuddlement settled over his face.

Propping his charge up against the door surround, Aaron methodically searched the other man's pockets without result until he noticed the necessary keys attached to a belt loop.

He undid the metal clasp. “There you are, mate.” He held them up.

“Thanks.” The other man reached out for them. “'ll be OK.”

“Sure?” A couple of failed attempts to unlock the door ended with the keys on the floor. He bent down to rescue them. “I'll come in with you.”

“No; you're not my date.” A shake of his head accompanied a frown. “'m fine.”

Aaron noted the growing agitation. “Don't worry; I'm just seeing you home safe. Whatever the mess, whatever your kink, I'll have seen it before; believe me. And anyway, I'll be gone very soon.” Looking back to the street, the taxi was still there, the driver staring in their direction.

The keys were grabbed from him. This time, the older guy succeeded in turning the right key in the lock. During his struggles to open the door outwards, he again looked likely to lose his balance.

“Mind!” Aaron used his backside to keep the door ajar while steadying the other man.

Malcolm Smithson freed himself and lurched up against the interior wall. He used it both as a guide and support for his uncertain gait while also singing something unidentifiable. After a few seconds spent watching him, Aaron moved to position himself parallel to the other man in case of accidents. The guy might not want him there, but no way was he going to be reprimanded later if Smithson rolled up the following day with bruises and a black eye.

Finally, it became clear the furthest flat on the ground floor, No. 4, was their destination. His charge's head turned. “'ll be fine.”

“I need to see you in, Malcolm.”

The other man frowned at him.

“Just make sure you get to bed OK. Look, the sooner you let us both in, the quicker I'll be on my way. Yeah?”

His companion hesitated; the cogs in his brain almost visibly whirred.

Smithson's reluctance to let him in piqued Aaron's curiosity. After turning several, more bizarre ideas over in his mind, he decided the most likely explanation was the state of the place. According to one stereotype, an older, lone straight man wouldn't care about housework or his own appearance. Aaron shrugged. As long as there wasn't a decomposing corpse lying around, or heaps of rotting food, he really didn't give a toss. The other man's life wasn't likely to be of any lasting interest; though he did make sure his phone was primed and ready, just in case.

Still no reply. “OK to come in with you, Malcolm?” He watched a faint expression of defeat wash over his charge's face.

“Yeah.”

“Way to go!” Aaron reclaimed the bunch of keys and made short work of the two locks. “See – home, sweet home.” His temper improved as the end of the task approached.

After a brief time spent groping for the light switch, Aaron led the way. The flat's entrance hall was short and narrow – leading, he presumed, to the main living area. A door to the right concealed the bathroom – a fact made plain when Smithson lurched past him through the opening and slammed the door behind him. Sounds of him noisily throwing up made Aaron shake his head. Hopefully he'd found either the loo or the sink to aim at.

He hesitated, wondering whether to lend a hand. Instead, curiosity made him head towards the other door into the main living area. Before turning the handle, he looked back over his shoulder; a shouted question would salve his conscience. “You OK, Malcolm? Need anything?”

Any reply the other man gave wasn't audible, but sounds of running water and splashing indicated things were happening. With another shake of his head, Aaron entered the living room. Once inside, he stood, analysing his first impressions. Instead of the hoarder's paradise, or an unloved, dusty mess, a bright, clean-smelling home greeted him. There were even fresh cut flowers in a vase on the small dining table. The surprising theme of freshness continued in the décor: white and sunshine yellow, underscored by a more sober dark blue.

Approval mixed with surprise; Smithson didn't strike him as the sort of guy to employ an interior designer. Or to know anything about colour co-ordination. Aaron's brow furrowed. In some ways, the flat looked better cared for than his own place. He never seemed to have the necessary time to keep the dusting under control. Could there be an ex out there? He took a seat on the well-presented sofa while he waited.

Five minutes later, he heard the bathroom door open. The flat's owner reappeared and leant on the door jamb for support. He was pale, clammy, and with a damp face and shirt front.

“Better, Malcolm?” A tired half-shrug was his only answer. “Look at it this way: less alcohol for your system to process.” Aaron jumped to his feet. “Here – come and sit down. I'll get you a glass of water.”

With his help, the other guy sank into the nearest chair; his head lolled back against the upholstery.

Aaron didn't fancy getting him back on his feet again. “Back in a sec. Then we'll get you into bed.”

A mumbled word of thanks from Smithson was soon extinguished by his eyes closing.

The younger man stared in disbelief. The temptation to leave the guy like that tugged hard at his conscience. Instead he decided to finish the job off; he'd never been one for leaving a task unfinished. The taxi would have buggered off long ago, so he might as well use of the additional time to have a further snoop around.

A while later, snores now coming from the bed told Aaron he'd finally discharged his duties; just the clearing up to do. He gathered up the discarded clothing and chucked most of it into the washing bag. The trousers he kept back, putting them instead on a hanger. The bedroom, like the rest of the flat, puzzled him. Nothing pink or remotely fluffy disturbed the calm, pale green theme, yet the mirrored dressing table appeared incongruous. The curved, painted wood and fancy drawer handles to his eyes accentuated its feminine qualities.

“Sure you're not displaying as many prejudices as the average, bigoted het?” The rhetorical self-questioning fortunately didn't wake the other man. It was true though. How many assumptions had he made in the past hour or so?

The dressing table's surface was clear apart from a comb and brush, together with an assortment of vaguely medicinal tubs and jars. He looked more closely. There, hiding at the back, stood the scent bottle. Picking it up with care, he sniffed at the dispenser. Magnolia and citrus were the scents he distinguished, the same as before. The high-end, women's label made his eyebrows rise.

Aaron gave himself a shake. Why was he so fascinated by the private life of one drunk co-worker? The guy probably asked his mother or sister for design advice. The perfume was a quirk. Taking the hanger, he opened the wardrobe door to put the trousers away. He disliked creased, crumpled garments – his or anyone else's.

One arm reached towards the rail with its burden when he focussed on what was already there. Skirts, mostly casual, together with a dress or two, hung in front of him. They had a used appearance. His mouth opened. Looking down, he saw a rack with several pairs of women's sandals next to the more expected lace-ups and trainers. Blinking eyes took some seconds to take it all in. Finally, he added the pair of trousers to the mix on the rail, joining several similarly well-worn specimens.

“So, does he have a woman in his life, or not?” Aaron had no idea why he was talking to himself all of a sudden. “Surely not; nobody's ever seen her, or mentioned a name.”

Frowning, he turned to look at the bed and its occupant. Everything about Smithson signalled an unloved loner. Aaron refused to make comparisons with his own existence. His thoughts roamed, trying to find other solutions to the riddle. He'd watched drag queens on occasion, but no cabaret performer worth their reputation would wear anything like the single grey business skirt he'd spotted amongst the rest. Boring and dowdy, the queens weren't. Guiltily, he grabbed hold of the nearest skirt and checked the label for the sizing; when the numbers didn't mean anything, he compared the waist size with what he remembered from the trousers. They were close enough as to be the same.

Almost as a reflex, he took several photos with his phone. Something to puzzle over later, or to share with his own small, private social media group.

He thumbed out a message to Tricia:

'Mission accomplished. In bed and snoring like a pig. Left him a glass of water and some headache tablets. ;-)'

Not waiting for a response, Aaron headed out, making sure the front door closed properly behind him. A damp murk accompanied him for his walk home. The short stroll left him with time to think about the photos. No way would he post them publicly; he wasn't a troll. What had Smithson ever done to warrant that? And anyway, the comeback was likely to be harsh. He recalled the outcry following a female researcher in R&D who gave vent to a choice selection of homophobic tropes on a public social media account. She was on a final warning, according to the rumour mill.

To test the waters before he got home, he got the phone out again. Opening his messaging app, he composed another text, this time to his friend Fran, together with images attached.

'Is this the new look for queer cabaret, do you know? O_o Found in single, apparently straight guy's wardrobe. Weird, or what? Sending to the mob later.'

Fran, a self-declared butch lesbian, was one of his few long-term friends. Relationships of any sort weren't his forte. He grimaced. How different was he from Malcolm Smithson, when it came down to essentials? His phone pinged.

'Ex-girlfriend? Ex-wife? Storage for a sister? What the fuck else you implying? Phone me. Now. Or I'll have your fucking balls.'

Aaron winced. Just as well he hadn't sent a text to the group. Better he was chewed out on a one-to-one basis. Fran could carry out the threat. They'd first met when she came to his rescue one evening on a random city street. Two thick-set, thuggish football louts were making his life difficult: threats, taunts, some shoving. Fran and her then girlfriend spotted him and joined in on his side. The other woman was more verbal than physical. Aaron smiled wryly to himself. As soon as the baiting had looked to turn into a fracas, Fran's Doc Martens made short work of one lout. She delivered a kick of which any Premier League striker would be proud. Aaron's hand covered his genital region for a moment. The guy went down, staying there until his mate dragged him away.

He hurried the last few hundred metres to his poky new-build home. It was better to be inside before he returned the call; any conversation with Fran in a mood was wont to result in them both yelling. Aaron swiftly poured himself a no-alcohol beer and sat at the kitchen table to drink it. There wasn't any point in getting comfortable if they were going to have a disagreement. He breathed in deeply and tapped Fran's number.

“What took you so long?”

His eyes rolled. “I waited 'til I was back home. OK?”

“Hmm… so if I were to land on your doorstep now, you'd have no dirty secrets waiting to be discovered?”

His mouth opened; he closed it again, having said nothing. The continuing silence condemned him. Finally, he hedged. “Err… maybe?” Some kinky bedroom playthings came to mind – the legacy of a previous relationship; a shelf of Kylie memorabilia would also qualify.

“So, like the other poor bastard? Maybe.”

He grimaced at the repeated 'maybe'. “The guy's so ordinary. Boring, even.”

“And there's you, the out-and-loud, flamboyant, man-about-town.”

Lips pursed at the sarcasm, laid on thick. It was true though; his life and Smithson's converged yet again. He spluttered. “No… well, I…” His cheeks glowed.

“Aaron Fletcher, how much notice do you take of the queer world around you?”

He frowned, not sure where the question was leading. “Got my own life, thanks.”

“Aka self-obsessed?”

“No!” He stared at the handset with indignation.

“Don't get all righteous with me; it doesn't work. OK, how late is it?”

“Err… half-ten, and I've an important sales meeting in the…”

“Not too bad. How about inviting me over for a night-cap? We'll have a friendly chat.”

He sighed, not caring if she heard. Fran was a force of nature. “That meeting sets the next quarter's targets, OK? I can't afford to wing it. Thirty minutes, and no more.”

“Done. See you shortly.”

When he opened the front door, Fran stood there, tapping her foot. From the Converse footwear to her freshly-done buzz cut, she would've easily passed for a guy if it wasn't for her boobs.

“You gonna invite me in or what?”

A mock-bow followed as he moved aside. Fran gave him the eye as she passed through.

“Sorry – two hours of crap 80's hits have fried my brain.”

An eyebrow went up. “That's your best excuse, is it? For everything? Office parties are uniformly a waste of fucking time.”

Five minutes later, they both nursed mugs of decaffeinated tea in the living room.

Fran stared at hers with suspicion. “You've a weird idea of a night-cap. What'll it be next time?”

“Next time?”

“Now I've crossed the threshold, there'll be no holding me back.”

Aaron peered over his glasses. “Hmm…” Theirs was an online friendship with the occasional outing to a coffee shop. “Let's see how this one goes first, shall we?”

A smirk was his only answer. Fran put the mug down. “So how d'you end up seeing this guy home?”

“My boss, Tricia, noticed me standing around, drinking cranberry juice. As a punishment, she thought I'd make a good management stooge. Anyway…” Aaron started in on the rest of the evening's tale.

Fran took sips from her mug as she listened carefully.

“So in the end, I left Smithson in his bed; he reminded me of a stranded seal apart from the non-stop snoring. God, what a lard-ball.”

“Aaron!” The woman opposite slammed the mug down onto the coffee table, slopping some of its contents over a take-away menu. “Your manager didn't go far enough – you've evidently had a complete empathy bypass. For fuck's sake! Show some respect.”

He glowered back while experiencing a small knot in his guts. A snapshot from his school days appeared unbidden in his mind: his queer, unathletic, fourteen year-old self backed up against a wall, surrounded by a mocking gang of fellow students, male and female.

“So there you are, trespassing in this guy's bedroom…”

“Trespassing? He invited me in.”

“Kinda.”

The knot in his guts tightened a little more.

“Anyway, you open his wardrobe, and the urge to take those photos overwhelms you.”

Aaron hesitated; there was no sense at all Fran considered it a laughing matter. “Ehm… you have to admit it was a pretty unusual sight.”

An eyebrow went up. “One which you had no permission to view; unusual or not.”

“Yeah, but how was I meant to put his trousers away if…”

“Give me strength. Drape them over a chair; the sofa in the living room; the fucking bedroom door, even.”

He never left his clothes lying around at home, so it became imperative to impose the same standards on a man he'd barely met. Aaron grimaced. A memory of his younger sister and he bubbled to the surface. Whenever the two of them had a baking session, her thrown-together efforts always turned out tastier than his. Sweating to follow the recipe never made his cakes as successful. One Sunday afternoon, the contrast was so stark, he grabbed the cooling tray with his sister's cup cakes and smashed it onto the floor. Aaron heard his younger self condemning her because 'she never does it properly'.

A sigh escaped; now he recalled the incident, he also remembered the subsequent conversation with his mum about different routes, individual choices. A lesson he'd gradually neglected over the years. Aaron returned to life in his living room with Fran giving him a speculative look.

“So if I were to invade your drawers, I wouldn't find anything incriminating?”

“What?”

“Scandalous; such as your own stash of clothing apparently intended for the opposite sex?”

“No!” His mouth opened to continue the sentence when he refocussed on what Fran wore. Whatever he'd planned to say, vanished.

She stood up. “Hmm… get me a proper night-cap, then I'll take you on a virtual tour of sorts. OK with that?”

“Yeah.”

The following morning, Malcolm Smithson surfaced groggily into a bright spring day. Squinting at the open curtains, he wondered briefly why they weren't drawn closed as on every other night before the problem was dismissed as too difficult. Blurry numerals on his phone's screen caused a thick “Fuckin' hell!” to be addressed into the pillow. Clumsy fingers let the handset drop. Why he was still in bed at nine o'clock on a Thursday, he had no idea.

Slowly he rolled over onto his back and noted roiling in his stomach, a furred mouth, and a headache which threatened to split his skull. “Jesus!”

Struggling to remember what happened the night before, one mental image administered a sickening jolt. An overweight guy – him, quite clearly – sat slumped on a bar stool with several empty glasses in front of him. One of the senior managers from work approached and spoke to him. Malcolm groaned. Did he kiss someone? No memory was forthcoming on that, but he'd travelled in a cab with another guy. An echo of drunken singing lingered. Malcolm pulled the covers up to his eyebrows in an attempt to keep out the real world.

The bloody staff social. He'd only gone because he skipped the previous two; his manager brought it up in his last appraisal. Had he made a complete prick of himself? Drinking beforehand had backfired spectacularly. The iron band round his head pressed harder. The answer was clear; even with the little he currently recalled. Whimpers echoed in the silence. There was no way he could face going into work – late, hungover, and an object of office gossip and ridicule.

One hand groped sideways for the discarded phone. He managed to catch hold of it before the handset eluded his grasp and ended up under the bed. That was a bonus. Propping himself up against the headboard, he tapped the shortcut to call his line manager. A preternaturally-loud dialling tone pierced the mental fog. Malcolm shook himself briefly – as much as he could without causing his head to fall off. A dry tongue scraped away at the roof of his mouth in the hope of producing some saliva. Too late, he noticed the glass of water next to the bedside lamp.

“Nadil Patel.”

He swallowed. “Hi, Nadil. It's Malcolm here; Malcolm Smithson.” A pause was needed to clear his throat. “I… ehm, I'm feeling unwell.”

“OK. Something to do with yesterday evening?”

His manager's light, melodious tenor caused a slight shiver down Malcolm's spine.

“Yeah.” Any further explanation died when other voices in the background made him wonder whether Nadil was in the Customer Service operations room. “I need to take a day's sick leave.”

“You and a number of other people apparently.” A sniff followed.

Malcolm bit his lip.

“OK. One day. Your return-to-work interview will be an opportunity to discuss any ongoing health issues you may have. I gather a general email will go out later today reminding team members that our agreed standards of behaviour must be maintained at all times. We'll see you tomorrow then.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Nadil.”

Urgent signals from his bladder caused a stumbling rush to the bathroom. Only then did he realise his complete nakedness. It seemed odd that he'd apparently managed to remove his clothes but not put on a simple pair of sleep shorts. A slight shrug dismissed that thought amongst all the others. After a quick wash, followed by rinsing his mouth out, Malcolm shuffled back to the bedroom. A half-open pair of eyes blearily scanned the floor. So where were the clothes? The only things obvious were his shoes.

As he tried to solve another puzzle, the loudness of a man's voice from the night before, angry and persistent, filled his head. The flat Yorkshire accent was distinctive and another element of the previous evening's debacle fell into place. Malcolm swallowed hard. The voice belonged to Aaron Fletcher from Sales. There was no-one else who spoke like that, combined with his sheer fuck-you attitude. Whimpers escaped again. Of all the possible people to accompany him home, why did it have to be Fletcher? How would he live down being hauled drunk out of a cab by the firm's star sales executive?

“Jesus Christ! Could you've made a worse fucking mess of it?” Leaning against the wall, a trembling hand rubbed his forehead, back and forth.

The nausea returned. More remembered images appeared. Fletcher had been there in the flat, sitting on the sofa as though he owned it. Was that all? Malcolm pictured himself back in the bathroom – there was no stink of stale vomit. Everything gleamed.

“Why him? Why bloody Aaron Fletcher?”

Fletcher represented exactly the kind of guy who'd made his life a misery at school. Malcolm sniffed a couple of times. Unsure who he was in any way, there was no easier target for those who hated difference, nonconformity. He lurched towards the bedside cabinet; both pills and the glass of water soon disappeared. In the hope perhaps they would make everything appear better. The bed tempted him back.

He resisted, continuing to talk out loud in a bid for self-motivation. “No. Come on, you need to eat. And get dressed… in something.” The lack of discarded clothes still bothered him; he didn't like to think of Fletcher in that room.

A brief rummage in various drawers equipped Malcolm with most of what he needed.

He turned to the wardrobe. “Skirt, or trousers?” Often a skirt was his choice when he stayed home. However, a nightmarish vision of Fletcher returning for some unknown reason made that impossible.

Listlessly, he flicked through the hangers until he reached one which made him stare. “Shit!”

There, before him, hung a carefully-folded pair of dark trousers from which a work pass dangled. Yesterday's trousers. No way had he done that himself. The little blood at his extremities drained away. Fletcher.

“Jesus. I'm fucked; so completely screwed.” Malcolm staggered backwards until the bed got in the way. His knees buckled as he sat down in a hurry. Tears flowed.

Blindly groping for a hanky, he attempted to staunch the wetness while more pictures paraded through his head. He imagined the whole sales team – never known for their subtlety or empathy – listening to Aaron Fletcher. The guffaws, snide giggles, and wide eyes which would greet Fletcher's descriptions made him shake. It was too much.

Malcolm crawled back into bed, hoping he'd never have to return to work ever again.