Conclusion

She offers her ring to him. Taking the hint, he does the same to her. They suck towards the embedded fruits, and discover that the amber has become a sort of sugar-amber, and everything dissolves into their mouths, and the rings gap as a result and fall unheeded to the floor. And they smile. And the amber-sugar has pitted their teeth already. 

Their auras are still frozen at the point of arrest. They each look at both of them, and the eyes of each of them betray recognition of both. 

She removes the gibberel from his face, but leaves his drivishes linked. His face pulses as he gulps and spits inwardly, with his lips closed tight. She stands there until his lips eventually unheal, and his tongue protrudes, and she then wipes his lips with the wormcloth rag. She reaches out to his forehead, and smears out the curve of the meandering interrogation with a straight line, leaving the dot intact. 

The lights go to an immediate black and the sound of a broken wind cracks throughout the room, and then there is a gradual dawn-like lightening. 

And the long whistles of wind drain away and their absence imposes a temporary silence. 

He pustules up a gob of snot, and spits it into the corner. He looks at her. "So. Am I free to speak now, Mrs. Sericin?" 

"Yes, Mr. Scroop. The sign has been made: you may now exclaim to the contentment of your heart." 

"Without punishment, Mrs. Sericin?" 

"Yes, Mr. Scroop, now you may speak without fear of punishment."

"Why was I not allowed to speak before, Mrs. Sericin?" 

"Because those are the rules, Mr. Scroop. Because that was the nature of the task." 

"Of this task, Mrs. Sericin, or all tasks?" 

"All tasks that I have been connected with and can remember, Mr. Scroop." 

"So, you're an old hand at this, Mrs. Sericin?" 

"Yes, I'm afraid that I am, Mr. Scroop, in every sense of the phrase. Here, look at the discrepancies in the numbers on our tattoos." They put their hands close together, and he compares the numbers. "But of course, you are not accustomed to dealing with old hands, are you, Mr. Scroop?" 

"What do you mean by that? I'm sorry: what do you mean by that, Mrs. Sericin?" 

"Oh, dossiers and data, Mr. Scroop. Preparation. Planning. Information supplied by the reprehensatives. Statements about proclivities. Fact or fiction, I couldn't really say, but they are all I have to go on." 

"Lies mostly, in all probability, Mrs. Sericin." 

"Possibly, Mr. Scroop, possibly." 

"But why us, Mrs. Sericin? Why are we in here together?" 

"Why are we here together, Mr. Scroop? We're married!" 

"Only temporarily, as I understand it, Mrs. Sericin. Only politically." 

"That may well be, Mr. Scroop, but the reprehensatives must have detected some underlying, albeit temporary, compatibility to put us together. Something has caused us to be chosen, Mr. Scroop: perhaps you are indeed my commonwealth and I your restoration. Or vice versa. Possibly vice versa." 

"But what are we supposed to do together here, Mrs. Sericin? What is the point of all this?" 

"We are here to be gummy and yummy with each other, Mr. Scroop, in the quest for retribution and rehabilitation: gummy and yummy, Mr. Scroop: that's all. And polite with each other before we say goodbye. What the reprehensatives call – as I have alluded to before but you may well not remember - riparian symbiosis." 

"But Mrs. Sericin, the fact that we're married doesn't mean that I'm not dangerous to you. How do they know?" 

"Yes, well, there's a bit of a history of marriages being just that - dangerous - Mr. Scroop, if I remember things correctly. However, have no concerns: the reprehensatives have done their homework, and calculated the feardom probability index appropriately. Otherwise, we would not be here together." 

"I didn't think I had much choice, Mrs. Sericin." 

"Oh, I think you were given the opportunity not to attend, weren't you, Mr. Scroop?" 

"Oh, I was, Mrs. Sericin, but I was also given an extremely heavy hint as to what the consequences would be if I didn't." 

"Let us hope that you made the correct decision, Mr. Scroop." 

"To know that, Mrs. Sericin, I need some more information. What are our respective roles: why are we here together? Are you my probationary officer, or something like that?" 

"Me, Mr. Scroop? Do you think that I am wearing a uniform?" 

"That depends upon the significance of those stripes, Mrs. Sericin."

"Indeed, Mr. Scroop. Indeed. Do they comprise a badge that marks my status, and my position in this relationship, Mr. Scroop? You don't have any stripes, of course - you're a spotty individual. However, you might also be my probationary officer." 

"That I doubt, Mrs. Sericin: that I doubt very much indeed." 

"Never doubt the sophistication of the reprehensatives, Mr. Scroop - you never know." 

"Do you know why you're here, Mrs. Sericin?" 

"Oh, that's not for me to wonder, Mr. Scroop: that's for you to wonder, but one possibility is that this might be part of my rehabilitation. This might be my probationary slot to assist you and prove that I can be relied upon. You never know, and perhaps also each stripe is an indication of a further step in my rehabilitation." 

"As well as being a useful place for things to come out of, Mrs. Sericin. Am I right? Did I remember that correctly?" 

"You do indeed, Mr. Scroop." 

"But if things emerge from the stripes in your chaperoon, do they come from your garment, Mrs. Sericin, or from inside you? And likewise, if, as I remember, things come from your hat, do they come out of your hat or out of your head?" 

"That I am not at liberty to disclose, Mr. Scroop. There are standards to be maintained, you know." 

"So what about my badge, Mrs. Sericin? Are these spots some sort of status?" 

"No, Mr. Scroop, they are merely indications of your adopted species." 

"The adopted species that was forced upon me, Mrs. Sericin!" 

"Indeed, Mr. Scroop, and none the worse for that. Perhaps we should say the species that adopted you, my little burnet moth." 

"So this suggests that I have no status, Mrs. Sericin." 

"You catch on quickly, Mr. Scroop. As far as I am aware, you have none. The reprehensatives have not assigned one to you." 

"And who are they, Mrs. Sericin? Who are they?" 

"Who, the reprehensatives, Mr. Scroop? They are who they are and we are who we are, and their job is to assess us in the light of what we’ve done, and decide our future course of action." 

"And you are not one of them, in any shape or form, Mrs. Sericin? You are simply one of us?" 

"Well, Mr. Scroop, I have certainly committed an action that caused me to be here, so I am certainly one of you. But I may well be both, of course. I could be changing over from prisoner to official, in a process of rehabilitation." 

"So am I literally on trial here, Mrs. Sericin?" 

"I don't know, Mr. Scroop. However, I am allowed to tell you that I was told that one of the roles I might be fulfilling was your Trial Administrator." 

"Well I was told that I might be your Audition Official, Mrs. Sericin." 

"Really? So have I passed the audition, Mr. Scroop?" 

"I have no idea, Mrs. Sericin. What is the verdict of my trial?" 

"I don't know, Mr. Scroop. As I said, I don't even know whether you are on trial. It is possible that you have already been found guilty and are being punished. But how could I know? As I said, I am as unsure of my own status as I am of yours. Lack of certainty, Mr. Scroop - it's the one thing we have in common. It is our shared psalm, Mr. Scroop - the most resonant duet in the entire room: hear how we beat against each other." 

"So if you've been here for years, I could be hanging around here for years as well?" 

"You won't have any time left, to wait or do anything else if you fail to use my name again, Mr. Scroop. Otherwise, you will be boiled alive. Or worse. You know the rules. Respect the conventions. Observe the etiquette." 

"Why do we have that rule, Mrs. Sericin? We surely know each other's names by now." 

"Who knows, Mr. Scroop? I suspect that it may be for the reprehensatives' convenience as far as transcription of - residents' - conversation is concerned." 

The bonsai mulberry tree suddenly withers and shrivels its fruit to the table top, its gnarled trunk staying upright, but its leaves clattering to the table. 

"However, Mr. Scroop, if you observe, the tree has just died. This is the signal that it is time for us to commence our review of proceedings." 

"Mrs. Sericin, I was not informed that this would have to take place. There is nothing in the instructions." 

"Nice to have a surprise, Mr. Scroop. Let me snuggle in here."

She slips underneath his drivishes and rises from her crouch to form the embrace and she slaps her wrists together around the back of his neck, to reunite her drivishes and complete the bond. 

She looks at him. "So, where shall we start?" 

"You didn't use my name, Mrs. Sericin." 

"No need. No need for either of us. It's in the rules. When we establish the clinch, we can drop the salutations. We are beyond the bounds of conventions, but that doesn't mean we don't have responsibilities. Kiss me again. 

They embrace, and kiss. 

She looks at him. She smiles. "Well now, what do you remember?"

"Nothing much." 

"Well, that's normal, I believe. But try harder. Perhaps your unconscious remembers. Perhaps you remember the last journey. But was it the only journey, or were there others? Perhaps there were and your brain cannot hold any more details than that. As a moth, you may not have much of an attention span." 

"There are some things that seem to be returning. I have the impression of having seen certain things about you – about your past, I think. I seem to remember something with a child. I don't know if I saw these things in your aura or if I just guessed. For instance, I'm sure I saw a woman with a child but couldn't see the child, or it might have been a child with a woman, but I couldn't see the woman. I can't remember, but I'm sure I saw something. These things I saw, where did they come from? Who hid these people from me, you or them?"Did they come from your mind? Or were they implanted by somebody else?" 

"Oh, Mr. Scroop, I'm sure that these are not the only contenders to have subverted your unconscious. There's you as well, for instance. But I remain the chief suspect, I would suspect." 

"You did have children, didn't you?" 

She is silent. 

"Your mascara is smudged. Have you been crying when I wasn't looking?" 

She is silent. 

"Mrs. Sericin, I think you have children that you are no longer in contact with. Is that right?" 

"Mr. Scroop, if we were not in our - pardon the expression - debriefing session, I don't think that would be a valid question. But since we're where we are - the answer is 'yes'." 

"Mrs. Sericin, I need to ask you - where are your children now?" 

"I don't know." 

"You must miss them." 

"It's not relevant." 

"You must miss them." 

"Every day, Mr. Scroop, every day." 

"Do you have people waiting for you out there?" 

"Possibly. I'm not sure, Mr. Scroop. I'm not even sure where 'out there' is any more. And perhaps I don't really want to know." 

"Lots of hoops to jump through to get back there, I suppose."

"Yes, for you and for me." 

"Or worse." 

"Well, what is worst, Mr. Scroop, swinging both ways, bobbing and weaving, or back-stabbing? Not that they're mutually exclusive, of course. But which is the more devious motion? And which is it that has brought you here?" 

"Whatever it is, I certainly regret it." 

"Oh, Mr. Scroop, I have a lot to regret too, and a lot to wonder about still. I don't know what fate will befall me. Or. Or. Or other people."

"Other people?" 

"Yes. There are friends in the past, and possibly friends in the future. Friends who have helped and friends who are waiting out there, willing to help again." 

"Oh, you say that, but I'm not so sure. I think that maybe you did do something and that I'm being used in some way in connection with that." 

"Used? Who by? Is this some paranoia creeping in?  

"I hope not. I do hope not. So, do you have people waiting for you out there, Mrs. Sericin?" 

"I assume so. And there'll be a lot more complication there. Which I may have to resolve. If they let me go." 

"I don't know if they'll ever let me go." 

"At some point you will be let go, Mr. Scroop. At some point you will be escaped. Escaped but mutilated. Mutilated up your brainy brain brain just like you've been mutilated up your hairy body and you will then remain mutilated up your brainy brain brain for the rest of your liverish living life." 

"However long that might be." 

"Well, Mr. Scroop, this is a secret they have not kept from me, so I know you are ill. But that's all I know." 

They release each other. She rips apart the fastenings of the drivishes from her wrists, ducks beneath the ghost-memory of their clinch and slides away. 

"Mr. Scroop, now that we have returned from the final embrace, the formalities need to be re-established." 

Winds stroke in from all directions, and the debris is swept from the floor into previously unglimpsed apertures. 

"So am I free to go now?" 

"Mr. Scroop, as I have just clearly explained to you, we are no longer in a state of intimacy, so you must observe the formalities. This is the second time that that you have transgressed: the third time may well prove extremely costly indeed. To answer your question, Mr. Scroop, yes, you are free to walk through that door." 

"Is that the same thing, Mrs. Sericin?" 

"Perhaps you will find out when you walk through the door, Mr. Scroop. Who knows which parts of our stories have been told, and who knows what conclusions will be reached? Perhaps we will be back tomorrow, and our stories will be different, if the edible pieces of paper with our life instructions on are different, that is. Because it's all consumption, Mr. Scroop, all consumption. We have consumed. We have transgressed. We are being punished, and our punishments entail the very acts of consumption. So, now, Mr. Scroop, what shall we do? We could always start again from scratch. If we do, I shall have forgotten everything, just like you. So, what do you think, Mr. Scroop: shall we do it all again?"

CHOOSE

"Yes, Mrs. Sericin, let's do it all again."

OR

"No, Mrs. Sericin, let's call it all a day. And see what the next day brings." 

"As you wish, Mr. Scroop. Well then, that would appear to be that."

And she retrieves the key and unslips his drivishes. She digs her nails down into her own drivishes, removes them, and lets them drop to the floor. 

She looks at him. "Remember, Mr. Scroop, whatever crimes we may have committed, we are still innocent. Our transaction is pure. We have used no currency. Nothing has changed hands, except - as ever - the riparian exchange of our commonwealth of germs. So this is time to say goodnight, Mr. Scroop: time to return to our restoration. Possibly until the next time." 

And a few dried mulberry leaves fall from the table, and scud in circles in the floor-dust disturbed by a single wind as a door opens and closes for no apparent reason. 

She walks to the door. She opens it. It falls back smoothly and noiselessly. 

She kneels, and on all fours, she snuffles at his underwear-fling, picks up the garments, and passes them to him. She reaches up to fetch down his suit. He holds it while she releases him from the chaperoon, then lets the chaperoon drop at her bidding and shrugs himself into his suit. 

"Goodnight, Mr. Scroop." 

"Goodnight, Mrs. Sericin." 

And he leaves through the open door without looking back, limping his dislocated pain with him. 

And she watches him go. And both of their auras briefly show people looking at people walking away before they collapse into red powder and blue powder and dirty the floors and leave the mirrors clear. 

She sweeps up the differently coloured powders and puts them separately into two glass containers. She labels the containers "His Soul" and "Her Soul", leaves them on the table, retrieves a diary from the top stripe of her chaperoon, and then she consults it before tucking it under her arm. 

And then she, undressed below the waist, loin covering still discordant in its own discard pile on the floor, skirt still ribboned up at the front, totters from the room as it lightens, scrabbling her fingernails along the paintwork, and she walks through the door like a phantom, leaving nothing but the smell of blood and arousal and guttered candle-smoke. 

And after her departure, there is nothing left alive in the room.