She is here; he is
here. Therefore, the windowless room is officially occupied. The scene is
gradually settling into itself: the false mist is clearing.
In the room there are
only three pieces of furniture: an armchair, a long table, and a shaved tongue
recliner, jutting its pointed promontory into the room, with a woman lying
slouched out on its narrowing extent with her feet towards the point. And she is already corseted, overbusted, immaculately
and confidently self-laced.
The main wall and one
of the side walls are covered by ceiling-to-floor mirrors, flounced by black
curtains over the corners, and waving abstract patterns are being projected
over it, reflected from an invisible source, and each mirror loses its
refection, and becomes a screen, as soon as the light hits it.
On the other side
wall, there is what seems to be a trompe l’oeil mural, depicting nothing but
vertically affixed snap-traps, all set but not baited, arranged in three vees, with
56 traps in each.
A constantly repeated
set of drones leaks out of hidden speakers, impelling a series of repeated beat
of grated harmonies, undeviating, overlaying each other, filling the room, stopping,
then starting again, and although the mist is clearing, the light is still dim,
and the fourth wall is still invisible, not emerging from the gloom.
On the table, there
are thick candles and jars of honey; a pewter container; a bonsai mulberry bush
with full-sized fruit; small pastries in individual bowls, each smeared with
black icing; and a decanter containing clear spirit next to two small shot
glasses, emptily balanced on their pointed bases.
At one end of the
table, overhanging a splintered corner is a single sheet of instructions.
At the other end of
the table, there is a corset, draped but not hanging, jutting rather, just like
a wrinkled figurehead, and it is bright metallic blue fading into black with
red spots. There is also an indeterminate pile of other garments, or other
pieces of cloth, numbered from right to left to
indicate the order of application; a pair of black high-heeled shoes; a
long-handled mirror; a block of henna tattoo and its pipe.
In the middle of the table, there is also a
cloth mask, haemorrhage-scarlet in the gloom, attached by a cable to a central
position in the ceiling; a set of what appear to be gauntlets; a caterpillar-wig;
a garland of ragwort petals; and a bright brassy lipstick container.
She has three vee-shaped stripes clearly
visible down one side of the front of her corset, next to her left hand, and
they are white on the dark blue wormcloth, and on the other side she has a
white question mark. She is wearing an opera hat that she collapses and uncollapses
to prove that there is nothing in it before languidly replacing it on her head.
Her gloves are unruffled, but she smoothes them above her elbows anyway with
two sweeps of the hands. The securing straps are already dangling from the
wrists of her gloves. Her skirt is already ribboned up at the front.
Yesterday’s confetti is still in her hair. Her mascara is kohled upwards above
her eyes like surprise-flames. She smiles, and the impairings on her face and
embedded in her ears glisten sharp.
In the wormcloth armchair, he is just waking
from his drowsiness, but he is already naked: naked, bald and hairy, his shirt
and suit already dangling from a single hanger creaking from the chain hanging
from the ceiling, his socks and underwear flung to the floor. He is marked by
fist marks on his face, he has a scar in the shape of an fist on his chest, bits
of skin are missing from his back, and he is staring at her, insolently,
refusing to speak.
She pushes herself from the recliner, and
struts towards him. She strokes his face, avoiding the impairings. She says, "Well,
Mr. Scroop, time to dress you, I think. But first, a temporary calmness, Mr.
Scroop, first a modicum of anaesthetic-paralysis."
She yanks his legs
upwards, and inserts a suppository into him. She then moves to the table, ready
to apply his clothes to him in the indicated order of application, and the
first thing she does is pick up two items from the pile, return to him, and
fish-net him into stockings that are industrial strength to avoid the abrasion
from the wire-hairs of his legs, getting him to lift a leg groggily at the
appropriate moment, then lean on the table so she can hoick them up into place
until he is deniered to within a foot of his waist. She widens her eyes and
pulls a hair out from his leg. He does not flinch. His eyes are still
semi-glazed. She picks up the opera gloves. "No
more bare-knuckle for you, Mr. Scroop," she says. He does not resist, but
continues to slump his chin onto his throat. She applies his shoes, stroking the height and narrowness of the
heels, and puckers her lips as she looks at him.
She looks at him. His
face is as stubbly as his head. She says "Well, Mr. Scroop, like the poet
said, worms boiled alive are what you're made of. So here's a nice dead wormy
wig for you." She picks up the wig made from boiled worm-husks stitched
into a wormcloth cowl. It shakes like a head-rattle. She honeys his head and
plasters it on, and holds it for two minutes, not allowing him to move, gazing all
the time into the fear in his sealed-off eyes, which reveal that he can feel the
itch and scratch but also the softness of all his adornments. And now his face
has lost its symmetry of stubble and hence has gained gravity.
She ruffles his wig.
Picks something out from it. "You have some confetti, Mr. Scroop, as well.
I must have dropped it, because you were bald as a shaved one at our wedding,
weren't you Mr. Scroop? Do you remember that, Mr. Scroop, or has that eluded
you? It is a full day ago, after all. Still, you'll be properly grateful for
your wiggy wig wig now, won't you? Because the wind can blow through here, and
no mistake. It literally comes from nowhere. But this is a place of no
mistakes, isn't it, Mr. Scroop? Nothing is wrong here – only mischievous.
You're looking worried, Mr. Scroop. Don't worry; it's only temporary, and we
got some very nice rings out of it." She holds her ring finger aloft.
She applies the
ragwort garland around his wig.
She takes fine talc
from the pewter container and powders him across his body sores. The edges of
his scar catch the powder and make it look like the relief map of a
rediscovered continent. The powder smudges the fingertips of her gloves.
She strokes his hairy
shins and his hairy chest. "Oh, Mr. Scroop, how nice and sleek and shiny
you are, like a newly trapped attic mouse."
She then puts his
chemise on him. She picks up the henna pipe, and [applies] a double curve henna
tattoo onto his forehead, pokes a dot underneath it, and leaves it to burn to
blackness. She holds up the mirror. "Like it, Mr. Scroop? It’s called a
meandering interrogation."
She says "Now
for your chaperoon, Mr. Scroop." She moves back to the table, picks up the
spare corset, beckons him with her eyes and her hand and when he responds, she
grasps him by the top of his bewigged head and twists it round with one hand
until his whole body is turned about, and she starts to lace him in . And she
gestures him to put his black-wormcloth-satin-wedged helpmate thumbs through
the rabbits-eared loops of the laces into the cul-de-sac ends of his
bicep-stretched opera gloves.
And the flowing
patterns on the mirrors momentarily twist themselves into reflected images of
his squashed viscera and the confused circulation of his body-juices.
And she starts to align
him into his corset, "Come on, Mr. Scroop: don't be shy. I suspect that
this isn't the first time, although you may not remember! Things will fit, Mr
Scroop. They are secretly made to secretly taken measurements. You may trust
the reprehensatives on this one." The nap on his corset seemed to trap the
moisture from the air. She pulls laces, encouraging him to tighten the garment
by pulling on the top or the bottom of the rabbits’ ears. Then she knots him
in, and double-bows him. And then, almost suddenly, there he is, cock-naked in
his corset, underbusted by constriction, his chest hairs dripping over the top.
And she says "Are
you nice and tight in your wormcloth chaperoon, there, Mr. Scroop? No, don't
try and wriggle free just yet, my bright little hairy moth: you have plenty
more quality chrysalis time to come yet. Think of it as your permanent,
all-enveloping chaperone, Mr. Scroop: it goes with you wherever you go and
wraps you up like a cocoon and keeps you from harm. Just look at the beauty of
it, which is the beauty of the moth that you will eventually turn into, and
whose markings you already bear, as a sort of prediction. It will keep you from
harm, Mr. Scroop: that's what chaperoons are for."
And then she picks up
the red mask from the table and straps it on him, and the ties bite into the
skin on his cheeks and the tautened wormcloth straps make the skin of his face
puff out like a snake's neck-skin, as if to frighten away the jungle-demons of
the room. And he tries to speak, but she holds her finger to her lips. "No,
Mr. Scroop, don't try to speak: you will regret it. Now, Mr. Scroop, this
gibberel may be wormcloth, but it is strengthened by the application of the
salts of metals. I've chosen a nice stubbly one for you – or rather me, as the
stubble is on the outside: stubbly stubbly stubbly, Mr. Scroop: sandpaper
texture. But fine sandpaper. Very fine. Nothing coarse here, Mr. Scroop,
nothing coarse here at all. Right, just need to plug this bit in here. There we
go!" She locks the cable in place with a key hanging around her neck. "So
there you go, Mr. Scroop – quite literally: you are free to wander wherever you
like in this room, because the gibberel cable has sufficient range to allow it
– but not, of course, outside this room."
Again, he tries to
speak. This time, a tearing jolt flicks his face-skin and his arms lurch upwards.
A slight crackle and flash-red uplighting and a jolted slump back down.
"I told you, Mr.
Scroop. I told you. Now perhaps you'll pay attention."
She then says "Hands
in front, Mr. Scroop. Outstretched now. Time to attach your drivishes."
She picks the restraints up off the table and attaches them to his gloves. And
she cuffs him with the intricately plaited straps, locks them with another of
her neck-keys, and polices him into immobility.
He tries to resist. "No,
don’t do that, Mr. Scroop: when needed, I have a grip like a ring-headache."
She gazes at him. She
gazes at her handiwork. "These drivishes are wormcloth too, Mr. Scroop.
They used to use beast-skin, I believe, but these are much prettier, don't you think?
They have improved the processing method to increase the robustness. A lot of
thought has obviously also gone into deciding which colour should be plaited
with which other colours. Attention to detail – you can't fault them. And a lot
more comfortable than handcuffs, as well, Mr. Scroop, as I'm sure that you're
in a position to agree, but perhaps we won't delve into that area too much at
this stage."
She then says "Well,
now we have you, Mr. Scroop. I hope your drivishes are nice and snug. No, don't
try to struggle; otherwise you will just get further enmeshed by their kindly
snuggling."
He struggles. "No,
you have to have your drivishes on all the time, Mr. Scroop, otherwise you'd
just tear at your gibberel, wouldn't you? You will remain locked in for the
duration. Remember the instructions, Mr. Scroop. We shall have a review of them
very shortly. However, my drivishes are capable of instant attachment and
detachment. Allow me to demonstrate, 'Mr. Scroop."
She smacks her wrists
together, then wrests them apart, with a tearing sound.
"Right, Mr.
Scroop, let us continue. Not much more now." She applies the bright red
lipstick to him. He tries to resist, but she stares him out. She picks up a
pair of wormcloth pasties, dips her finger in the honey-glue, smear-seals them
to his nipples, then picks two mulberries from the tree and fixes them into the
berry-cups on the pasties. Real nipples to fruit nipples in a twinkling. She
looks down at her ring - pewter with a mulberry glazed in amber for a stone -
and looked at his - identical, but larger.
"Happy marriage,
Mr. Scroop, no matter how temporary it might be." And they clink the ring-stones
together.
She picks up the
sheaf of instructions from the table.
"Now, Mr.
Scroop, the effects of anaesthetic-paralysis drug should have worn off, so now
I have to test you on your reading of these instructions. You may only nod or
shake your head. Indeed, you can only
nod or shake your head. First question: are you happy with the accuracy of your
stated personality profile? Please nod or shake your head, Mr. Scroop."
Nod.
"Mr. Scroop, are
you satisfied that the proposed set of potential choice of actions for your
pleasure or your pain is, as far as you are able to detect, consistent with
your personality profile?"
Nod.
"And on a more
particular note, Mr. Scroop, are you in agreement that the multiple definitions
of the terms "bare-knuckle" and "bare-backed" that you were
shown are accurate and idiomatic, such agreement, of course, to be in no way
taken as being any admission of guilt or complicity?"
Nod.
"Mr. Scroop, can
you please confirm that whilst we were not introduced before our wedding yesterday,
my identity was made available to you, and you were informed that your identity
would be made available to me?"
Nod.
"Furthermore, Mr.
Scroop, can you please confirm that you were informed that our histories would
not be revealed to each other prior to the meeting, but that any of our
memories depicted by thought transference logic to our auras would be visible
to the other party, and hence accessible to judgement by those parties?"
Nod.
"And, Mr.
Scroop, since you have agreed in our little discussion that you have no
objections either to the makeup of your personality profile or the actions that
are predicated upon them being revealed, therefore, whether participating in indulgence
or mischief, you will wear the drivishes, either to give pleasure or to inflict
pain. Therefore, they will remain in place until we conclude matters here. Is
that agreed?"
Nod.
"That is all,
Mr. Scroop. No more interrogation until the conclusion of these events. Thank
you."
And she embraces him,
affectionately, carefully, and their naps rub together, causing a tiny blue
fuzz of sheet lightning to enclose them briefly, then recede. And then things
start to get momentarily strenuous. And they hug and twist in a cynic-clinch,
and a sawing friction fills the room. And then she pulls back.
"If you're
wondering what will happen next, Mr. Scroop, we are being dragged back to our histories,
and maybe those pasts are true, and maybe they are blackflied by corruption.
Nothing is visible yet, but it soon will be."
And his aura twists
out of his head in a red-and-black haze, flies to the mirrors on the main wall,
adheres to them, and infects the oily flow of their pattern.
She gazes at it, but his eyes betray no recognition.
And her aura twists out of her head, but this time in a
blue-and-black haze, flies to the mirrors on the side wall, adheres to them, and infects the oily flow of their pattern.
He gazes at it, but her eyes betray no recognition.
And then she kisses
him - carefully. Their face-impairings clink.
He struggles, as if
in a strait-jacket. She says "Stay on track, Mr. Scroop. Don't swing both
ways, please. No more ducking and weaving, thank you."
He tries to take his
gloves off. She says "No, Mr. Scroop. You know the score: no bare hands.
And we both know why. The gloves should not itch, Mr. Scroop: they are pure
satin - wormcloth-satin. You have to wear them. We might be bare-backed here,
but not bare-handed. Ever. And that is a general rule, as far as I am aware,
Mr. Scroop, not one solely applied for your benefit."
In each of their auras,
a shape like a malign avatar flashes and shifts its form between a clenched
fist and a scowling pair of eyes, then both of the auras disappear.
The room instantly
goes dark and silent, and is quickly filled with train sounds - metal wheels on
metal tracks, whistles howling through the room.
The light leaks in
again, and the room is bleached in illumination.
The music returns,
placidly, as if it had not been disturbed.
And she strokes his
face, strokes it like a piece of pockmarked marble.
"Well, Mr. Scroop,
you have quite a few marks, haven't you? But somehow, far fewer than I would
have expected. You obviously have good powers of escapology, Mr. Scroop. But
not enough to escape here, I'm afraid."
She sidles round to
his back, and confirms that his laces do not need to be tightened a bit more.
"Time to walk, Mr. Scroop. We have to take at least one
step."
He struggles in his high-heeled shoes, and his eyes reveal
that he is blistering up already. Blood specks ooze between the holes in the
fishnets.
And the lights dim again.
"Time to choose, Mr. Scroop. Have a drink and a burlesque
tart. They are made of burnt almonds and
ashes."
And she pours out two small glasses of the clear spirit and
she gestures towards the tarts at the table, and they each pick one up – he
clumsily, on account of his togethered drivishes. They bite into them, pastry
crumbling past their lips, she insouciant, he choking at the start, with a
startle in his eyes that reveals the unaccustomed flavour, and then their eyes
meet in a mutual relishing of the slick of the pollen-saturated-honey dribbling
down as both of them gag-swallow on, chasing them down with the oozy shrapnel
of the mulberries that they have ripped like snatched jewels from the tree. And
tiny specks of tooth-pain are reflected in their eyes as the sugar gripes down
behind their gums.
She touches the unglazed texture of the inside of the bowl as
she assesses its contrast with the glazed outside. They both wince slightly as
her nail catches the roughness and drags a tiny blackboard scream into the air.
She says "Up your brain, Mr. Scroop. Taste the treewormy
medicine," and they down the glasses of spirit in one.
She pulls the label from her mouth and hands it to him,
pushing it into his drivished hands.
She pulls the label from his mouth and examines it.
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