The aftermath of a storm is a curious thing. During the storm, at its height, when the wind whips the trees in fury and the rain scars down, your senses are heightened as though mimicking the intensity of nature itself: the sounds of a branch breaking from a tree, of flowerpots toppling and cracking, of trash bins being hurled through the air by unforgiving winds, those sounds grow steadily louder, crisper, clearer, and become less abstract, more personal, until they seem no more to be external, but are inhabiting your mind, controlling your senses; and you become a part of the storm itself. Your body is in overdrive, heart pounding to the rhythm of the rain and reason soaring and swooping wildly in the grip of wild winds. The storm becomes total, all-embracing.

And in the aftermath there is an exaggerated calm, an almost mellow, tender feeling, as though nature is looking reproachfully at the damage it has wrought. The air is different - lighter, looser - and the light is subdued, colours muted, operating on half power. And until the extent of the damage is known everything feels tentative, temporary; you move cautiously, half expecting the storm to return and uncertain how deep its roots have spread, how far the damage extends.

That was how I felt the next morning. Opening my eyes, coming round, focusing on the bedroom, I was instinctively apprehensive, even before I remembered the events of the previous night. As they came to me, in a stabbing rush of recollection, my brain started to whir, processing thoughts at high speed, but none of them intelligible; they were taking up my faculties to no useful effect, leaving me with a floating feeling of helplessness. Carlee was by my side, her body warm and protective, hand rested lightly on my thigh. I turned to her and she was already awake, watching me intently, an easy smile on her lips.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey."

"I think it's raining."

"Fair chance. It usually does here."

"How's the leg?"

"Throbbing like buggery."

"Poor babe. Guess we take it easy today, huh?"

"Well, I'm not climbing any mountains, that's for sure."

"Jeez, didn't know you'd been planning to. I call that a narrow escape."

We were avoiding mention of the episode from the night before, neither of us willing to initiate discussion; even so, it hung over us, silent and brooding, biding its time. We remained excessively polite with one another, trying too hard to be relaxed, and I knew the thin veneer of normality would be cracked sooner or later.

And as it turned out, it was sooner.

We didn't do much that day. It rained pretty much incessantly, a slow, irritating drizzle which seeped into the bones and sapped the spirit; and my leg remained painful and stiff. Wrapping up and venturing outdoors in the afternoon, I guided Carlee around the town, showing her the haunts of my childhood. We walked down Millbank Street from the war memorial, past the council flats on the left, downhill to the little row of cottages, quaint and rustic, almost too small to be real, and we stopped at Number 29. Its front door was tall and narrow and bright red, and the window sills were freshly painted, a vibrant white, with shocking yellow curtains within. It looked homely, almost pleased with itself, suggesting an air of happiness and contentment. We stood in front of it and stared.

"I was born here," I said. "Up there." I pointed at the upstairs window on the right. My stomach was fluttering. Connections: connections in time, connections in spirit, connections in memory. It felt strange, standing outside, observing the place of my birth, an outsider looking in, trying to recreate the past, trying to fathom the twists of time. "My parents' bedroom. I popped out pretty fast, no more than an hour or so from start to finish. No time to get me to hospital. Guess I've been impetuous all my life."

"It looks so small."

"It is. We were poor. It looks nice and pretty now, a lovely little cottage, a 'desirable period property,' as they say. But back then it was just a cheap council house. No central heating, no bath. We had to get into the garden through the kitchen window and along a wooden plank across an eight foot drop. Two up, two down houses we call them over here. I loved it. It's always been the only place that has ever felt like home to me."

"How long did you live here?"

"Till I was eight or nine. Then we moved to Breckonridge, a huge house on the edge of town."

"What, did you get rich?"

"God, no," I laughed. "It was a tied house. Came with my father's work. But I never liked it. Never felt like home to me." And too many bad memories, I thought, but chose not to add. 29 Millbank Street was a house of innocence, the fragments of memory I had of it unstructured and vague, but uniformly warm - in contrast to Breckonridge, which was too closely tied to the pains of growing up. Carlee took my hand and squeezed it, quietly leaving me to contemplate. The door had been red when we lived there, too, but a much darker shade, and the windows had been rotten, whistling and rattling in the wind. I willed myself into those days, trying to recollect every last memory. I saw myself, spindly legged and long-haired, repeatedly leaping down the stairs, starting one step higher each time, testing how far I could reach; I saw games in the garden, solitary games, a little girl wrapped in the cocoon of her imagination; and the big iron bath which my mother placed in the kitchen and filled by hand; and I remembered sitting in the scalding water, legs burning while my chest and arms, exposed to the air, were goosepimpled with cold. I saw a life, another life, another me, so many years ago.

And oh, to be that age again.

We turned and walked downhill, towards the park. Although it may have been twenty years or more since I had last walked this way it felt familiar; more than that, it felt right. It was in my bones, in my memory, a part of me. We passed the flats that stood on the site of the old Mill which had given the area its name and crossed the little stone bridge to the entrance of the park. The last of the roses wrinkled wryly in the wind, bending towards us as we entered, raindrops falling like tears from their tender leaves.

"My mother used to bring me here every day, after Bagpuss."

"After what?"

"Bagpuss. You've never heard of Bagpuss? 'He was just a saggy old cloth cat, but Emily loved him.' And so did I. I was always a bit jealous of Emily, though, having Bagpuss all to herself. 'When Bagpuss is awake, all his little friends are awake' " Carlee was looking at me, nonplussed, and I laughed, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her towards me. "It was a TV programme, love. For children. Greatest programme ever seen. I've got it on video back home, we can watch it some time."

The park had changed considerably. There were new swings, much smaller than the old ones and presumably safer, and a play area, with climbing frames and a small chute. Near the road, a section had been covered in tarmac and turned into a car park. There were fewer flowers, most of the oval beds having been dug up and turned into easy maintenance grass. People didn't come to parks for contemplation any longer, it seemed, or to linger among beauty: like everything else, the park had been transformed into a commodity, an attraction, rather than a simple public space. And yet it still held me in its thrall. The remaining flowers projected a brave wash of colour in the background, purple and violet roses - leggy and careworn in the rump of the year - still lovely beneath the canopy of monkey puzzles and firs and massive, magnificent oaks. A mazy path dribbled down towards the river and we followed it, past the derelict bandstand, past the huge, fat oak which once had a circular bench girdling its circumference, down the sharp escarpment to a wooden bridge. Again, this was new, smaller and less imposing than the old one had been, functional and utilitarian. We crossed, hand in hand, breathing the purity of the air, feeling the fresh sting of raindrops on our faces, listening to the comforting chatter of birds in the treetops. At the other end we entered the lower park and walked on. There was the pavilion where I kissed Roger Watters and didn't like it, back when I knew that I didn't like boys but before I understood why. And there was 'The Haven', the isolated bench on a peculiar raised platform, ten feet high, aloof from the rest of the park; here I would sit and read aloud my poetry, safe in my isolation. And down the flank, separating the lower park from the upper, was the soft flowing river, breaking gingerly over a brief outcrop of boulders before smoothing once more into its satin and serene passage downstream.

Downstream, a mile or so, until it met the Hallow Road and joined it, flowing side-by side, complicit in the guarding of its secrets.

My leg was beginnning to ache and although I tried to conceal it I was starting to limp. Carlee noticed and turned to me solicitously.

"Want to go back, babe?"

"No, I'm okay. There's a pub just up the hill here, the Millstone. We'll go there." The Millstone: even the name had a curious resonance, conjuring up the delicious defiance of youthful drinking, the decadence and danger that attended those early explorations of the adult world of alcohol. I had learned to drink in the Millstone, as a furtive seventeen year old already high on the excitement of breaking the law, even before the alcohol could do its work. It was here I discovered that cider may taste like a fizzy drink but it gets you drunk very quickly; and that gin makes you cry and whisky makes you shout and vodka makes you everybody's friend. We sidled up the hill, out of the park and joined the Creggan Road, following it for a hundred yards until we came to the Millstone. Stretching on into the distance, the Creggan Road meandered round the edge of a knoll and on, the long way round, to the Ripley House and the Hallow Road.

We entered the Millstone and I ordered two halves of lager while Carlee settled herself in a seat in the corner. It was old-fashioned - it always had been and had changed little in the intervening years - warm and dark and smelling of decades of tobacco and alcohol. Behind the bar was a large, elaborately bordered mirror, and in its reflection I saw a woman approaching middle age. I almost didn't recognise her. I winked, and she winked back, and for an instant the weight of years lifted from her eyes. "Cheers," I said, and we raised our glasses sardonically.

I returned to Carlee and settled our drinks on the round, oak tables. "So what d'you think of the old place, then?"

"I've really loved today," she replied. She wore a smile of such warmth that I wanted to hug her. "You showing me round where you used to live. Where you were born, even, that was really cool. And it's such a nice town, so friendly, the people are so kind."

"Yeah, mostly. They're not very good with outsiders, though. Small town mentality."

"They've been okay with me."

"You're not an outsider, love, you're a visitor. That's different. You have money. Besides, we don't get many Americans here, so you're a source of wonder. A touch of the exotic."

Carlee snorted. "Exotic? From Kentucky?"

"Hey, don't knock it. Your love seat on the banks of the Green River is the most exotic place on earth. Especially in a storm, when the river's high and the air's hot." I bent over and kissed her cheek, squeezing her hand. I felt deliciously relaxed, as though the tour of my youth had reinvigorated me. It was one of those perfect moments when everything feels balanced, when I was at ease with my past and my present, and the two were in harmony, when the future was exciting, enticing - though not as an escape from the past, but as a happy continuation of it.

And I could have looked back on that moment as one of the happiest of my life if it hadn't been for what came next.

My heart leaped as the pub door opened, even before I could see who was entering: the sense of imminent danger is an unconscious animal instinct which is not totally lost to mankind, and without knowing why, I knew something unfortunate was going to happen. A woman and a man entered, both in their late thirties and both local, judging by their familiarity with the pub. They rolled to the bar with the air of people indulging in a familiar ritual, and the barman, without prompting, began to pour a pint of lager and reached for a wine glass. I had never seen the man before, but the woman was familiar. She was overweight, her body shapeless and ill-served by the short denim skirt and tight, pink sweater she wore. Her hair was beautiful, though, rich and velvet, sweeping down her back in sleek cascades of auburn, streaked silver in the light. In contrast, her face was hard, a joyless mouth thin-lipped and downturned from years of aggression, with eyes which declared nothing but an expression of jaundiced sufferance.

I stared at her, knowing that I knew her but unable to place her. The couple chatted and laughed with the barman for a minute or two before turning to sit. As she did, the woman caught sight of me and stopped abruptly, openly staring. A current buzzed through the room and I instantly felt cold. Beside me, Carlee sat up in surprise and felt for my hand. I knew immediately that the woman had recognised me and in that instant I, too, realised who she was. And I was afraid.

Margot Paterson.

They sat down and Margot continued to stare at me, whispering to her partner and gesticulating brazenly.

"Do you know her?" Carlee asked.

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Jeez, she's rude. Keeps staring at you and pointing. Why don't you say hello?"

"Not a good idea."

"Who is she?"

"She used to be my best friend. She was a lot thinner in those days though, I didn't recognise her when she first came in." I sipped my drink apprehensively. Margot Paterson. Margot and Roger Watters and Eilidh Cameron and I had been best friends once, the Cool Gang, self-satisfied and self contained, dismissive of outsiders and deriving mutual confidence from our closeness of community. And, inevitably, when something snaps in such a tightly enclosed grouping, the repercussions are grave.

I don't know whether I outgrew them or they outgrew me, but whichever, we drifted apart. The Ripley House, of course, was the catalyst: I hated their casual, insolent approach to something which affected me deeply; but in retrospect, I knew the divisions had been apparent long before then. Gradually I fell from favour, absenting myself from the group and becoming divorced from their version of reality. And there is no more vilified figure than the fallen angel, the member of the chosen elite who deliberately leaves the fold. Whatever contemptuous ire the Gang (and I) had heaped on all outsiders, it was nothing compared to the treatment they subsequently meted out to me, the turncoat.

And what made it worse was how easy I made it for them.

From across the bar I could sense the malevolence in Margot's glare and I realised that the passage of time had done nothing to dilute her dislike of me. It pained me that someone should harbour such hatred for so long a time. Until then she had restricted herself to staring at me aggressively and making clear that she had recognised me, but I knew that soon enough she would feel the need to approach. Strangely, this made it easier, and although my first instinct had been to bolt from the Millstone, dragging poor Carlee behind, I was now resigned to a confrontation. I tried to make conversation with Carlee, but neither of us were really interested. Something was going to happen, it was clear, and it was just a question of when.

Margot's voice was getting louder, her speech more raucous, gestures more emphatic. Mostly, her words were indistinct but some floated clearly towards us - 'ghost' or 'mad' or 'bitch' - and my spirits sagged with each one. It was clear she had neither forgotten nor forgiven. Throwing back her head she swallowed the remainder of her wine and rose to go to the bar. I stared at the carpet, avoiding eye-contact, hoping she would pass us in silence, but as I looked up again she was there, standing in front of our table, her expression hostile, a snarl playing around her mouth.

"Well then, Harriet Scott," she said, drawing out the syllables of my name. Her eyes stared blue and cold.

"Hello Margot. I'm sorry, I didn't recognise you when you first came in; its been a long time. Nice to see you again, after all these years. How are you?" My speech was excessively polite, each word enunciated precisely, as though by exercising such linguistic propriety I could somehow prevent a confrontation.

"'Nice to see you again. How are you?' " she repeated in an exaggeratedly posh voice. "Oh, I'm just marvellous, my dear, absolutely spiffing." She continued to affect a Sloane Ranger accent, with the clear implication that I was a typical small-town girl who had taken on airs when she went to live in the big city. It is an unattractive trait among the British to be suspicious of anyone who leaves and tries to establish a new life. And God knows, I had had enough reason to want to. Margot leaned on the table, her bust straining against the tight sweater. "Never thought I'd see you round here again."

"Just visiting - holiday."

"I'm amazed you'd ever show your face here again. You've got nerve, anyway, I'll give you that."

"It was all a long time ago, Margot. Things change, people change. I was only a kid, for God's sake."

"Fucking crazy kid."

"Yeah, maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. What does it matter, after all this time?"

"Water under the bridge, heh?" She paused and laughed. "Literally, in your case."

"Ancient history, Margot."

She was probing for a way to upset me. It had always been her style: look for a weak spot and attack. I could feel the alarm rising in my chest as I tried to fend off her barbs, knowing that she would succeed in wounding me before long. Margot watched me intently, then looked at Carlee and sniffed, scenting a new line of attack. "Still a dyke then, I see. This your new girlfriend?" Carlee bristled beside me and I rested my hand on hers protectively. It was an instinctive gesture, but unfortunate in the circumstances: Margot immediately noticed and snorted derisively. "Hah, clearly it is. Aren't you going to introduce us?"

"This is Carlee, my friend, visiting from America. Carlee, this is Margot. I was at school with Margot."

"Hello Margot." Carlee's voice had an edge, her face set grimly. I knew what she was like in a confrontation, and hoped desperately that she wouldn't turn on Margot. However magnificently acid-tongued Carlee could be, she didn't know Margot, and I doubted she was a match for her.

"Carlee," replied Margot. "Hope you know what you're doing."

"Excuse me?"

Margot ignored Carlee's reply, preferring to leave her statement, with all its melodramatic undertones, floating in the air. She turned to me once more. "Still seeing ghosts, Harriet?"

"I never saw ghosts, Margot."

"Nah, 'course you didn't. It's just that nobody else could see your little friend, could they? What was her name again?"

"There's no point dragging all this up again, Margot."

"What's wrong, don't want your Yank girlfriend to hear?"

"Please Margot."

"Don't want her to know her lover's a fruitcake?"

"Margot." I was nearly in tears by now. Margot had succeeded, she had broken through. As she always could.

"Saw ghosts, then fucked them and then killed them. Still doing that Harriet? Fucked any good ghosties recently?"

"That's enough!" Carlee rose, her eyes bright with anger.

"Calm yourself, Cassie."

"Carlee."

"Yeah, right. Didn't she tell you she was a nut, Cassie? Did she tell you she was sent to the loony bin? Did she tell you she had a love affair with a ghost?"

"She wasn't a ghost!" I yelled, holding my face in my hands.

"Oh god, don't tell me you still believe your little fantasy, Harriet? Still as mad as ever, obviously. You'd think they'd have found a cure for that, by now."

"Come on babe, let's get out of here." Carlee took my hand and pulled me from my chair. I grabbed my coat and we headed for the exit, Carlee's hand pressed protectively against my shoulder.

"Yes, 'babe', off you go." Margot was crowing, following us to the door. "Probably got medication to take."

"Lady, you're sick," spat Carlee, her hair flicking against her neck in agitation.

"I'm sick? That's rich, that is. With Miss Crackpot 1984 over there 3;"

"Whatever happened to Harriet happened a long time ago, that doesn't excuse your behaviour now. Seems to me you're the sick one who can't forget the past. Get over it!"

"Hey Cassie, I'm over it. The question is: is she?" She nodded towards me and her eye caught mine one last time, dismissive, hate-filled and contemptuous. "A word of warning to you, lover girl: don't let her take you down by the river."

On to part seven