I was still tearful as Carlee settled me down on the settee and poured a whisky for herself and a vodka for me. We had walked back in silence, each of us knowing that the impact of the scene we had just been party to was too great to be analysed piecemeal while walking along; equally, any displacement small-talk would have seemed a ridiculous evasion. And so we walked in silence, while my mind raced and I tried to structure my thoughts, to establish what I was going to tell Carlee.

And yet, as I opened my mouth to begin my story, I had no idea what I was going to say to her. The last two days had been a terrible shock, with the reappearance of the best and worst of my childhood, and no matter how much I tried to pretend otherwise, each had impacted considerably on my present relationship with Carlee. I wanted things to be as they had been before, but increasingly I was uncertain whether that was possible. I couldn't get Jane out of my mind, while the encounter with Margot must surely have soured Carlee's impression of me.

And I couldn't tell which I feared most - losing Jane or alienating Carlee.

"You've got some nice friends," Carlee joked.

"Yes, I have," I replied, deliberately taking her remark literally and squeezing her hand. I wanted to show her my gratitude for the way she had supported me in the last two days. Leaving her hand on my knee, I continued. "But some pretty shitty ones too, huh?"

She returned my squeeze and looked at me solicitously. Her hazel eyes shone, spidered lines of concern wrinkling around the corners. She deliberated for a moment, and then began to speak, not quite managing to look me in the eye. "Okay, I know that woman was clearly deranged, but there's something going on here, Harriet. First, out at that ruin, then last night, and now this. I mean it, babe, you've got to let me in on this, you've got to share it with me. I can help, but only if you let me. Tell me."

Fear is a terrible thing. It eats at your spirit, your soul, your reserves of strength. It gnaws your courage, leaving you alone and isolated; it affects your judgement, causes you to battle on when the logical solution is to ask for help. How many people have driven themselves into straits of desperation through an inability to talk, to share their fear? Oh, we all do it; and we never learn: fickle humanity, its pride and its obstinacy, stupidly silent when silence is loss. The worst moment comes at the very point of submission, when you have endured lonely fear to the limit and finally reach for a guiding hand: here, those fears are compounded by the terrifying notion that you have lost control and are about to place your life in the hands of another person. Fear is joined by failure, a fatal duumvirate.

I reached my nadir that evening, on the settee, with Carlee's hand on my knee, and I cried. "Help me," I whispered, the first time I had spoken those words in eighteen years. Eighteen years since I had been betrayed by those I loved, since I had dared to express my fears only to find them glossed over - at best concealed, replaced by a more palatable 'truth' of ill-health; and at worst subjected to ridicule, used against me. To what end I never knew: was it humiliation or simply a crude attempt at 'cruel love', designed to force me to face a version of reality with which they were more comfortable? Jane had been the only person in the world I could trust, and by the greatest irony it turned out that it was she who had every cause to mistrust me. Since Jane had disappeared - my one love, my one rock of trust - I had smothered my memories, concealed my fear, trodden a lonely path of uncertainty. And now I could go on no longer. I raised my eyes and looked into Carlee's face, her lovely face, so kind and gentle, and gathering every last ounce of resolve, I put my trust in her.

"Help me."

She cradled me in her arms and I slid down the settee until my head rested on her breast, facing away from her. It seemed easier, somehow, to unburden myself without seeing her reaction.

"I don't know where to start."

"Tell me about the ruin."

"The Ripley House?"

"Yeah. Your leg - what happened to it? What happened to you out there?"

"Okay. The Ripley House is 3; I don't know, it's - it's like a bridge in time." I faltered, aware of how ridiculous that sounded.

"It's what?"

"At the Ripley House, yesterday - I went back in time."

"Back in time?"

"Yeah. Back in time." We repeated the phrase, as though familiarity would somehow confer credibility. "You remember the story I told you? About the Ripley House, the fire?" Carlee nodded her head. "Well, I was always obsessed with it as a kid. With what really happened. And what the people were like - Mr and Mrs Ripley, and the girl, Aileen. And I used to stand in the middle of the house and imagine it - you know, will myself into the house, as it was, before the fire." I paused. This was the crucial moment: would Carlee respond with disbelief? Would she think I was mad? The seed of doubt, after all, had been planted by Margot that afternoon: 'Did she tell you she was a fruitcake? Did she tell you she'd been in the loony bin?' With those words ringing in her ears it would be no surprise if Carlee reacted to my story with incredulity. My hands were concealed from Carlee and I quietly crossed my fingers, trusting to childish superstitition, and continued.

"And then one day I did it." I stopped again, but Carlee did not respond. "I went back in time. Literally. I was standing in the middle of the ruin, thinking about how it would have looked. And then everything went strange: all the walls of the house started forming around me, brick by brick, and I found myself in the middle of the house. Just as it was before the fire." I couldn't stop myself from halting after each sentence, waiting for what I felt was the inevitable derision, but it didn't come.

"Go on."

And I told her the story, of how I met Mary Ripley, and of the incident with James and his shotgun. With Carlee's encouragement, I related the events of the day before - how history had repeated itself, how I had found myself once more an unwitting participant in somebody else's drama.

I finished my story and held my breath, partly elated by having unburdened myself of a twenty year old secret, and partly terrified by that unburdening's imminent repercussions. "I don't expect you to believe any of this. I doubt I would, in your position, but it's the truth, Carlee, honestly it is."

"Hey babe, I believe Punxatawny Phil every year when he pops out and tells us how many more weeks of winter there's gonna be. Hell, I've believed lots of crazier things than that story. And I'll tell you, babe, I do believe you. That gash on your leg, it didn't come from anything natural. I saw it all happen, remember. You just kinda lost your body. It fell to the ground, like you weren't in it, like you were somewhere else."

"Or some time else."

"Yeah, exactly. Absolutely nothing I saw could have caused that injury. So I really do believe you." She petted my hair, smoothing across its length over and over, a soothing, loving connection. My emotions were in disarray. "Poor babe, you should have told me about this earlier. Last night, when you were upset in the living room - you should've told me."

I felt a huge surge of relief. I couldn't be sure whether Carlee genuinely believed me or whether she was simply comforting me, but at least she hadn't dismissed my story completely. Knowing that she was listening with an open mind made what was to come next considerably easier: because now I had to tell her about Jane. I felt a ripple of controlled panic wash over me, icy and sobering, but measured in contrast to the waves which had engulfed me earlier. I was strangely calm. My heart was fluttering, but it was with a peculiar feeling - almost of elation - that I continued.

"Last night wasn't about the Ripley House, Carlee. It was about something else. Well actually no, not something - someone."

"Someone?"

"Yes, someone. Someone called Jane." I began to explain to her about Jane. It felt strange, telling my new love about my first, and I was both embarrassed and guilty as I related how we had met, how we had fallen in love, how our lives became inextricably linked around the Hallow Road. I couldn't interpret my feelings at that point: how did I expect Carlee to react?; or, indeed, how did I want her to react? I was bemused, a confused creature dazzled by competing lights from opposite corners and unable to decide which way to turn. I finished my history of Jane and me, and waited for Carlee to make the next move.

"Okay," she said, once I had finished, her voice soft, her fingers in my hair, caressing it, "that was a cool love story. First love - very cute, very touching. Where does last night fit in? Where did this afternoon fit in?" Carlee the trainee lawyer, forensic examiner of evidence, she could spot delaying tactics with ease. I ploughed on.

"Jane came to see me last night." There was a pause, a silence in which the shock was palpable.

"What, here? When?"

"Just before you came and found me. She had just left."

Carlee started beneath me in surprise. "You mean she was here? In this room?"

"Yes - no - not like that, no. I don't know. I don't know how to explain it: Jane - she's real, like you and me, but then again, she isn't. She's 3; different." I stopped. "I don't know."

"You're not making a whole lotta sense, girl. What are you telling me - she's a ghost? Is she the ghost your friend Margot was talking about?"

"Yes, but she isn't a ghost. You can touch her, and smell her, and hold her and - everything."

"And she came here last night?"

"Yes. And she was exactly the same as the last time I saw her."

"Which was?"

"Eighteen years ago."

"Exactly the same?"

"Yes, exactly. Hasn't aged, hasn't changed. Still the same."

"And you're telling me she's real? Hell, girl, if she is, that's quite a talent she's got there. She's sitting on a goddamn fortune if she can sell the recipe for that."

I laughed, relieved to have the tension broken, but I was worried that Carlee, too, was not going to believe me. "Look, I don't know what she is, Carlee. But she came to me when I was alone, years ago, and helped me and became my friend. And she always looked after me. After 3; after the accident 3; she used to come to me every night and comfort me and she was the only person in the world who cared about me, or understood, or even tried to understand. And last night - well, last night I needed comforting again."

Carlee was silent and I could sense her doubt from the stiffness of her posture. I could well understand her confusion: wasn't comfort what she had provided for me later that night? Wasn't that her role? I was caught between trying to explain to her how important Jane was to me and not offending her; and I feared I wasn't succeeding on either count. It wasn't surprising, because I was lost, myself, in the intricacies of my own emotions. Carlee's hand still caressed my hair, but more perfunctorily, as though her mind were elsewhere. Part of me wanted convince her how much she meant to me, but at that moment my greatest need was for her to understand about Jane: it was cruel, I knew, but while Carlee wished to discuss our relationship, it was mine with Jane which exercised my thoughts.

"Okay," she said. Her voice was deep and flat, betraying no emotion. I had no idea how she was reacting. "So Jane was your childhood sweetheart. Not a ghost, a real person - sort of. So what was all that about in the bar this afternoon? Why all the aggression from your friend Margot? Why all this talk of ghosts and madness and stuff?"

"I used to be in a gang with Margot and a couple of others, when we were kids - teenagers. I kind of lost interest in them, as kids do, and I drifted away. Started doing my own thing. That was when I started spending a lot of time out at the Ripley House. They didn't understand, and they didn't like it - resented it, in fact. And a while after that I first met Jane. Stupidly, I told Margot and the others about her."

"Why stupid?"

"Jane never appeared to anyone but me. Oh, I know - it sounds mad. I know you must think I was just a crazy, lonely kid inventing an imaginary friend, but I didn't - she wasn't, she was real. It's just 3;"

"No-one else ever saw her."

"No."

"Where did she live? Did she go to school? Weren't the authorities concerned?" Carlee the lawyer was in action again, dissecting my story, showing it to be a tissue of lies. My spirits sank.

She didn't believe me.

"I don't know. She would never talk about herself. I always assumed she was a gypsy or something. She talked about her pater a lot - you know, her dad, but I never met him - was never invited to. But then, I never invited her to my house either. We were just friends, just the two of us, we didn't need anyone else. It was like our own secret relationship."

"And so no-one believed you?"

"No. I got badly teased, then bullied because of it. Harriet with her imaginary friend. It was horrible, Carlee. I was turned into a figure of fun, completely ostracised, and there was nothing I could do."

"Did you report it? School, parents? Police even?"

"How could I? No-one would believe me."

"And so what was the accident?"

"What?"

"You said a minute ago: 'after the accident'. What was it?"

This was skirting round dangerous territory. If I knew the answer to that question I wouldn't have spent the last eighteen years tormented by its memory. My hands clenched as I recalled the story and started to relate it again after all these years.

"She died. It was an accident, or something, I don't know. It all happened so fast. I've replayed it thousands of times, every day for eighteen years, and I still don't understand it. We were walking along the bank one day, on the Hallow Road. We were at the kink in the path - you remember, where I told you about my dad, when he fell in once with the picnic hamper?" Carlee nodded. "Well, we were passing there. It wasn't wet or anything, a normal day; the path was clear, not slippy. Even for someone with a stick - did I say Jane always used a stick? I was in the lead, because it was single file, and I heard her stumble behind me. I turned and felt her against me, and her eyes locked onto mine. I'll never forget that look as long as I live. I don't know what it was: surprise, fear, what? Don't know. She kind of hung there for a second, staring at me, her stick waving in the air. And then she was gone. Into the water. A huge splash and she was floating about. The river was high and fast flowing, and she started to float downstream. She called to me, her stick pointing at me and flapping in the current, and I screamed from the bank. I thought about jumping in, thought about getting a branch for her to grab hold of, thought of everything, anything. All the time screaming 3; screaming 3; screaming. And then she was gone. Like she was never there. She disappeared. Down the river. Her body was never found."

I felt icy cold. I hadn't told this story in eighteen years, and the last time I had I was packed off to a pyschotherapist as some kind of madwoman. Of course, nobody believed me. No-one had ever seen Jane, there were no official records of her existence, and no body was ever found. How could they believe me? But I had lost my beloved. Grief can be unbearable when it is borne alone, when its cause is discredited, even derided, when those around you refuse even to acknowledge its existence. They may not have believed, but I knew. My heart was broken, and I was left to mend it alone. I did lose my senses, for a while, back then, but Margot was wrong: I was never sectioned or taken away. My 'rest cure' - as the family liked to call it, soothing their working-class sensibilities with an upstanding Victorian platitude - consisted of six weeks in Aberdeen. They passed in a haze of silent torment, days spent walking along a lonely esplanade, watching the North Sea prowling and thrusting, breaking over the forlorn beach with stunning certainty and sliding across the sand icily, eerily, then folding back into itself with a froth of satisfaction. Even today, all these years later, the sea drags back such difficult memories.

"I went over it, time and time again. When Jane came to see me in the nights afterwards - the vision of her, the ghost of her, I don't know what - we talked, but couldn't work out what had happened. I felt so guilty, but Jane always said not to. It just happened, she kept saying. And last night she said it again. 'It just happened. It just happened.'" I shook my head. "And that's it - that's my story. That's what the last two days have been all about. Pretty feeble, huh? Maybe it's like Margot said - I'm just crazy." I felt so weary, my bones heavy, my skin aching, my mind dulled by confusion. I started to cry, certain that I had lost Carlee. She stroked my hair again, then rolled her palm up and down my arm, gently dragging her nails upwards across my bared skin and then smoothing down again with her knuckles. For the longest time she said nothing. Then she cleared her throat and spoke.

"You aren't crazy, my love. You aren't. Jane is real enough - she's real to you. Whether she's real to anyone else is irrelevant - she's real to you, and that's all that matters." The weight sluiced from me. I felt overwhelmed by her affirmation, by the confirmation of her belief. I sat up and gripped her hands excitedly.

"But," she continued, "but Harriet, you have to accept, if she's anything at all, she's a ghost."

"No, she's not, she's real. Not a ghost."

"Harriet, she died in an accident eighteen years ago. She came to you every night afterwards, and comforted you. She came to you last night, totally unchanged, still an eighteen year old girl. If you didn't dream her, she must be a ghost. There's no other answer."

I could only counter logic with certainty. "Yes there is, there must be."

Carlee shook her head, biting her lip pensively, her eyes focused in the middle distance. I could tell she was steeling herself. "It wasn't your fault."

I paused, taken aback. "What?"

"The accident, at the river. It wasn't your fault. Jane told you so, she told you herself. She said it was an accident. It wasn't your fault."

An accident, a freak of nature, an occurrence without blame or remorse: I could see what Carlee was trying to say. The accident wasn't my fault, Jane's death wasn't my fault. I had tried to convince myself of that for years, but I couldn't accept it. Deep down, I knew I was responsible. But by denying that she was a ghost, I was trying to deny she was dead, and if she wasn't dead, my subconscious would argue, I couldn't have killed her. It made sense as a method of guilt avoidance, but I wasn't trying to avoid guilt. And in any case, Jane had never denied that it was my fault. What she had said was, "It just happened" - which isn't the same thing at all.

"I don't know. I've never known. I just can't work out what happened that day. All I know is that I've missed her every day of my life since then."

"I know babe, I can tell. I feel so sorry for you."

"Carlee, you don't know how good this is - being able to talk about it with somebody I can trust."

"I know that, too. You've bottled this up too long, babe. But tell me, who is she, really?"

"I don't know."

"You must have some idea. What did you talk about? You must have talked about her past some time?"

"She avoided it. I couldn't get her to talk about it."

"But you must have a hunch - don't you?"

"Must I?"

"Yep."

"What?"

"Harriet, why did she come back last night, after all these years?"

"I was upset."

"And you haven't been upset at any other time in the last eighteen years?"

"Yes."

"So?"

Yes I knew. I didn't understand the connection, but I knew there was one. "The Ripley House."

"Correct. The day after you go back in time at the Ripley House, hey what d'you know - Jane appears out of the blue, for the first time in years. You're telling me you haven't made that connection?"

"Yes, I have. But I don't know what it means."

"Well babe, if we're gonna find out what it means you know what we've gotta do?"

I did know, and I didn't want to. I looked out of the window at the gathering night. "Go back to the Ripley House."

"You got it, babe."

On to part eight