Nor did I recognise myself.

We skirted the walls, like outsiders at the gates of a city, peering inside and aspiring to the unknown within. I tried to put the purpose of our mission to the back of my mind: we had, after all, come to kill, and murder was an uncomfortable truth for a middle-aged woman to bear. Even the knowledge that our intended victim had already been dead for thirty-six years, and that our motive was noble - borne of love for Jane - failed to lessen my sense of disgust that we had embarked, wittingly and willingly, on a mission of destruction. There was a stale taste in my mouth, a stagnant horror at the inevitability of the process on which we had embarked: we could not end it now, even if we were to change our minds.

The tumult of rainfall continued to deaden our senses, dispiriting us through the fabric of noise it weaved around us. At first it was random, an anarchic aural swirl pressing over and round, but as we stood - three outsiders staring in - it began to meld into a rhythm, a primal pulse. Repetitive and insistent, it beckoned us. Instinctively, I stepped over the stones and into the living room of the house, pulling Jane and Carlee with me. Coldness scratched at our throats, snatched at our chests and the rain descended in a ceaseless tirade. The moment shifted, the veils parted, the tracks of time slid ever closer. Together, we watched the stones of the house fire into life as all around us the rain evolved into the rhythm of time, a decadent syncopation, a mewling rubato which clamoured against the beat of our hearts. The trees started to sway in time, brittle husks slinking in a dance of death, and the wind, so still before, began to whisper round our faces, insinuating, slithering its message of doom. 'It's done,' it said, 'it's done, it's done.' And we watched; and stone grew out of stone, encircling us, binding us to the retreat of time. Further, higher, the walls reclaimed themselves; firmer, stronger, healing over the wounds of forgotten years and settling themselves, once more, into the foundations of life; and fresher, newer, as now gave way to then, as 1966 emerged, resplendent, into the present. And we were there, again.

The Ripley House, extant again.

Three strangers stood in the living room - Carlee, Jane and me - and I felt no connection. I held their hands, but they were not with me; I observed the room, but it was not there; I felt my heart beat, but I did not know myself. 'At Ripley's House I hesitate, adrift in time.'

Adrift in time.

The moment was precious, and like all precious moments it lasted forever - or for an instant. Carlee, Jane and I, hand in hand, observed the Ripley living room, the trinkets of love hanging from the wall, the warmth of the fire, the well-worn comfort of the furniture. I pressed my hand against the back of the armchair, felt the frayed edges of the tired fabric and my heart ached. I wanted to live in this house till the sands of time blew free, this house of love, this house of peace. So much happiness there had been here, suffused with the joy of living: it struck me every time I arrived in the room, leaving me with such tender feelings of belonging. I stood and observed the room, coveting its peace, but within moments the undercurrents - as they always did - began to buzz and hum into life. The air changed, and with it the mood: hope turned to fear, love to hate, the room assuming an aspect of repression. Before my gaze, it turned from feminine to masculine, the odour of James Ripley suddenly omnipresent, and with it the dread anticipation of violence. The suddenness of the change always startled me: it was as though our arrival was the trigger that effected it.

"Is this it?" asked Carlee, her head turning slowly as she took in the reality of the Ripley room. I had forgotten this was her first time.

"Yeah," I replied. "It is real, you see."

"I never doubted it, babe. But even so, I never expected 3; this. Nothing so 3;"

"Real?"

"Yeah, I guess." She laughed. Still holding my hand she gazed round the room, inspecting the photographs, a wry smile on her face. She seemed oblivious of the sense of menace in the room, an innocent floating free. I hated myself for involving her. Jane was silent, her always white face bleached of colour and emotion: she was blank, and it was impossible to tell whether she was happy or sad, afraid or prepared. She stood and watched the door, anticipating the moment which would herald the climax of our nightmare.

The moment when Mary Ripley entered the room.

My mouth was dry and my heart was throbbing in my chest. Fear tingled down my arms and into my fingers. I started to shake as panic began to well in my breast. I wanted to stop, I was too afraid to continue, but I already knew that our mission, once embarked on, was unstoppable. My ears hummed, a shrill wail of denial dulling my senses. I stared at the door, at the handle, and willed it to stay still. 'Don't open,' I prayed. 'Don't open.'

But the door, as I knew it would, opened.

And before us stood Mary Ripley.

I think back now and wonder when I finally understood, when the full horror became clear. I've never been able to isolate the moment - not quite, not exactly. There are times - black days, indeed - when I think I always knew. Mary stood nervously in the doorway, half in the room and half out, holding the door handle as if it were a comforter. She stared at me, and then at Jane, and then, with the most peculiar expression, at Carlee. I saw bafflement in her look, an inability to comprehend what she was seeing. It flitted across her eyes, a flicker of naivety which left me breathless with compassion. She was as beautiful as always, her uncertainty adding an air of vulnerability to the freshness of her face. She continued to look at us wordlessly, her eyes flicking from me to Carlee, and then to Jane, but always returning - repeatedly, insistently - to me, and in particular to Carlee and me; she appeared transfixed, her eyes sliding from my face to my hand - the hand which held Carlee's. Her expression was fluid, changing rapidly, an impenetrable jumble of emotions. It encompassed doubt and uncertainty and sadness and fear; and, with ever more force, it encompassed something else, which I couldn't identify, but which was apparent in the downward turn of her mouth and the lustreless blink of her eye. Increasingly her gaze rested on me, filling me with trepidation and embarrassment, and finally the elusive emotion of Mary Ripley transmitted itself to me: disappointment.

Mary Ripley was disappointed in me.

She stared into my eyes and approached nervously. "What on earth are you doing with her?" she said, looking at Jane. "In the name of God, take her upstairs. Are you mad?" Fear sluiced down my spine as, for the first time, a germ of understanding sprouted in my mind. She turned to Carlee, her mouth open and eyebrows furrowed. "Who's this?" she asked. I sensed Carlee was about to reply and squeezed her hand. I needed time to think, time to understand: I was smothered by a nightmare of confusion.

"Mary," I said.

"Who is this," she repeated. Her eyes, filled with regret, stared into mine, then lowered towards my hand, which still clasped Carlee's. Raising them once more, she locked her gaze onto mine. "John, are you having an affair?"

I stared at Mary for some moments, then turrned and looked at Jane. She stood rigid, her eyes blank, bearing the same expression she wore the last time. She turned to me and, as before, a ripple of distaste crossed her face. The last time, I had been unable to discern its meaning, but now I recognised it instantly as a look of sudden comprehension. Jane had understood the secret.

And now, finally, so did I. Time collapsed around me. Air whooshed from my lungs as though life itself was being expelled. The greatest panic began to invade my psyche as the fabric of my life began to unravel. My mouth was dry, and I was conscious it was wide open, trying to speak, but my brain was incapable of processing the appropriate thoughts and I remained mute. I felt dizzy and light headed, as though my body had been sundered from my mind, leaving me floating in a daze of uncertainty. Fearfully, I began to pick through the facts.

John.

She had called me John.

She didn't see me. She saw Ripley.

She thought I was her husband.

I was her husband.

I was James Ripley.

On to part eighteen