So time falls prey to nature's thief:

a life that's lived in pale relief

is life that fades to slow decay

and perishes in sorrow.

I wish today were yesterday

and yesterday tomorrow.

It wasn't over. Ripley was still inside me. Under his tutelage, I had experienced the joy of killing, taken delight in the senseless murder of another person: I had committed an act of evil. I stared at Carlee, tears forming in my eyes as I finally understood there could be no escape.

"Help me," I said, but I knew I was beyond help. I was still holding the poker, distractedly passing it from hand to hand, all the time dripping gobbets of blood on to the carpet, as though creating a circle around myself, like some defensive barrier: but was the barrier to keep others out, or myself in? Who was in charge of my body: Ripley or me? Wearily, I realised I didn't know the answer, nor ever could: twice, he had taken control of my body, using my own emotions to flood my brain with his unshakeable anger. I could not be trusted: never again. I dropped the poker at my feet and folded myself into Carlee's arms, tears coursing down my cheek, feeling my body submit to the succour of her grip. Her cheek grazed against mine, cool and soft, and I ached to know I would never kiss her again, nor hold her, nor make love. I had lost the woman I loved: I had lost everything.

"Harriet, it's okay, babe," she soothed, stroking her hand down the back of my head.

I nodded, but I realised she was humouring me. She knew as well as I did that there could be no sanction for what had occurred; nor - and this was the most frightening thought - could there be any guarantee it would not happen again. There was no alternative: Ripley was inside me, and he had to be destroyed. It was why we had come: it was our mission.

And it had to be accomplished.

I broke free, blinded by tears, wiping them away with my hand and sniffing loudly. Jane, too, was crying, and I kissed her lightly, brushing my hand across her skeletal shoulder, giving her a valedictory caress. There comes a point when a truth becomes so absolute it is accepted without question, regardless of the consequences. It had to be: so many avenues, so many versions of history, but only one would suffice, only one could truly end the torment of Mary and Jane. I reached over the lifeless body of Ripley and picked up his shotgun. I was surprised by its weight, surprised by the power it imparted through nothing more than its heavy symmetry. Turning it so that I held the barrel, I offered it to Carlee who, despite her surprise, took it from me. She stared, confusion and grief - and, I think, denial - in her eyes.

"Kill me," I said.

There was silence as Carlee shook her head, at first gently but with increasing vigour as she chewed over my words.

"Harriet," whispered Jane.

"No!" I yelled. "Don't you understand? I'm not Harriet. Not all the time: I can't guarantee it. This bastard is inside me and I don't know when he will take me over again. I don't know what he'll make me do. You've got to do it. Kill me!" It seemed so simple, and yet I knew how hard it must be; but I needed them to be strong.

"Harriet, no," said Carlee, dropping the gun at her feet. I understood her alarm, but there was no time for indecision: I paced forward and picked up the gun again, thrusting it once more into her hands, but she refused to take it, pushing it away each time it was proffered.

"You must! Jesus, Carlee, you saw what I did: I could do that again. To you." I turned to Jane. "Or to you. Or to her. I've done it to her before, remember." Mary Ripley had said nothing since the arrival of her husband: it felt as though that had occurred hours before but, in truth, it could only have been a matter of minutes. The woman was almost catatonic, slowly rocking on her heels, her arms gripped around her waist: a mind out of time.

"No, it'll be okay." Carlee's voice was pleading. "Once we get out of here. Once we're back in our own time. We'll be back to normal then, babe."

I shook my head. "Don't you see? Don't you understand? It will never be okay, not while he is still living. And he is still living - inside me. So you've got to do it."

"Harriet, I can't. I couldn't." Carlee's voice reduced to a murmur: "I won't."

Anger washed over me once more, a flood of indignation and fury and resolve, but this time I recognised the signals: he was coming again, and I had to fight. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you," I chanted, forcing my mind to channel its emotions away from anger. "Please do it, please do it, Carlee: please do it. I don't know how long I can hold out." I sank to my knees, fingers scratching at the carpet in frustration, banging my head on the floor and dragging it along the carpet, burning my skin on the pile: anything to avoid allowing the anger to boil in my head again.

"Harriet! Stop it!" Carlee, her distress evident in the shrill tone of her voice, bent over and tried to embrace me.

I shook my shoulders violently, hissing at her. "Don't! Don't come near me!" Anger: a flash of anger, as Ripley probed for an opening. "I'm sorry: I love you, I love you." I needed to keep control. I needed to understand that Carlee was my ally, my comfort. But why wouldn't she help me? She owed it to me: she should have helped. Blind ingratitude, that's what it was. I screamed as I felt myself turning on her, twisting her motives, finding a way to blame her. Ripley wormed another inch closer to my mind.

"Jane," I cried. "Please - you do it. Please, do it for me. And for you. And for her. Please - kill me!. Quickly: I can't hold on!" I scratched my nails up and down my arms, dragging into the flesh, raising red and livid marks on my skin. I screwed up my face and a twinge of anger eluded my defences as I sought to blame their cowardice for the pain I was inflicting on myself.

'It's not their fault, it's not their fault,' I screamed silently.

'Yes it is, yes it is.'

'Please, leave me.'

'You don't want me to.'

'I do.'

You don't. You loved it. You loved the excitement, the violence. You loved beating that body to a pulp. Don't deny it. I know what it did to you. I was there, remember. I know how your body reacted.'

'You're sick.'

'And so are you. Soul mates, that's what we are. We could be great together, you and me, your body, my brain.'

"Carlee! Please! I'm losing. You've got to help me!"

'It made you wet didn't it? - all that blood, bludgeoning him to death. Admit it.'

'Shut up! Shut up! That's obscene.'

"Harriet, I can't! Please, don't ask me."

'She won't help you: she's too weak. No guts. Not like you.'

'No, no, no 3;'

No, indeed. Carlee wouldn't do it, but it was nothing to do with lack of courage. I knew that she simply couldn't bring herself to harm another person: and that was the fundamental difference between her and Ripley: her gentle nature was why I had fallen in love with her - such calmness, such serenity, such loving spirit. She could not be driven to violence - temper yes, but never violence, she could not be provoked. I loved her dearly, my beautiful, American paramour, but at the last we failed one another.

Ripley was in my brain. I knew he was there, his anger bubbling and inciting, gradually taking over my senses. I was losing, I knew it: I was not strong enough. The weariness of defeat began to take over, leaving my limbs heavy, my spirits deflated, my senses dulled. The shotgun lay on the carpet, a couple of feet away, and I reached forward and pulled it towards me. It was cold and heavy, an emblem of hate - and I loved it. I cradled it in my arms, stroking my fingers down the barrel - so perfect, so smooth; The repeater action cradle was made of mahogany and the handle walnut - warm and mellow, worn pale through use. I fingered the trigger, my thumb resting on the safety catch.

The moment hung, surrounded by a curious silence as time realised it was in uncharted territory, as the future was decided without recourse to the past. I no longer knew who I was - Ripley or Harriet or both. One of us raised the shotgun, and I was aware of a smile on my lips and the relish of keen anticipation. It was time, it was time.

A life that's lived in pale relief is life that fades to slow decay, and perishes in sorrow.

Ah, but pale relief would not do for me, nor the sorrow of the past. I raised the shotgun.

"Harriet, what are you doing?"

I aimed at Carlee's head. One squeeze and it would all be over. She screamed, as I knew she would, and I smiled again. Her body began to tremble and I kept the barrel trained on her for some moments, watching the flood of emotions running across her features. Beautiful Carlee, so afraid. Finally I grew weary of her face and turned away; I aimed at Mary's chest, but she was beyond screaming, beyond any form of communication, to be honest, having long since relinquished control of her destiny; and I turned to Jane, pretty Jane, with her face so pale and body so thin, with eyes dark and trusting and mouth round and enticing: a mouth for sex on a face from the convent. She was on the cusp of womanhood, her child's body budding and her features gradually being sculpted from the layers of puppy fat. Twice before I had saved her from the fate of adulthood and here I was - just in time - riding to her rescue once more. In a way it seemed such a waste - she was a beautiful child - but I knew it was for the best. I trained the shotgun on her midriff, then raised it higher, pointing at her face, her little moon face, creased with tears, features crumpled in betrayal. I smiled.

Perish in sorrow, perish in sorrow.

But at least I was sparing her the slow decay. I released the safety catch ostentatiously, looking for a reaction, but she made no move: brave at the last, I liked that: her daddy's girl.

Then she did the most curious thing, a gesture so unexpected I lowered the shotgun in amazement: she smiled. It was a full, happy smile, the smile of someone at ease with herself; far from being afraid, Jane appeared to be completely content. "Do what you have to do," she said, opening her arms wide, inviting my advance, imploring the dance of death. "And remember this, Harriet: whatever happens, I love you."

'Whatever happens, I love you.'

I began to cry. I was surrounded by love, yet consumed by hate, and finally that gave me the answer I craved. The beauty of life is all around: it is only we who make it base. I lowered the shotgun to the floor and indicated to Jane to hand me her walking stick. Tentatively, she passed it to me and stood aside, resting her hand on the back of Ripley's armchair. Moments of my life began to float through my mind - past as reverie, present as reminiscence, future an idle - and futile - speculation. Moments of my life in two dimensions - visions of a kiss, the trace of a caress; and tears of happiness, and times of disappointment. Drifting further into myself, I conjured up those special memories, the ones which make us human, the ones we turn to in times of doubt, to convince ourselves that someone loves us: there was the little house in Millbank Street with the dark red door; and the childhood walk to the park, hand in hand with mum; and the little bridge beside the entrance to the park; and trees and flower beds, grass banks and pathways, leading, always leading, downwards, away from town, away from civilisation.

On to the Hallow Road.

I pictured it in my mind - the Hallow Road, my sanctuary, my retreat. I saw the trees, so proud and tall, a line of birches, mature and wise, nodding sensibly in the breeze; and the river alongside, meandering, a subtle friend. There, etched in the bough of the the very first tree of Lady Margaret's Walk, the Hallow Road, I saw my name - Harriet Scott - and the date of my birth, edged by a fine, symmetrical heart: a true labour of love, a token of thanks, and of hope, and of joy. I had found it at last, after all these years, the symbol of genesis discovered in the twilight of my life. I imagined birds banking overhead, a brace of swallows wheeling in the eddies above the river, as countless others sat in the anonymous cover of the trees, chirping and calling their delight in the freedom of the skies; and by the river I saw a heron, gangly but elegant, wading by the bank, aloof and alone; and I heard the water's happy murmur, felt it gladden my heart. And here, in the cover of the trees, paddling through the fallen leaves, two women, walking towards me, hand in hand and smiling, beckoning. I heard laughter in the air, the joy of life, the love of nature: yes, love - that's what I heard, that's what I saw: at last, I saw love. And that was enough.

Love is enough.

I turned the shotgun around, gripping the barrel and resting the handle on the carpet. It was heavy, so heavy. But beautiful.

Jane saw what I was doing and started forward but I shook my head and I believe she understood. I was ready. Sometimes, time defeats itself: a life is played too fast, an end is reached before the end, and all that remains is memory; but what if memory isn't enough? What if two dimensions won't suffice?

'I wish today were yesterday and yesterday tomorrow.'

If only my present was history, and my past was yet to be: the only future I wanted was the one I had already had; but, as it must, it was lost to time and there was, now, no future to aspire to. I had reached a natural end.

I smiled broadly, a sense of contentment settling through my body: eventually, even the most difficult decisions are easy. "Whatever happens, I love you. Both of you. Never forget it."

Raising the barrel of the shotgun to my mouth, I gripped it between my teeth, the acid metal bitter against my tongue. I positioned Jane's stick against the trigger and fumbled for a moment, trying to position it, but finally it settled into place. On my knees, I prayed to Janus to open the doorway for me, and I steadied myself, prepared at the last. I would have liked to have seen my two, sweet lovers once more, but tears blinded my eyes; and in any case it was time to go.

I pressed the trigger.

On to part twenty-one