The Extremes

Teresa logged on to the website for the Abilene Lone Star News, and within a few seconds the newspaper's home page appeared. She glanced through it, then clicked on the icon for the archive.

She typed in the date: June 4, the day after this, the day after this one eight months ago. lt was illogical: how could she look into the archived files of a newspaper that would not be published until the next day? lt was another test of historical certainty against virtuality. If she was here, really here, timetravelled back to Bulverton on June 3, then of course what she was trying would not be allowed. But Teresa was certain that nothing any more was real, not real in the way she used to mean it. just real enough.

Realenough reality was confirmed: the facsimile front page of the Abilene Lone Star News of June 4 came into view, the graphic image scanning slowly from the top.

First came the title of the newspaper. Then the black headline, inchhigh capitals, spreading over two lines: MASS SHOOTING AT KINGWOOD'S NORTH CROSS MALL. Text started appearing with three bylines: the terse, excited words put together by the team of reporters assigned to the story. A few inches down, set into the text in an outlined block, was the Arkansas mugshot of Aronwitz.

The image scanned quickly into view.

lt was the face of Gerry Grove.

Back at the online database terminal, Teresa removed her Postit note, clicked on No to the question about displaying the 16,794 hyperlinks, and cleared the screen. Then she connected her name with Grove's once more, interested to see how the exponential growth had proceeded. A few more minutes went by. Then it said:

There are 73,788 hyperlink(s) connecting 'Teresa

Ann Simons' to 'Gerry/Gerald Dean Grove'. Display? Yes/No.

She clicked on No. She typed in her name and Andy's instead, and in almost instant response the computer said:

There are 1 hyperlink(s) connecting 'Teresa Ann Simons' to 'Andy/Andrew Wellman Simons'. Display? Yes/No.

She clicked on Yes, and the name of the scenario in Kingwood City came into view. She cancelled it, knowing that that was not the one she wanted.

She now knew what she had to do. She typed in Andy's name again, and her own. This time, though, she called herself 'Teresa Ann Gravatt/ Simons'. The computer said: There are 23 hyperlink(s) connecting 'Teresa Ann Gravatt/Simons' to 'Andy/Andrew Wellman Simons'. Display? Yes/No.

Teresa clicked on Yes, and with the list in front of her began constructing the remainder of her life.

CHAPTER 38

Theresa came in at night: she had always remembered it

happening during the day. Her memories were exact,

but

apparently in error. The discovery frightened her

because it made her think, inevitably, that what she was

doing had gone wrong from the outset. She paused in the

street, trying to decide whether to abort the scenario before it went any further, go back and check the preparations she had

made, or to go on with it, and see what transpired.

While she stood there undecided, a door opened in the large building behind her, and a shaft of electric light played across the concrete. A young man stepped out, pulling a thick leather jacket round his shoulders. With his fists in his pockets, and his elbows sticking out, he strode past her.

'Good evening, ma'am,' he said, noncommittally, not really looking at her.

'Hi,' Teresa replied, then turned in shock and surprise to stare at him as he walked off into the night. lt was her father, Bob Gravatt.

He passed under a streetlight, and she saw his closeshaved head, his round ears, his thickening neck, the roll of fleece visible at the neck of his Jacket. He walked to a pickup truck, climbed in and drove away.

Teresa went into the barracks building, and climbed a flight of concrete steps. lt was a communal staircase, with doors leading off landings to individual apartments. On the top floor she came to a brownpainted door that faced into the stairwell. A piece of card ' inscribed in her father's square

lettering, carried his name: S/S R.D. Gravatt. Cautiously, she pushed the door open. A short corridor ran towards the kitchen at the far end. Music from a radio could be heard from this, and the sound of kitchen utensils in use.

The temptation to walk down and see her mother was almost impossible to resist, but Teresa knew that it would lead necessarily to her aborting the scenario and having to start again.

She had set up a chain of contiguity, and she was reluctant to break it so early. Instead, then, she turned into the first room on the right of the corridor, which she knew was her parents'

bedroom.

A small girl stood there, next to a plain wooden chair in the centre of the room. An automatic handgun, instantly recognized by Teresa as a .32calibre Smith & Wesson, lay on the chair.

The child was facing a large mirror, the size of a door, attached to the wall opposite the double bed.

A mirror, a real mirror!