When Vimes awoke again the wound on his shoulder was dressed and smelt vaguely of herbs. Lu-Tze was sitting near, smoking a small cigarette; the smoke wreathed his head and hung in strange coils. "Hello again," said the Sweeper.

"Am I home?" asked Vimes, struggling to sit up, and managing only to raise himself onto his elbows.

"Nope."

Vimes swore. "Why the hell not?"

"I've told you Mister Vimes. This is your subconscious mind that's directing us. This where part of you wants to be."

"When am I?"

"It's the 16th of August, 1890."

"Oh," said Vimes, looking slightly happier. The Sweeper gave him a quizzical look. "That's my wedding anniversary," explained Vimes, mildly uncomfortable about discussing it, and feeling guilty about his own unease.

"What do you want to change?" prompted Lu-Tze.

"What? Oh, nothing. Nothing!"

"Well, what happens today then?" asked the Sweeper, completely mystified as to the cause of Vimes's sudden desperate cheerfulness and faraway expression.

"Er... I had the evening off. I went home earlyish. Um."

"I'll talk to Qu. I'll be back in a minute."

Vimes opened his mouth to stop him but couldn't find his voice in time. He contented himself with flexing his fingers, wincing at the pain and stiffness but also finding them a little easier to move than before.

Lu-Tze hurried back over. "So Mister Vimes. Have you figured out what it is you need to do?"

"Er... er.. No?"

"Well, what happened to you today? What did you do?"

"I told you! I had the evening off. I didn't do anything much."

"You just went home?"

"Yes! It was my wedding anniversary! I was organised this year. Flowers, jewellery... you know? I'd planned it a bit after I came back from Klatch..." Vimes trailed off into mute embarrassment.

Lu-Tze was grinning now, happy in his role of duty torturer; Vimes could see it in his eyes. He knew that Vimes knew that he knew that-

"So you went home?"

Vimes nodded.

"Celebrated your anniversary?"

Another nod.

"Didn't do anything much?"

Again, a nod.

"And the nine months and nine days later your son was born..."

Vimes felt his ears burning and looked away. He felt a momentary stab of anger at his own embarrassment. For gods sake, what was there to feel ashamed of? He looked back up at the Sweeper. "Well? I certainly don't need to encourage myself to do that! I'd planned it for weeks-"

"Yes, I understand. But... if Captain Carrot came knocking, before say, nine o'clock. Would you have gone?"

Vimes said nothing. In his now, in the time he had left behind and was desperately trying to get back to, he doubted he would. There was always another nappy to be changed, a baby to watch, or even simply some sleep to catch up on. Sybil had told him that someone had told her that a new baby would bring them closer together. It had; in the sense that they tended to flop down in the same room and sleep before the screaming would wake them (and then they would jump up together to find out what was wrong) but Vimes reckoned he actually spent less times talking to his wife now than before, as most of the time there were too many other things going on to chat- many of them involving vomit or other baby fluids.

But then? It depended how big a crime had been occurring. And the time. If it happened at dinner... the chance was probably fairly high. After that, no. Of that he was certain. However much the policeman in his soul would have objected it would have been overruled by the majority. Not even Sam Vimes itched to solve crimes that much. There were some things a man should not have to chose between.

He looked at Lu-Tze's face and sighed. "Go on then. What would I get called out for?"

"Know-Less-Than-Don't-Know Jack the Ripper."

Vimes frowned. "But that happened afterwards. The first victim was found at least two days after the-" he caught himself, "Tonight."

"Right," said the Sweeper, "What you say is true. But that's because the first intended victim was saved by one Commander Vimes as he happened to be passing."

"But I was at home with Sybil!"

"Yes," said Lu-Tze patiently, "You were. But you were also there. No one ever bothered to check on her statement in reference to the Ripper because it got filed under attempted robbery, not attempted murder. But if someone had looked at the times of the statement and the signature of the officer taking it, they would have found that somehow Commander Vimes was interviewing the suspect at the same time he was at home with his wife."

Vimes gave him a suspicious look. "How do you know all this stuff, Sweeper?" he said.

"'Cos I just went and read the report."

"I... I don't believe someone didn't notice. I can't believe I didn't notice. The report must have been on my desk..."

"There's your explanation then Mister Vimes," said the Sweeper cheerfully. Vimes nodded gloomily. It was true, the state of his desk the report could have sat there for weeks unread before being buried and quite possibly later burned by Fred Colon, or filed by Carrot.

"Where and when?" he asked.



Vimes walked slowly up Clay Lane under a darkening sky. It was not so much important that he wasn't seen, but it was imperative he was not seen by himself, or someone who knew where he was... gods this was strange. It was somehow worse to be less than a year in his own past. Young Sam had been thirty younger than him now, whereas the him in this time was the same as the Vimes standing in Clay Lane now, give or take a few scars. He saw a watchman heading down the street and dodged into a side alley. This was going to be more difficult than he imagined, not getting found out. He wondered how he'd managed it before when he was the Vimes that right now was walking home to see Lady Sybil... gods! This was a metaphysical maze! Perhaps if he thought of that Vimes as Sam and himself as Vimes. Yes, that seemed to work...

His errant feet were leading him places he didn't want to go again. He was heading to the Yard which was dangerous. He didn't want to bump into any watchmen. He turned around, headed back towards the Shades....

....and then the realisation washed over him as if he had been drenched in freezing cold water. He stood stock still; as still in fact as if he had just been soaked. He was going to have to fight off a dangerous madman whom, even the Agony Aunts had been forced to hand over the capture of to the Watch. He didn't even have a sword. He needed a weapon.

That meant one of two choices. He could head for the Watch House or he could go home and obtain his... equalisers. It wasn't as if he had any money to buy an more, and anyway the knuckledusters in the pocket of his coat at home were moulded to his hands now. They fit his fingers after years of use. His house seemed like the most sensible option, he could lurk in the grounds, sneak in through a side-door. There was no real way of getting into his office except through the front door, not with all the traps he'd set.

He set off at a run down the road, wondering what the time was.. He reached Scoone Avenue and; scattering gravel chippings everywhere, raced across the drive and into the grounds. he lurked behind a tree next to the ornamental lake, getting his breath back and counting windows. Two up, three along, that was his bedroom. How was he going to get up there? Climbing wasn't a good option, not with all the traps but if he.. Sam had already arrived home the front doors would be bolted and Wilkins would answer the tradesman's entrance, which could give rise to some awkward questions. That left breaking a window or sneaking in through the roof. The window wasn't really an option, not with the dragons in the house who'd kick up a fuss if he tried to smash his way in. Or worse Sybil or Wilkins would hear and come to investigate.

He swore under his breath, looked left, right, sprinted across the grounds rather stiffly, grabbed a drainpipe, tried to pull himself up, fell back, tried again and managed to pull himself onto a low roof, panting with the effort. Feeling like a fool he stood up. Here the brickwork was in good repair and he's sawed through the drainpipes. Even if he had had a rope, the slates had been redesigned to slide off the roof if hit with a grapnel. For all practical purposes he was, as Fred Colon might have put it, well and truly up the creek without a paddle.

He scowled at the wall some more and noticed a thin tendril of ivy creeping up the brickwork. By the look of it, it might just snap and let him fall horribly to his death when he was halfway up the wall. He tugged at it. It seemed fairly secure.

He started to climb, his shoulder screaming in pain. He tried to ignore it, gritting his teeth and pulling himself onto the main roof. Now it was easy. He knew the only safe passage across the roof well because the sliding slates on greased rails required quite a lot of maintenance. There was a trapdoor, locked but old and rotten. It gave way under the force of his kick.

That was it. He was in. In the loft space at least. He strained his hearing in case someone had heard him smash the trapdoor. There was no sound from below. He moved silently across the dusty floor, taking care to tread in his old footprints. He eased the door open gently and slid out through the smallest gap possible as it squealed if opened more than six inches, he'd arranged it so by careful oiling of the hinges just in case someone by sheer luck ever did manage to get into the loft.

Now he was on the landing. He crept down the corridor and pushed open his bedroom door. His coat was hanging over the back of the chair. He hurried over to it, thrust his hands in its pockets and pulled out, well, all sorts of things. Keys, bits of string, slips of paper. A charcoal biscuit. Ah, here it was--

The sound of the front door opening made him jump in shock. He heard the jangle of keys and then his own voice. "Hello? Anyone home?"

Vimes sat on his haunches with his mouth open. Was that really his voice? It had been different so far back in the past- for a start it had been a lot higher. But this voice was older. More educated but still with a thick Morporkian twang, and much, much deeper. He heard another door click and then Sybil's voice.

"Oh, hello. I wasn't expecting you back." There was a pause and then a gasp of surprise. "Oh Sam! You shouldn't have!"

In the bedroom Vimes froze. He'd hidden some presents under the bed, one of the few places in his house safe from swamp dragon damage. He heard footsteps on the stairs. He came to his senses and dived into the wardrobe, holding the door not quite shut behind him. He peered out through the gap.

The other Vimes came in. Vimes-in-the-wardrobe blinked. He'd never seen the back of his head like this before, good grief was he really that grey around the ears? The other Vimes turned and Vimes-in-the-wardrobe saw his face. He was smiling in that special Vimish way, with the scowl pretty much a permanent feature still in control of the top of his head but with his mouth turned upwards at the corners. The overall effect was quite painful. The man currently flailing both his arms under the bed needed a good shave too, the five o'clock shadow round his chin was a dark smudge. When he stood up Vimes-in-the-wardrobe could see the scars on his arms. Somehow they were much more noticeable from here than looking down on them.

As he walked away back down the stairs Vimes noted the way he walked with some satisfaction. It was the walk of a man in control, the walk of a man who despite a skinny appearance obviously had a kind of muscular grace. It was a bit of a plodding walk as well though, he had to concede.

He slipped out of the wardrobe and removed the last knuckleduster from his pocket, and his notebook as an afterthought, and set off again. Ten minutes later he was standing on the gravel of the drive rubbing his shoulder with an expression of some pain. However, he set off at a trot towards the Shades again.

Even though Sam Vimes had grown up in the Shades he was generally a bit wary about going into them, even though no one in their right mind these days ever attacked a copper, let alone Commander of the Watch. All the same, Vimes still felt the tingle in his veins as he hurried down Elm Street and turned into the mess of winding alleyways that a tiny part of him would always call home.

It was very dark now and Vimes would have had to rely on his feet to guide him a lot of the time in the dingy alleyways of the Shades, if he hadn't have known his way through every twisting passageway by heart. As it was the soles of his feet were telling him he was right in the middle of Shamlegger street. He wondered what the time was and patted his pockets for a cigar.

The scream cut through the warm night air sending a chill shivering down Vimes's spine right into the small of his back. Up until that point the street had, to the practised eye, been quite busy. There had been a number of black robed men standing in various doorways thinking themselves unseen by the man walking as silently as a cat down the street and two or three ladies of negotiable affection who had been leaning against the brickwork which almost seemed to spill into the street in this part of town. Now they seemed to simply melt away into the blackness as the screams continued. Vimes's started to run.

The screams were coming from a small alley just off Shamlegger street, and they were abruptly cut off as Vimes got closer. Keeping his back to the wall he edged around the corner. Know-Less-Than-Don't-Know Jack had always been regarded as a bit of a psycho even by Ankh-Morpork standards. There are some minds that even criminals recognise as being a few palms short of an oasis., and Jack was considered trouble by some of the major street gangs. Normally the survival rate of known nutters was fairly small. The Watch tended not interfere with that sort of thing. For one thing, it made the job a lot easier. However uneasy Vimes felt about this he had to admit that trying to solve the problem was a bit like trying to empty a sea with a sieve, it just can't be done. But Jack had survived because up until now he never caused quite enough trouble to warrant their attention over someone else. Until tonight.

The seamstress had been gagged and Vimes could see the whites of her eyes shining in the darkness, along with the blade in Jack's hand. There was blood on her dress and dripping down her pale arm. Jack was grinning. She made a muffled noise as he pulled her to her feet, and nearly collapsed back to the ground on her trembling legs. It struck Vimes how small she was, she could only have been sixteen.

Something snapped. Vimes ran forward, his hand already reaching into his pocket. Jack spun and lashed out with his foot. Vimes caught it and pulled it upwards so the man fell heavily and landed on his back. He rolled over backwards and onto his feet and Vimes charged into him.

They hit the cobbles hard and Vimes struck out with the brass knuckles. Jack responded by grabbing him around the throat an trying to headbutt him, but Vimes was a master at that particular party trick and managed to slam his metal fist into the man's stomach making him wheeze and let go of Vimes's neck. Vimes pinned both his arms to the cobbles and looked into the eyes of the man struggling to catch his breath.

Vimes had been to all of the Ripper crime scenes and had seen what Jack had done to the victims he had managed to get off the streets and into his rooms. It wasn't pleasant and as he stared into the eyes of the man panting on the cobbles it occurred to him what a favour he would be doing by cutting the bastard's throat here and now. All those women who would still be alive today, all that blood...

The outcome of Vimes's musings would never be known as Jack managed to get his knee up and Vimes's grip relaxed slightly as his eyes crossed. It was just enough for Jack to wriggle free and set off running down the alley. Vimes wasn't going anywhere fast at the moment but he made his way over to the bound girl, bent double and groaning slightly.

"Did he hurt you?" he managed as he removed her gag and untied her bonds.

"Oh, Commander Vimes! Thank you so much! I thought I was going to die!" The words came out in a rush.

"Are you alright, miss?" Vimes repeated. The blood was still running down her arm.

"I'll be fine sir," she said, "He just took a slash at my arm."

"Can you tell me exactly what happened?" he said, taking out his notebook.

Nearly half an hour later Vimes was climbing up the ivy to return his knuckledusters before his past self discovered them missing. He scrambled in through the loft and pushed open the door gently, more than a little worried that he might hear himself come in.

He stepped out onto the landing and grinned suddenly in the dark. From the sound of things there was little need to worry about his past self hearing an intruder. He slid into his dressing room and shoved everything except a page from the notebook into the pocket of his coat. He paused for a moment at the door. If only he could tell himself, he mused, if only he could let himself know what the consequences of tonight were going to be... but he couldn't do that. Instead he headed back out into the night. The Sweeper was waiting for him when he reached the ground. Vimes waved the notebook page at him.

"How am I going to get this on my desk?" he demanded.

"Leave it to me, Mister Vimes," replied Lu-Tze. Vimes handed the paper over and opened his mouth to speak but the world suddenly drained of colour once more, this time to darkness and he felt once again that curious sensation of movement. Then a pavement appeared in front of his blurred field of vision and it rose up to strike him in the face. He lay on the floor and decided to accept the majority vote for a while, and closed his eyes.