The lights in the sitting room at Home Farm were turned down low. Charity hadn't felt much like going anywhere, so they had elected to remain in that night, and watch television instead. Television watching wasn't something that Chris did very often, and he had almost forgotten the simple pleasure of sitting in a gentle light, enjoying an old film with somebody that he cared about - or somebody that he thought he cared about, at any rate. He hadn't quite decided yet. Charity sipped from a glass of brandy as the final credits rolled, and smiled at him in the semi-darkness caused by the momentary blackening of the screen.

"This is very nice."

"It should be. It's an expensive brand." She frowned slightly, and he nodded at the glass. She laughed.

"I meant the company."

"Oh." It was his turn to frown, although not with the same degree of confusion. She finished her drink.

"What's wrong? Conversation dried up?"

"Not really." He was still frowning at her, watching as she went over to the drinks tray to refill both their glasses. There was something different about her tonight, and even he, with his supposed legendary lack of sensitivity, was well aware of it. She was uneasy about something, and it bothered him. "I was just thinking that you were bound to say that, weren't you. It's what I pay you for." She winced.

"Is that it? You think I'm only here for the money?"

"I wondered. But I don't know."

"Good." She sounded faintly hurt. "What's brought this on? I thought we were getting along really well?"

"So did I." Sooner or later of course, everybody started to avoid his company, but he didn't think that he had said anything all that offensive to her just yet. Not that he remembered anyway. The problem was of course that, just because he didn't think something was terribly insulting, it didn't necessarily follow that anybody else would think the same thing. His sense of humour rather tended to leave others cold. "It's just that you're... different tonight. You look like you'd rather be somewhere else. I was thinking that perhaps all of the rumours about you and Terry might be true after all."

She smiled at that. "Do you think that if I was really seeing Terry, he'd let me come here and be with you?"

"No... But you might come anyway."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you could both do with the money." It was a cheap shot and he knew it, but she showed no sign this time that it had hurt.

"You like aiming below the belt, don't you Chris." It wasn't an accusation, just an observation. He shrugged, taking his now full glass back from her as she held it out. He stared at it for a second, then downed the contents in one go and put the empty glass on the table beside him. In the corner of the room, Peggy stirred in her basket, and the lights from the television sent her shadow rolling about the ceiling.

"Sometimes below the belt is the most effective." He fixed her with one of his most penetrating stares. "So what is wrong? Why the distance? I thought we were friends?"

"I don't know what we are." She sat down again. "It's nothing, really. And it's not your fault. I like being here with you, and if I didn't I wouldn't come." She smiled. "And I'm definitely not seeing Terry. It's bad enough that my family thinks that, without you joining in."

"There are worse people to be with than Terry."

"Like you for instance?"

This time he grinned; one of his slightly twisted grins that made his eyes flash with dark humour. "Yes. Like me." The lights in his eyes turned harder. "Now, what's wrong?"

"Oh, I met somebody today, that's all. Somebody from the old days, from before I moved here. He wants me to go back with him."

"And you don't want to go?"

"Of course I don't. I might have a flash car and some expensive jewellery, but that mostly just for show. Business wasn't great back in the city, and I have no desire to go back there. Dingy little apartments, making ends meet, weeks without any work... and Tony Simpson and his friends gazing at me as if I was a perk of the job. Life here is much better." She smiled as she stared around the room, with its expensive furniture, costly panelling, and general aura of wealth and prosperity. "The surroundings alone..."

"Then tell him to leave you alone."

"It's not as simple as that." For a second she looked rather sad. "I'm sorry. I'm bringing down the spirit of the evening. What shall we do next? I feel like some music."

"If you like." He followed her with his eyes as she headed for the light switch, and then towards the music centre. There were a lot of CDs arranged beside it, as well as some rather more old fashioned tapes and vinyl albums. The music centre was used rather more often than the television, and its much-used status was obvious from the dust-free buttons and perfectly placed speakers. Most of the CDs were classical or operatic, since neither Tate was exactly an exponent of the delights of popular music. One or two more modern discs were Frankie's, and a couple of children's albums indicated Joseph's presence in the household. Charity held one of them up. "I had this when I was a kid. My dad got it for me, when he was in one of his better moods." She smiled, somewhat ruefully. "He probably nicked it from the family down the street."

"At least he got it for you. My dad didn't buy - or steal - anything that he didn't think was 'improving'. It was all Beethoven and Shostakovich."

"Doesn't seem to have turned you against any of it." She started flicking through the CDs. "Do you have anything post-1850?"

"Yes." He smiled, then let the expression fade. "But you're changing the subject. We were talking about your friend that wants to take you back home with him. Why does he have you so scared?"

She glared at him. "You're not supposed to care. I've heard all that there is to hear about you, Chris - and you're not even supposed to notice how I'm feeling, let alone let it worry you."

"Who says I'm worried? Maybe I'm just curious. I like to know things."

"Knowledge is power?"

"Something like that." He was still watching her with darkly suspicious eyes, and she sat back down beside him on the settee.

"His name is Tony Simpson," she told him, after a moment's pause. "He likes to think that he runs my life, that's all. Him and his friends own a night club where I used to hang out a lot. There was a lot of business in a place like that late at night, especially at the weekends. Tony used to try it on a lot, but I could handle him. It was nothing too bad. I learnt to look after myself a long time ago."

"So what are you going to do?"

"What can I do? I'll just have to tell him that I'm not going back with him. If necessary I'll get Zac to speak to him. It won't be the end of it, but it'll win me some breathing space. Time to think it all through again. I might have to move on and find somewhere else to live."

He frowned. "I thought you said that you didn't want to leave?"

"I don't want to go back there. Whether or not I stay here depends on whether I have any reason to stay." She nodded at his glass. "Do you want another?"

"No." He had probably had enough, although that did not usually stop him. Right now he wanted to think, which grew harder with increasing amounts of alcohol. "If this man is threatening you, I could get Terry to speak to him. He's good at that sort of thing, and I get the feeling that he'd like to help you out."

"Maybe, but I don't want too many people knowing about this. Anyway, if I wanted it handling like that, I'd talk to Zac. I don't want bloodshed, and I certainly don't want Terry getting hurt on my account. It's not a good idea for Tony to get to know too many faces around here. It could be making trouble for the future, if he ever comes back."

"But you said he's just a troublemaker who works at a night-club." Chris shook his head. "I'm not stupid, and I'd appreciate it if you'd remember that. You may be used to living among moronic inbreeds who don't have a brain cell between them, but you'd be wise to remember that I come in a slightly different class."

"So I see." For a second her voice was icy cold, although it had no effect on Chris. She had never seen this side of him before, despite having heard about it often. "So why should I tell you the full story then, Chris? Are you planning on doing something about it? Going out there and telling Tony to leave me alone? Maybe you think that I belong to you now, the way he and his boss think I belong to them?"

"I don't think that." He sounded disparaging, as though completely oblivious to her growing irritation. Admittedly there was no hint of possession in the way that he spoke to her, but she still didn't like the way that he was demanding to know things. Asking her Uncle Zac to deal with Tony was a bit different to telling a client all about it - even a client that was no longer really a client at all; or maybe never had been. She wasn't sure that she wanted him involving himself that much in her life.

"No, perish the thought." She actually felt a little disappointed. "After all, you can't ever be seen to care, can you."

"Who says that I care?" He looked away. "Forget it. Look, I'll call Terry. He'll take you home."

"You're throwing me out?"

"Did I say that?" He looked away, shaking his head. "I was trying to have an enjoyable evening, Charity. If you don't want to be here, that's fine with me. I have some work I should be doing anyway."

"I thought you liked me." She sounded odd, as though he had hurt her with his curt dismissal, and for a tiny second the slightest of frowns crossed his forehead. It might have been a frown of confusion, or of remorse; it might have been a sign that he regretted being so short with her - but in any event she was already heading towards the door. He sighed.

"Is there anybody back home for you to be with? If this man scares you so much, you probably shouldn't be there alone."

"Zac and Lisa have gone out for the evening." She glanced at her watch. "I'm expecting them back at about midnight."

"It's barely past ten now." He stared at the ground for a second, either in thought or in conflict with his conscience. "You can stay here for the night, if you'd like." For a second it looked as though he might actually blush, although she very much doubted that he ever did that. "There are a lot of rooms, I mean. You needn't..." She laughed.

"There are times when I suspect you of being almost human."

"Well don't go spreading that around, please." He offered her one of his small smiles, of the kind that had first attracted her to him. It was one of the smiles that told her, in no uncertain terms, that beneath the layers of ice and stone there beat the heart of... well, of somebody a little less icy and stony, anyway. She smiled back.

"I'd appreciate it if I could stay the night. And I promise I'd be gone before Joseph wakes up."

"That'll take some doing. I think he rises with the sun. I'd certainly swear that he gets up a little earlier every day."

"The beauty of being a five year old." She sat down beside him again, the atmosphere already visibly warming. "So what about your sister? I thought you said that it wasn't definite about her staying out for the whole night?"

"If she gets back tonight she'll go straight to bed, and I won't see her again until later. There won't be any danger." Pulling himself off the settee and back into his chair, he headed over to the drinks tray to refill his glass. "And who cares if she finds out anyway?" A mischievous smile crossed his face. "She knows that you're a friend of Terry's, and he sometimes stays the night."

"You haven't been telling her that?" Charity sounded almost as if she was outraged by the suggestion. He grinned at her.

"I haven't been telling her anything; but she does work pretty closely with the locals, remember - and stories spread through this village like wildfire. Plus she spends a fair amount of time in the Woolpack. People in there talk about everything and everyone, and they all think that Terry is seeing you."

"Aren't you worried that he'll tell them the truth?"

"He wouldn't." Chris's eyes narrowed, suggesting that the consequences for Terry would be dire, if he let anything slip. "He needs this job, and I don't need him. Not that much." He lifted his now-full glass in a sort of salute. "And besides, maybe we shouldn't be skulking in shadows anyway. Am I really that bad a person to be seen with?"

"You mean you want people to know that you've been seeing a Dingle?" It was a barbed question, not that the potential ramifications of answering it in any way bothered Chris. He wasn't going to keep his feelings about the Dingle family a secret, even from another of their number. He shrugged.

"Depends on the Dingle. But on the whole, I suppose not. After the way that I teased Zo‘ when she started seeing Frankie, I'd much rather that she never finds out about me and you, anyway; even if everybody else does."

"You know, you really do have a special talent for making people feel wanted." She joined him by the collection of bottles, intending to replenish her own fast disappearing drink. "Besides, it's not about what people think - your sister included. It's about what people will do. I'm not so worried about my Uncle Zac. Since he married Lisa he's mellowed a lot. He's not like he was in the old days."

"True." The days of Zac's brawling and trouble-making seemed largely to be in the past - which was something about which Chris was more or less certain. Had the old Zac still been around, he would not have let the recent death of his son in a Tate minibus go unavenged for so long - no matter whose fault, if any, that death may or may not have been.

"It's just Cain..." She thought of her cousin's attitude towards her, which was more possessive that Tony Simpson had ever been, and every bit as objectionable. Cain's hatred of Chris Tate was nothing to do with Butch's death, for Cain had never been close to Butch. Cain merely hated for the sake of hate itself, and if he found out that Charity was in love with... the thought trailed off. In love with? - well... whatever it was that she felt for Chris anyway - Cain would do more than merely cause trouble. He would probably kill one or the other of them, and Charity didn't much want it to be her. She didn't much want it to be Chris either, come to that.

"I'm not scared of Cain." Chris's firm voice surprised her, and she frowned. She had heard of course, about the time at the village meeting several months previously, when Cain had taken a shot at beating Chris up. If accounts of that meeting were to be believed, Chris had been grinning when Cain had finished, although Charity was canny enough to realise that that had been more to do with the presence of the local press than anything to do with genuine bravado. All the same, such quiet certainty now was not what she had expected.

"I didn't say I was afraid of him necessarily. I just don't think it's a good idea to court trouble. I'm certainly not going to go up to him in the Woolpack, and announce that I'm seeing you. He hates you nearly as much as he hates Sean Reynolds, and that's saying a lot. In fact, probably the only reason he does hate Reynolds more is because he sees him more often. He's still looking for a chance to get at you, and he doesn't need Butch's death as an excuse."

"That's just as well." Chris's eyes were cold. "Because that wasn't my fault."

"Did I say it was? I'm just saying..."

"I know what you're saying, but I'm still not afraid of Cain. I've faced people who were very much more capable than he is, and I'm not scared of his threats; any more than I'd allow myself to be intimidated by this man Simpson. If he bothers you that much why not go to the police?"

"Is that what you would do?"

"Maybe." He smiled, as though recalling some past event. "Although they're not known for listening to me." he reached out for a second, taking her hand, eyes now deeply earnest. "Why does he scare you so much?"

"You're not going to let this go, are you."

"Maybe I care too much about you for that." For a second he seemed genuine; almost frighteningly so; although, just as ever, it was too hard to tell the truth from the lies. With Chris Tate honesty and the lack of the same seemed to be part and parcel of the same thing. Even over the course of the last few months of their curious affair she had come no closer to understanding him, or figuring him out, than she had come to working out the meaning of life. She had mentioned as much to Terry, on one of their increasingly awkward car journeys, and he had merely laughed; a hard laugh, with a trace of something very scathing.

"I've known him for years," had been the vague comment offered in answer. "I know him less well now than I did before I knew him at all. One day he'll be all smiles and thoughtfulness, and the next he'll take your head off with one carefully planned insult. Don't try to work him out. You'll only get hurt."

"Hurt?" She had been confused by that, still so very used to the thoughtful, gentle, and faultlessly polite man who had been showing her a wonderful new world.

"Yeah." He had turned back to his driving, eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. "Pretty soon everybody who tangles with Chris Tate gets hurt, one way or another - sometimes they even get killed." And he had left it at that, refusing even to be drawn on any further conversation. His disapproval had filled the air between them, until she had almost felt in need of opening a window just to breathe.

"If I tell you, you have to promise me that you won't try to do anything about it. No sending Terry to talk to anybody, and no dropping thinly veiled hints to Angie Reynolds. I mean it Chris. This is an awkward situation, and I don't want people getting hurt."

"Are they likely to be?" There were faint lights of interest in his eyes, and she could almost see his mind working behind them; as though running possibilities through his brain, about how this new piece of information might be made to work in his favour. Maybe she was a fool to have become so mixed up in the life of somebody so scheming; but she could take care of herself. That was the one thing she had always been sure of - until Tony Simpson had walked back into her life.

"Tony has been sent here because the people he works for think that I know something. That I saw something. They're worried that I could be a liability, and they want to be able to keep any eye on me. It worries them, having me living out here, where they don't know what I'm getting up to, or who I'm mixing with."

"What did you see?"

"I said they think I saw something. I didn't say I actually saw it."

"But you did." She had to smile at his tone, so steady and so confident. It was almost a temptation to try and take him down a peg or two. Never before had she met a man so certain of himself. He was right though, of course. She could almost believe that he always was.

"Yeah, okay. I did see it." She took a deep breath. "I was... I was with this bloke, in a back room in this seedy little hotel." She almost shivered at the memory. "Tony came in with some other people, while I was in the kitchen. They killed the man I was with - shot him. I climbed out of the window and went down the fire escape." She could still remember the feel of the rusty metal against her hands, and the way that the steps had creaked and clanged beneath her feet. She had been sure that she would be spotted, although she had seen no signs of pursuit at the time. It hadn't been until later - days later - that she had been approached, and asked just what she thought she had seen. She had made out that she had seen nothing, and that she had made her escape because she couldn't face the thought of spending the night with a man like that. She had thought that they believed her, and that she was safe. Even when they had continued to keep a close watch on her, wanting to know where she was, and who she was with - even when they had been breathing down her neck with their threats and their insinuations, still had she believed that they didn't really consider her to be a threat. Now she knew for sure that they did, and she didn't like to think what might happen if she let Tony take her back with him. Maybe this time it would be her meeting her end in some dingy little hotel room. That didn't seem fair, particularly now. Life had been so much better of late. There was her sometime job with Eric Pollard; her increasing wealth; her relationship, or business arrangement, or whatever the hell it was with Chris. Life was good. She didn't want to go back now, no matter what might be waiting for her. Chris put his glass down, and took her hand instead.

"You shouldn't be dealing with this alone." He sounded very serious now, and probably more genuine than she had ever before heard him. "Believe me, I know what it's like when people are trying to intimidate you, for whatever reason."

"You think I should go to the police." She shook her head. "I may not be from around here, Chris, but I'm still a Dingle. They won't take me seriously, and even if they do - what then? My family would disown me if I went to the police, even about something like this. Or perhaps you're offering to go for me?"

"That probably wouldn't be such a good idea." He was staring at the tray of drinks as though somehow the dark amber of the various spirits would help him to think what to do next - or maybe he was just wishing that he had never asked her what was wrong. "If my name comes up in any of this you certainly won't get a fair hearing from the local police. I have a..." He smiled; broadly, honestly, and for once with genuine humour, "... A relationship, with one of the local inspectors. He's had a grudge against me ever since I showed him up back at the beginning of last year. It got even worse between us when... when something happened at about this time last year. We... clashed."

"I thought you clashed with everybody?" She sipped at her brandy, wising that it could be even stronger than it was. He toyed with his own glass.

"True. But not everybody is as tenacious, or as unforgiving, as Inspector Spalding. The last time that we met he practically threatened me. I'll admit that I do have a... a knack for offending people, but around here most people just let it go. They're used to it. Spalding's different. He's more like me."

"Which rules out the police even if I was prepared to go to them." She sighed, trying not to yawn. It had not been an especially long day, but it had been rather more straining than most. It was not yet half past ten, but already she felt much the same way that she would usually be feeling come the chimes of two o'clock. Chris seemed to guess her thoughts, for he raised an eyebrow in what might have been friendly concern - or might just have been disapproval at this sign of her weakness. Why could she still not be sure about him, even after so many weeks of their being so very intimate? Maybe that was just it. Maybe they weren't being intimate at all. Maybe neither of them really meant any of this. She was surprised at the way that her head and her heart rebelled against that thought.

"Do you want to go to bed?" This time she was sure that he had blushed. "I know that there's at least one bed made up in one of the spare rooms. You look like you need some sleep."

"Thanks." She put just enough mock indignation into her voice to earn another of Chris's rare, genuine smiles. "But I appreciate it anyway. Yes, I would like to get some sleep, if you don't mind."

"Of course not. You go on up, and I'll see you in the morning. Zo‘ is supposed to be having some kind of partner's conference at the vet's tomorrow, and Frankie is still enthusiastic about this car repairs thing in the village, so they'll both be out of here early. Joseph will be at school... I'd like to see you again tomorrow, and talk this thing through."

"I told you that I don't want you involved."

"That's what you said - but what did you mean? You need help, that much is obvious. I'd like to help you."

"What I said is exactly what I meant. I don't need your help, and I won't accept it." She heaved a heavy sigh. "Oh, just forget it. I'm going home."

"Now?" He looked taken aback. "I-- Well if you're sure. I'll call Terry."

"There's no need to bother Terry. I'll walk home. It's not all that far, and the fields around here are hardly full of marauding gangs."

"But there's--"

"Chris." Her hard voice silenced him, but he clearly did not appreciate being spoken to like that. For a second a petulant kind of rage flashed in his eyes. "Listen, please. This is nothing. A disagreement with an old friend. Don't make it into something worse than it is."

"Fine." He spun around, heading towards the door. "Like I said, I have work that I should be doing. If you want to go home, go ahead. Get yourself dragged back to your old life for all I care. It's no concern of mine."

"I didn't mean--"

"Forget it." This time his voice was colder than ever. "Get out of here Charity. If you don't want my help, that's your business, but don't stand around here getting in my way when I should be busy doing other things. Just make sure that you shut the door when you leave."

"Fine." She stood where she was for a moment, bewildered. The anger had apparently come from nowhere, although she was fairly sure what had caused it. Perhaps she shouldn't have been so quick to dismiss his offers of help. All the same, such a strong reaction had not been at all what she might have expected. Confused, and more than a little hurt, she withdrew. Chris stared after her, his temper already cooling. Just as on many occasions before, he had let his tongue run away with itself, and was regretting it now. It was not easy for Chris Tate to be the first to apologise though - and if Charity wanted their relationship back on its original footing, she was going to have to be the first one to make a move to that end. He still had not moved when the door shut; quietly and without any display of wounded feelings. Somehow that quiet click was worse than a hundred of the most enraged slams. He turned around, and headed towards the whisky on its tray. The work wasn't all that important; but quite suddenly the whisky was.