Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 There was a horrible familiarity to looking down the barrel of a gun. The long, black nose of the weapon, hollow and staring, its tip wavering slightly in the unsteady hand that held it. It was hard not to think of the last time, and of the man who had been holding the gun then. Tony's smile was taunting and ominous, painfully reminiscent in an odd kind of way of Liam that night the previous year, when he had sat down beside the mattress in the cellar, and stared at Chris from the other side of a wicked looking pistol. Chris had been scared then, although certain that the other man was not going to pull the trigger. This time he was even more certain, and a lot less scared; albeit as a result of his own self delusion, rather than from any real proof of Simpson's character. He was convinced that Tony was a fool, and that compared to Liam Hammond - or even Cain Dingle - he was no real threat. There was nothing about him that invited fear, particularly to somebody as legendarily self-confident and egotistical as Chris. He stared up at the other man, expression determined, dark eyes locked on the uncertain smile that dominated Tony Simpson's increasingly undecided face.

"Chris?" Charity sounded nervous. Chris didn't hear her. He was focussed firmly on that gun; almost as if, by the power of sheer will alone, he could make the weapon lower and point at the ground. He knew that he was smiling, mirroring Tony's own expression, but beyond that nothing else seemed of importance.

"What are you trying to prove?" Simpson's voice had lost some of its conviction, although not enough to constitute a victory. Chris remained focussed on the gun, still partially lost in an unwelcome memory. Liam, pointing the gun at him, telling him how easy it was to pull the trigger - himself, trying to remain convinced that everything was going to be okay. In the dim light of the disused stable, the memories came back more easily than they might have done elsewhere.

"You're not going to pull the trigger." The conceited smile on Chris's face had turned to one of calculating insult. Tony laughed.

"I've done it before. What makes you any different?"

"Lots of things." Chris took his eyes from the gun, and flicked them up towards Tony's face. He could see the sweat there, beading up on the man's forehead. Maybe Liam had been right, and it was easy to pull the trigger - but it wasn't nearly as easy when the man you intended to kill was fighting back. He kept his voice level, but his eyes shone with a caustic light that was more usually turned against Zo‘ or Sean when he was in a sarcastic mood. "And you're not going to kill me. You can't point that gun forever, saying that you're going to use it. If you're going to fire, do so."

"You're asking me to shoot you?" Tony altered his grip on the gun, trying to hide his increasing nervousness by hardening his expression into one of scathing disbelief.

"It's not exactly what I had in mind." Again the dark brown eyes showed their own special look of smug self-gratification. "But since you're not going to do it anyway..." He made a gesture of amused dismissal, one hand giving a brief wave in the air. Simpson's mouth became a hard line, and with a sudden, menacing change to the expression on his face, he stepped quickly forward. There was just a few feet between himself and Chris now, and his jaw hardened as his eyes glinted furiously.

"I've killed four men in my life." His tone changed to one of macho bravura, his stance one that suggested a certain delight in the added height he had over the man currently facing him. "There's no reason for me not to kill you."

"Then why don't you do it?" Chris's voice had also risen in volume, the amused note it had previously carried now evaporating as Tony stepped up the pressure. Charity had tensed beside him, her body language warning restraint. Chris barely noticed. He was still concentrated on the gun, still focussed on his steady belief in his own invincibility. Simpson was not going to fire his gun. For him to be able to do so was unthinkable. The unpredictable businessman allowed himself a small, sharp smile. He could feel the pressure mounting, but it was something that he was used to; something that he was quite capable of dealing with. He stared up at the gun, still thinking about Liam. He couldn't help it. Tony took another step closer, increasing rage darkening his face.

"You have one very inflated opinion of yourself, don't you." The gun shifted slightly in his grip. He took another step forward. Chris had to tip his head back to keep his gaze locked, but he showed no response to the implicit threat. The temperature in the stable seemed to have risen by several degrees. Tara shifted slightly, her feet scratching in the loose straw that covered the ground where she stood. Tony looked up for a second, his eyes darting very briefly towards the pale woman who was to have been his first victim; and in that short, fleeting moment, Chris spun his wheels with all of the strength he could summon. His chair darted forward, slamming into Tony's legs and knocking the man backwards. His arms flailed in the air, his feet slipped and stumbled, the gun swung wildly away from its target, and Charity, galvanised into action more as a reaction to Chris's own movement than through any conscious thought, lashed out with both fists. She struck Simpson hard on the shoulder and arm, and the gun flew from his hand. It hit the ground, thudding hard on the dusty stone flagging. Simpson bellowed in rage, striking back at Charity as much out of instinct as had been her own blows against him. She stumbled backwards and he followed her, attention divided, priorities confused. Chris jerked his chair forward, moving out of range of the darting feet and panicked hands and fists. The gun lay on the ground before him, dust already settling over it. One hand on a wheel, ready to move aside, he swung the chair into position and caught the gun up off the floor. The shape was familiar in his hand. For a second the memories were too powerful to subdue. He tried to make himself relax now that the immediate danger was over.

It was with a strange kind of calmness that he lifted the gun, moving with a cold, steady certainty that had been lacking the last time he had held such a weapon. His eyes narrowed, focussed and determined, just as Simpson's own had been before their clash of wills. He had to raise it high to point it at the other man's head, holding it at an uncomfortable angle. It didn't matter. He allowed himself a cold smile as he held the weapon on its steady course.

"Nice one Chris." Charity sounded as though she were perfectly used to the close presence of guns, and of people who seemed comfortable with using them. For all Chris knew, she was familiar with such things. He put it down as one more thing that he didn't know about her - one more thing that he could enjoy finding out when they met for their next candlelit dinner in the quiet confines of Home Farm. Tara merely let out a long sigh, and in a stumble and a scramble of anxious feet, she headed for the spare keys that hung on a rusty nail near to the door. She seemed to be having trouble turning the key, to judge by the scratching sounds of metal against metal, and the slight increase in the speed of her breathing. Chris didn't blame her. More than anything else, he wanted that door open. He needed to know that he could get out of the room - but he had to deal with Simpson first.

"You're not going to use that thing." Tony sounded scathing, disbelieving; and more than a little afraid. Chris let his eyes harden, his face assuming the expression of mockery and spite that came so naturally to it.

"There any reason why I shouldn't?" The words grated in his mind. Not the same words that he had used the last time... but similar enough to catch once again at his memory. His hands didn't shake on the cold grip of the gun, but behind them his mind shook instead. For the briefest second his vision blurred, and instead of Tony, he was looking straight into the eyes of Liam Hammond. The stone walls of the stable folded into those of the cellar; greyer and colder; damp and grim. A hundred conflicting thoughts raced unchecked through his head. He had to fire, or Liam would shoot him. No, that was stupid. Liam was already dead. He had to fire, or Tony might get the gun back... the familiarity of it all dulled his normally sharpened wits. The feel of the gun in his hands, the lack of light, the confusion in his mind... Not to fire meant death - but to fire at all meant something else. For a second; a brief, fleeting second that did nothing save add to his confusion; he saw it all from a different angle. He was standing at one end of the cellar, staring at Liam, aware of the silent, confused figure sitting on the mattress so close by... He wanted to wipe the sweat from his forehead, but he didn't want to lose his grip on the gun.

"You're not going to shoot me." Tony took a step forward, looming large in Chris's vision. Scenes from the past still raced and danced in the air between them. Liam's voice, echoing slightly. You wouldn't shoot your own brother... You're not going to shoot me... Tony's large frame almost filled the room; or seemed to as it grew closer, expanded to fill Chris's consciousness. His hands still rock steady, he reached up with both thumbs at once, and cocked the hammer. It was a loud sound, hard and sharp and cold in the relative silence. Yet another familiar noise; yet another moment of flashback confusion. It felt as though his brain itself was getting tired. His hands wobbled slightly, and the gun slipped briefly from its aim. In contrast, his eyes hardened to a rigid, unnerving shine. He looked murderous - and distantly, but with relief, he realised it.

"Chris..." Charity's voice carried a note of warning, as though she was trying to tell him not to kill Tony. Chris didn't look at her. He was becoming disorientated, and his hands were no longer holding the gun steady - but he had no intention of lowering it. Right now it was his only defence. Charity might not want him to shoot Simpson, but if he didn't threaten to do so, they would all be in serious trouble. He only wished that the memories would stop knocking. His heart was beginning to pound against his chest wall, just it had been doing the last time he had been holding a gun - when he had been lost in the same dilemma. Shoot or be shot. His problem now was just as it had been before; he knew that he was not going to fire. He knew that it was not something he was capable of doing. By the look of growing amusement on Simpson's face, it seemed that Charity's old nemesis was beginning to realise it too.

"Get out of here." Swallowing hard, keeping the lights in his eyes as cold as he could, Chris turned his words to face Charity Dingle. His eyes remained locked with Tony's, losing credibility all of the time. "Both of you."

"I'm not going to argue." Tara had ceased to fight with the door in order to watch, pale-faced and confused, as Chris and Simpson faced each other over the gleaming black gun. Now she turned back to the door with increased resolve. It was stiff, and hard to open from the inside with its crooked hinges and layering of rust and damp rot. Charity jerked her head towards the titled horsewoman, then looked sharply back at Chris.

"You don't honestly expect us to leave you here?" Chris spared her the most fleeting of glances. Simpson made no move. Presumably he realised that a man who did not want to shoot might just do so if he were sufficiently pressed. Chris wasn't sure how he would react if the situation was further pressured. He knew how Zo‘ had reacted - had often wondered whether or not he might have done the same. After all, he had no emotional ties to the man now before him. There was no reason not to shoot him; nobody was likely to argue with the fact of his increasing provocation. If Simpson took one more step towards him he would have every reason to pull the trigger. Every reason to do exactly what he had so hated Zo‘ for doing nearly a year ago. Question was, could he do it? He already knew the answer - which was why he wanted Charity to leave.

"Get out." He let the threats he spoke so well colour his voice; let every inch of his characteristic coldness and unpleasantness shine forth. "I don't want you here."

"We can't leave you alone with him." Charity could already see the likely outcome of the stand-off. It wasn't necessary to be fully versed in psychiatry to see that only one of the two men was actually capable of using the gun. Why hadn't she picked it up? At least then Simpson might have believed in it as a feasible threat. Mentally she kicked herself. She should have guessed - should have known. Couldn't have known - had had no way of knowing. She was still angry with herself. If she hadn't been so slow to react, she could easily have reached the fallen weapon first.

"Do you think I can't look after myself?" There was real poison in both the eyes and the voice - showing her a whole new side of Chris that she had previously only heard of, and never yet seen.

"He'll kill you."

"Only if I don't kill him." He smiled then, still looking up at Simpson, who was still hovering in a steady indecision. The upraised gun was reason enough to make the big man keep a kind of distance, but he was beginning to wonder just how much longer it was going to stay raised. There was a limit to how long a gun could stay a threat when everybody knew that it was not going to be used. After a while it became more absurd than intimidating. Once again the cold dark eyes upraised to his flickered away towards Charity. "Leave. Now."

"You can't sit there holding him off forever."

"Maybe not." Simpson thought that he saw the tiny signs of a slight softening in the shields of cold dark brown. "But I can hold him off for long enough for you to get out. Terry will have got in touch with the police by now. They're probably already here. Go to the house." She still lingered. "Please, Charity."

She sighed, scowling in a way that made her seem much harder than the soft, playful image she more usually chose to project upon the world. Perhaps that was a shadow of the hard world she had come from, and had tried to escape from with the move to Emmerdale. The hard world Chris had seen in her eyes the first time that they had spent some real time together, when he had told her that he wanted to understand the world she came from, that he knew so little about. It was the world he suspected that Liam had come from, which had been why he had wanted, at first, to grow closer to her; to find out more. That all seemed worlds away now; and getting further still all the while. With the faintest of smiles, and the kind of gentility that the rest of the village would never have believed him capable of displaying, he let the coldness in his stare begin to thaw. His voice took on a softness that few people were ever privileged enough to hear coming from him.

"Just leave."

Simpson laughed. "Yeah. Go ahead. I'll come and find you in a few minutes."

"In your dreams." She felt sick, but she could see no reason for refusing to leave. The only thing that staying would achieve was for there to be one more thing for Chris to worry about - and two more targets for the gun once Simpson had got it back. That he would do so seemed inevitable now. With a glance towards Tara, standing with both hands ready on the stable door, she turned to leave the room. The door swung open a short distance, and a shaft of unexpectedly weak light shone on the barrel of the black gun. It seemed to disturb Chris's concentration for a moment, as though whatever place his mind was locked within depended upon the semi-darkness and the lingering gloom. There was a slightly unfocussed look to him; a strange suggestion from somewhere that he was looking within himself rather than out into the room. Something in his features spoke of disturbing memories that no other person could share. Shaking her head slightly, wishing that there was some other way, she pushed the door open wide and followed Tara out into the sunlight. The co-owner of the farm seemed to slump as the pressures eased, face not yet regaining its limited supply of colour. The splashes of her eye shadow seemed even more unnaturally dark in the daylight, and her lips seemed even more tight; even more of a hard red line. She was staring back towards the door, shock making her eyes wide. Charity tried to lead her away.

"We have to get to Terry." It was the only thing that she could think of. Tara nodded, robotic and mechanical in her movements. Her lips opened and closed again, before settling in a more characteristic poise.

"I froze," she said at last, her cultured voice rather more soft than was usual. "I just... froze."

"Yeah." Charity didn't want to look back towards the door of the stable. "Come on. We really have to get away from here."

"But..." Tara's eyes and words trailed away towards the door, now swinging shut once again. The sound of it slamming echoed about, making a horse whinny in surprise. The noise was a shock in the silence. All of the stable hands seemed to have gone, and the lack of noise was more complete than it had been before. "He--"

"There's nothing we can do." Charity pushed her forcefully away from the stables, and away from the two men n the small, dark room that they had just left. She didn't want to think about what was now happening inside.

"Are you going to point that gun at me forever?" Simpson had lost the threatening demeanour now that the others had gone. There was a grudging respect in his voice. "Or are you actually planning on using it?"

"On you?" Chris looked down at the gun as though seeing it for the first time. Perhaps he was, for he noticed now, for the first time, that it bore little real resemblance to Liam's weapon. It was heavier, stockier; darker in colour. It felt different against his fingers. The similarities he had been noticing between this stable and his erstwhile cellar home were evaporating now too. It was a different shape. The lighting was different, the walls looked different. Even the floor was different, with its straw and dust. There had been no buckets in the cellar, no ageing bridles or worn and faded rosettes. Kim's rosettes, won over the years by her horses. Some of the rosettes were for animals long perished, in the fires at the end of 1993. The fires he had never seen, from the night he barely remembered. The cellar had been filled with a jumble of assorted junk, framed in stout metal pipes that clanged and rattled against the chain he could still feel, every so often, pressing against the skin of his right wrist. He let out a deep breath, and turned his eyes outward once again, finally letting those uncomfortable memories fade. A wry smile caught at his lips, twisting and turning them into an expression of bitter amusement. Pity that Zo‘ wasn't here for him this time, ready to take the gun that he could never use, and put it to her steadfast uses.

"No." He let the smile fall, losing it somewhere in the dust beneath his wheels. "I'm not going to use it."

"I didn't think so." Simpson stared at the weapon, watching as it gradually lowered, pointing at the ground. "Nice try."

"Better than the last time." Chris's voice was as bitter as the smile he had just lost. Simpson didn't understand the meaning of the words, but he understood the opening that was now presented to him. He understood the manner in which events would now inevitably unfold. It seemed almost a shame. There was no resistance from the man in the wheelchair as he reached out to take hold of the gun. His hand closed around it, and the hands that still gripped it, however loosely, relinquished their last, insubstantial claim. The dark eyes lifted sharply to bore into his. There was nothing in them save bitterness. Tony pulled the gun away - and found another pair of hands helping his. The gun was twisted from his grasp. He looked up. Standing beside him, framed in the pale light from the now wide open door, stood three men, one dressed in a grey suit and the others in all-too-familiar blue serge. It was the man in the suit who had taken the gun; a big man, with an air of practised authority. His smile was supercilious, his eyes faintly patronising. Tony's shoulders slumped.

"Tony Simpson?" Turning to hand the gun to one of his colleagues, the man in the grey suit raised his eyebrows questioningly at the figure standing before him. "Perhaps you'd like to step outside. We have a chauffeur-driven car waiting for you. It's a service we like to offer."

"I haven't done anything." Tony swelled out his chest. "You didn't see anything."

"I have a feeling that Mr Tate here might put a different spin on things." The man in the grey suit dropped a hand onto Chris's shoulder, making the younger man jump as though he had never been aware of the sudden change in events. He looked up at the new arrival, and a shadow of dislike passed across his face, mingled with something very like amusement at an obvious shared antagonism.

"Inspector Spalding." His voice was clipped. Spalding offered him a superior smile.

"I'm getting rather good at rescuing you, Chris. Arriving in the nick of time."

"Really." This time there was no mistaking either the bitterness or the dislike. "It seems to me that you're always arriving just a little too late." He swung the chair around, heading back towards the daylight. Spalding stepped aside to let him pass, but even Tony Simpson, the outsider, could not fail to notice the burning animosity in the air. He stared after the retreating figure, and nodded at the back of the curly head.

"Is he crazy?" He asked the question to all three of the policemen, but it was Spalding who answered, straightening his plain grey tie as he too stared after the departing wheelchair.

"No." He spoke quietly and with a gentle conviction. "No, he's something else entirely."

"Such as?"

"Hmm." Spalding looked at him for a second, startling the city-dwelling strong-arm man with the intensity of his gaze. It was almost the look of a man possessed by something. "If I knew that, Mr Simpson, I could put the closing seal on my favourite investigation." He buttoned his suit jacket, then turned away and stepped towards the door. This cold, darkened stable, with its air of unpleasantness and hovering threats reminded him too much of another stone room, similarly dark and cold. He wondered at the parallels, and wondered if he might now be one step closer to solving that other case, concerning that other cold, dark room. He doubted it. Tony Simpson was likely to be the key to something, but not to the truth about Liam Hammond. That would have to come from somewhere else. He watched as Simpson was loaded up into a police car, then turned to observe the little group of people witnessing its departure. He knew all of them, although in some cases his knowledge was limited. Tara Thornfield he knew nothing about save that her name had arisen once or twice during the Kim Tate investigations. Charity Dingle, the would-be high-class call girl, was a different matter altogether. The local grapevine, as he very well knew, put her firmly in the company of Terry Woods; but it was not Terry's shoulder that one of her hands rested upon now. Neither was it Terry who spared the briefest of moments to direct an unexpectedly gentle smile in her direction. Spalding's curling mouth turned itself into a hard little smirk. Maybe there was still a way to uncover the truth about Hammond - and given time, he thought that he might be able to have some fun finding out. This time he was arresting Tony Simpson, for crimes that he was still to discover - but maybe next time he would be arresting Chris Tate. He smiled to himself, and turned to confer with his fellow officers. Well... it was something to think about.

And he smiled his cold little smile.

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