The Re-match

PROLOGUE - EMMERDALE, JANUARY 1999

It had been a wonderful feeling, after so long, to be sure that he had worked out the last riddle. Discovering the money, hidden under the ageing gravestone of his father, had filled him with a sense of great accomplishment; a certainty that he was finally making a breakthrough. Certainly the truth about the hiding place was not absolute proof of Kim's guilt; but it was enough for him. He knew the truth now; knew it as he had known it always. But now he had something to show for his suspicions. He smiled to himself, imagining her face when she went to recover her ill-gotten gains and found nothing there; except the revelation that he had taken her nest egg. The thought was enough to bring the brightest of smiles to his face. Some part of him, some echo within him that had more common sense; that was more level headed than the rest of him; was telling him that he had done something wrong; that he had made a mistake. It was telling him that he should have left the money where it was, for the police to find, or to watch over until Kim came to dig it up. But he had not listened to that part of him, for he never did. It was the piece of him which held him back, and prevented him from being the man that his father had always been; of that he was sure. He wasn't going to listen to it now when, after so long, he had finally got the last bit of proof that would take Kim out of his life forever. It would lead to her final punishment - for her killing of his father, for her poisoning of the very bricks of Home Farm; for all that she had done to destroy the Tates from within.

He had not been expecting her to come to him so soon. Part of him had wanted the confrontation, but his plan had counted on him not seeing her before the next day. He was going to take the stolen money to the courtroom, and make a dramatic entrance with it. He, the man that they had thrown out the previous day after deciding that he was no more than a wild and untempered fanatic, would produce the final piece of evidence that would send Kim down for a long, long time. She had not been supposed to discover the loss so quickly. But he welcomed the confrontation nonetheless. He would not shy away from this climax; this long-awaited downfall of the woman he had come to hate as much as he could ever think it possible to hate anyone. This woman that he saw as an embodiment of all that was cold, and hateful. The force behind all of his misfortunes; the woman that had killed his father; the woman who had ice in her veins in place of blood; the woman who had tried to turn everybody against him in her last, desperate attempts to escape the hammer of justice that he longed so much to wield against her. She threw insults at him as she stood before him. She told him that he was useless, that there was nothing that he could do to prevent her escape; and he knew that it was true. Quick as he was in his chair, expert though he had long ago become at handling it, he did not have her manoeuvrability, or her speed over rough terrain. If she chose to make a break for it now, he could not stop her. But he knew that she was not going to try to run. Not yet. He still had time to bring her to heel, and he would do just that. He smiled up at her, feeling his hatred within him, and feeding off it. "Be a good girl and go and fetch my brother." "No!" She was angry with him. She hated him as much as he hated her. He was the one person in all of the world who had proved to be a match for her; the one person in Emmerdale that she had failed to deceive. He knew that she hated the fact that James, her beloved son, was his brother; a Tate. But for all her hatred of the family, a Tate was exactly what James was, and Chris was determined not to let her escape with his baby brother. If he could not stop her leaving, so be it; but he was not going to let her take the child with her. It was all that he had left of the world his father had set out to build. "Then you're going to jail." It was a no-win situation for her, as far as he could see. If she agreed to leave him his brother, he was content to let her take her stolen money and go. It would have given him a partial victory, and that was enough. But if she refused that option, he would send her to jail. There was no other way for this to end. Too much had happened. Too much anger had raged between them. Too much hatred boiled in their blood. She came closer to him. She knew him well, and knew his weak points; the things guaranteed to hurt him more than anything else. Her words rang on his ears. The long lines of insults, the goading, the sharp little barbs that stung; he listened to them all, and tried not to lose his temper. He knew that that was what she wanted. She had learned to manipulate him a long time ago, but this time he was determined not to let things go her way. All the same, her words stung. To tell him that his father had never loved him; that the women in his life had been all that mattered; that she had had been the only person that Frank Tate cared for at allÉ Chris's blood sang with ill-suppressed fury, but he let her speak on. She moved closer to him, working by numbers, running roughshod over his emotions the way that only she could. It was with something very akin to disbelief that he heard her bombshell. She leaned closer to him, telling him that he had always wanted her; that he had always longed to win her for himself. He stared up at her, uncertainty now mingled with the anger and the hatred. Did he love her? Could he? His mind fought the concept, releasing another explosion of rage and indignation to hide the suggestion. He told her that he hated her, but she merely moved even closer still, her lips searching for his. He did not resist. He felt her kissing him, felt his own, impassioned response; then suddenly he was pushing her away, disgust filling him. Whether it was her last ditch attempts to get around him that disgusted him, or his own near collapse in the face of them, he couldn't be sure. She saw the look on his face and backed off, changing tack with skill. She could change her emotions with the fluency and ease that she might have used to change lanes on the motorway. What was real and what was not confused him. He saw the tears begin to burst free from her eyes, running freely down her face. She sobbed hopelessly, sounding as though her heart was breaking. It wasn't her fault, she gasped desperately. She was only doing what had been expected of her. It was so hard to live her life the way it had been mapped out for her by others. She hadn't known how to change and be other than that which others saw her to be when they looked at her. His disbelief was clear on his face. It was clear in his eyes, in the way that he sat, in the way that he stared up at her. He no more believed her now than he had when she had protested her innocence the last time that they had been alone together. He had never believed her, and he never would. She smiled, and in the brief seconds that remained between them he saw the misery stop, and the ice switch back on. The helpless, desperate woman was gone, and in her place was the Kim that he had always known; the Kim that he alone had seen, when everybody else had looked only at her illusions. For a brief second, worry filled his mind. His concerns came back to him. Should he just have left the money where it was? He was still trying to choose his next line of attack when, with a sudden jolt, the world exploded in flashes of light and colour. Everything danced before his eyes, and pain filled his very being. He slumped in his chair. Dimly he was aware that she had hit him. Through the confusion of barely held consciousness, he thought that he heard her searching the room. She was looking for the money, or something that would lead her to it. The only clear picture in his mind was that of a key. He had hidden it well enough; hadn't he? But just to think at all was too great an effort. He felt shaky and insecure. He tried to turn, to focus on her progress, but nothing seemed to be working the way that it should. His body was robbed of its strength, even the powerful muscles in his arms no longer strong enough to do his bidding. To move the chair was a hopelessly impossible task. He thought that he felt the world slipping away from him altogether. In a sudden silence, she came towards him. He could see her as little more than a shadow against his eyelids. He knew that she meant business; that she was trouble. Her hands fastened on him, pulling. He tried to resist, but the chair fell away, and the floor came up to meet him. The landing hurt and he gasped, an incoherent groan the only sound that he was entirely sure of having made. She was telling him something. Her words floated above him, but he recognised them. She was telling him that she was going to leave him there, alone and helpless, just as she had left his father. She was telling him that she was going to let him die; just as she had left his father. Somewhere within him the anger overflowed, but he was helpless. Even had he been in his chair, right now he knew that he was no match for her. He was confused and groggy, and his head hurt desperately. The distant smell of whisky, a confusion to his senses, told him that she had found the key. He wasn't sure why it should be so, but somehow in his confusion the connection between whisky and keys was rigid and certain. He felt the sticky wetness of it across his head, the stronger smell of the alcohol as she poured it over him. His anger failed him and his strength flowed away. He knew that she had the money now; that his wonderful plan was lost. He thought that he heard her laugh. Then she was doing something to the telephone, and her footsteps were echoing away. He heard her leave. He thought, strangely, that he could hear the sound of a helicopter. Weak and tired, he hauled himself across the floor. He was barely conscious, and he knew that he could not follow her without the chair, but he didn't seem able to remember where it was, let alone how to get into it. His legs dragged along behind him as he pulled himself across the floor. He could get to her, he told himself. He could follow her, like this - couldn't he? Part of him already knew that she was long gone, but still the stubbornness filled him. It was a part of him; as much a part of him as his blood, or the oxygen that fuelled him. Stubbornness was his life force. He dragged himself along further, painfully slowly, his head hammering away as though it were no longer attached to his body. He had to get help. If he could not get Kim, he would get help. He would tell the others where she had gone. Where had she gone? Something was asking him the question, but he couldn't answer it. He only knew that there was a helicopter involved. He struggled onwards. The door was there. He was going to make it to the door. Past the door. He had to get to - to what exactly? Just where was he trying to make for? Just what was he trying to achieve? Everything mingled with everything else in his head, and the ground rushed up to meet him. The last thought that he had was the strange sensation that he was running; running above everything. Through the village, through the fields, with the wind in his hair. He was running after a helicopter, with Kim at its controls. His head hit the ground and he blacked out. When he awoke, he felt strange. He felt worse than he had done in a long, long time. It wasn't the pain in his head, it wasn't the exhaustion. It wasn't the harsh white cleanliness of the hospital - something that he had always hated. It was something else. He had failed, and he knew it. He saw it in everything. He saw it in the worry of Laura and Kathy. He saw it in the sorrow and the guilt of Zo‘. He heard it in his own voice as his strength returned and he began to turn his anger back to Kim. She had gone. She had left, and he had failed to stop her. She had taken the money, she had taken James, and she had gone. After all that had happened, and all that she had done - to him, to his family and to everybody else - she had walked away from him without a scratch. His anger smouldered beneath his sulky brow. He had failed. She had beaten him. It was over.