The
Ambridge
Alternative
by Mandy
Lifeboats
Clive's
attempted
hostage-taking
(March
2004)
inspired
several
alternative
versions
on the
Fantasy
Archers
topic
of The
Archers
message
board,
including
this one:
"Get
the lights
on Chris".
George
Barford
followed
his wife
into the
old Police
House.
As she
reached
out to
snap the
lights
on they
heard
a low
voice
which
seemed
to freeze
the blood
in their
veins.
"You
took your
time.
I thought
you were
never
coming."
George
gasped.
His worst
nightmare
had come
true.
They had
been out
for a
pleasant
meal with
Phil and
Jill to
celebrate
their
twenty-fifth
anniversary
and now
they had
walked
back into
their
house
to be
confronted
by the
man who
hated
him and
had sworn
to take
his revenge.
"Clive
Horrobin"
he said.
"What
are you
doing
here?"
His eyes
darted
round
the room
noting
that the
phone
was beyond
his reach,
in fact
there
was nothing
that he
could
reach
for as
a weapon
- he was
helpless.
"Come
in"
said Clive.
"I've
made a
cup of
tea for
you and
I cleaned
up while
I was
waiting.
"
George
was even
more startled.
This was
not what
he had
expected
at all.
He glanced
quickly
round
the kitchen
and it
was true,
their
usual
clutter
had been
tidied
and the
old wooden
table
was gleaming
as if
it had
been polished.
"I
made a
cup of
tea for
you"
said Clive.
"Is
this some
kind of
joke?"
demanded
George,
infuriated.
"What
game are
you up
to now,
you聟.
You聟."
"George聟
don't
"
said Chris
faintly.
"And
where's
Walt?
Have you
hurt him?"
"Oh
I fed
him"
said Clive
pointing
to where
the old
dog was
curled
up by
the Aga,
apparently
sleeping
peacefully.
George
felt as
though
his world
had turned
upside
down.
He had
expected
threats
and rage.
He looked
at Clive
again,
drawn
in horrified
fascination
to the
young
man's
face.
He had
seen all
of Clive's
facial
expressions,
the petulant
glare,
the triumphant
leer when
he thought
he had
got something
over on
someone,
the blank
look of
utter
hatred,
the grin
that went
with the
swaggering
and bravado.
But this
was something
different,
something
infinitely
more terrifying.
If he
hadn't
known
him better,
George
would
have sworn
that Clive
was attempting
a pleasant
smile.
He swept
another
glance
around
the kitchen.
"My
gun!"
he exclaimed,
suddenly
feeling
sick.
"Where's
my gun?
What have
you done
with it?"
Any minute,
he thought
and I'll
be facing
both barrels.
But Clive
maintained
the strange
smile.
"I
threw
it out"
he said.
"You
see, when
I tidied
the kitchen
I was
trying
to use
the principles
of feng
shui and
the gun
was definitely
negative
chi so
I had
to get
rid of
it. But
I put
a little
water
feature
in the
living
room instead."
George
decided
that he
had definitely
gone stark
raving
mad. "I'm
going
to call
the police"
he said
and tried
to move
towards
the hall
where
the phone
was.
"No"
said Clive,
"No,
please
listen
I want
to tell
you, I
need to
make it
up to
you."
George
hesitated.
Clive
continued.
"While
I was
in the
n聟..
prison,
I met
a scr聟
a scr聟"
It was
as if
he was
trying
to say
a word
and something
was preventing
him from
uttering
it. "A
warder",
he continued.
"And
he took
a group
of us
away,
to a big
place
in the
country
and he
showed
us what
we done
wrong
and he
told us
we got
to make
it up
to the
people
we done
bad to.
And now
I'm here
to make
amends
for everything
I done
to you
and Mrs
B聟聟."
He stopped聟聟聟聟
he eyes,
which
George
had thought
were blue,
turned
green
and then
red. He
spun on
his heel
and began
to turn.
His voice
spoke
again
but it
was different,
metallic,
like a
robot.
"Malfunction聟..
malfunction聟聟"
There
was a
movement
behind
him. George
sprang
forward,
too late
to stop
Christine
striking
the second
blow into
Clive's
back with
the carving
knife
she had
snatched
from the
block
on the
worktop.
As she
withdrew
the knife
he eyes
widened
and she
uttered
a soundless
scream.
As Clive
moved
around
George
saw the
gaping
hole in
his back
and glimpsed
not blood
and muscle
and bone
but shiny
metal.
Clive
came towards
him, not
walking
normally
but shuffling
like the
robots
that the
children
played
with and
turning
as he
walked.
George
glimpsed,
etched
into the
exposed
metal,
"Stepford
Corporation
Inc".
By now
Clive
was spinning
erratically
around
the kitchen.
He was
talking
constantly,
but somehow
in different
voices.
"Malfunction
Central
Processing
Unit.
Scanning
damage.
Core chip
irretrievably
damaged.
Who am
I? Clive
Horrobin.
I've been
a bad
boy. I
hurt the
horses.
I robbed
the shop.
I poached
the pheasants.
I've got
to make
it up
to them
as I hurt".
The voice
was becoming
younger.
"I
nicked
the car.
I took
my nan's
purse.
I've been
a bad
boy. I
bit my
sister聟聟Mum,
no, mum聟."
The voice
was vanishing,
becoming
a baby's
wail.
Gradually
Clive
sank to
the floor.
There
he sat
with his
back to
the wall,
not like
a dead
person
but like
a wind-up
doll which
has run
down,
his eyes
open but
dead,
his arms
held stiffly
in front
of him.
Aghast,
George
stared
at him.
There
was a
sudden
clang
as the
carving
knife
fell to
the floor
and he
looked
into Christine's
wild,
unseeing
eyes,
from which
the last
vestiges
of sanity
had fled.
By
the same
author:
Lady
Peggy's
Lover
