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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, youÂ…. YouÂ…."
"GeorgeÂ… 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 nÂ….. prison, I met a scrÂ… a scrÂ…" 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 BÂ…Â…."

He stoppedÂ…Â…Â…Â… 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.

"MalfunctionÂ….. malfunctionÂ…Â…"

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 sisterÂ…Â…Mum, no, mumÂ…."

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