Â鶹ԼÅÄ

This gripping homage to the television series and later film of the same name was contributed by to the Fantasy Archers topic of The Archers .

"Take him down"

The words from the bench struck horror into Clive's heart. Not that he would show it; he stuck out his chin and forced his nastiest scowl onto his face. The warder beside him pushed him to his feet with unnecessary force. Dimly he heard his sister's sob and the grunt of relief from George Barford.

Stumbling down the steps his mind focused once more on the question that had obsessed him since the petrol-bomb had hit the police house - who was the mysterious one-legged man who had thrown the bottle? For once in his life he was innocent. He had even grabbed the man's arm to prevent him from throwing the bomb, but too late - In the confusion and explosions the man had shoved him over and made his getaway, leaving Clive with dreadful burns. But who would ever believe him? Even his own sister had turned him in before he could explain. The rigmarole at the police station had made him realise that he would be wasting his time even trying to tell anyone what had happened, and as for Usha GuptaÂ….. the look of disdain on her face haunted him.

The warders herded him through the courthouse door. Outside was an anonymous looking white van. One of the warders grinned at him. "Enjoy the sunshine, Horrobin" he smirked, "You ain't gonna see it again for a long, long time." He shoved Clive violently into the back of the van. Shackled, Clive looked around him. There was another man there, also handcuffed to a warder, a big, tough-looking man who stared straight ahead, ignoring everything that was going on. "Your travelling companion, sir" said Clive's warder, sarcastically. "Going to the same exclusive resort as you. You should make friends. Arthur here Â….. well lets say he's handy with a knife Â…. "

Clive tuned out the man's stupid chatter and stared straight ahead. The van picked up speed outside the town. "There in time for tea" said the warder. But he was wrong. As he spoke there was an almighty impact and the van careered across the road, skidding crazily then tipping and sliding onto its side. It came to rest. Clive, trapped by the weight of the warder realised that he was still alive. The rear door was attacked from outside and flew open. Two huge me in balaclavas reached in and seized the other prisoner, freeing him with bolt-cutters and dragging him out. One of them looked at Clive and swiftly cut him free, winked and said "You're on your own mate" as the three of them disappeared. Clive looked down and realised it was true - the two warders were unconscious or dead - neither of them moved. He was freeÂ…Â… he rolled out from under the other man and crawled out of the van. He was going to find the one-legged man, he had decided. It was the only way to prove his innocence.

As he staggered out he heard the distant wail of sirens. He looked around. He realised that he wasn't far from Ambridge and he knew that he had to hide, and fast. Below him was a muddy ditch, without a second thought he rolled into it. The shock of the cold muddy water made him gasp and he spat out a mouthful of rotting weed. But he realised that he was effectively hidden and that if he tried to run he would be seen. He stayed where he was, hoping that his violent shivering could not be seen from above.

He heard the wailing police cars screech to a halt beside the wrecked van, the running footsteps, the loud voices and the crackling radios. One voice he recognised - the Inspector who had arrested him in Susan's house. He recalled him - the tall man with the limp and the quiet voice whose stare had almost unnerved him. There was a babble of talk and then the radios bleeped and chattered and the Inspector called for silence. "They've got them lads." Ragged cheers broke out. "On the Borchester by-pass - car overturned. What?" His voice rose sharply and there was sudden silence. "All exceptÂ…. Horrobin? OK. Well done. Over."

There was a pause. Clive could feel an icy fear overlying even the coldness of the water he was in. Then the Inspector's voice, speaking with passionate intensity.

"Clive Horrobin got away. Well he's not getting out of my clutches this time. I want him found. Where are the dog teams? What do you mean they're doing an obedience demonstration at Borchester Green? Right then, I want reinforcements and I want them now. And when they come, you are going to search. Listen up, ladies and gentlemen. Our fugitive has been on the run for 90 minutes. Average foot speed over uneven ground barring injuries is four miles per hour; that gives us a radius of six miles. What I want out of each and every one of you is a hard target search of every petrol station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, dairy, henhouse, outhouse, doghouse, tree house, summerhouse, doll's house, cowshed, sheep shed, llama shed, garden shed, pole barn, gazebo, badger sett and pheasant pen in that area. Checkpoints go up at fifteen miles. Your fugitive's name is Mister Clive Horrobin. Go get him."

Clive thought that they must heat his heart thumping, so close to them. But the footsteps moved away and the cars started up. For the moment he was a free man. But for how long. And how could he ever trace the one-legged man with every policeman in Borsetshire on his trail?

Part Two appears next week