Season 1 Episode 7 - The Cliffhanger

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Charlie Sheen is an icon of decadence.

I lit the fuse and my life turns into everything it wasn't supposed to be.

He's going the distance.

He was the highest paid TV star of all time.

When it started to change, it was quick.

He kept saying, no, no, no, I'm in the hospital now, but next week I'll be ready for the show.

Now?

Charlie's sober.

He's going to tell you the truth.

How do I present this with a class?

I think we're past that, Charlie.

We're past that, yeah.

Somebody call action.

Aka Charlie Sheen, only on Netflix, September 10th.

Rudyard Fun runs a funeral home in the village of Piffling Vale.

It used to be the only one.

It isn't anymore.

Anything Rudyard can do, Eric can do better.

And everyone on Piffling knows it.

But Rudyard hasn't given up yet, and Eric Chapman had better watch out.

Wooden Overcoats, created by David K.

Barnes,

episode 7: The Cliffhanger by Cordelia Lynn.

What a terrible dream.

A bit dark in here, isn't it?

Especially considering I had to sell the curtains to pay the gas bill.

Don't remember the bed being this hard either.

My head.

Where am I?

Ah.

Oh.

Is this

a coffin?

Coffin, isn't it?

Antigone!

This isn't funny!

How many times have I told you you have the sense of humor of a decaying sloth?

Let me out,

Georgie!

Edland,

Someone!

Drat.

Drat, indeed.

For today was the day, his darkest day, the one that all undertakers fear, the day they find themselves buried alive.

Typical.

Oh well.

I suppose it could be worse.

At least there's nothing here to irritate me.

No one to disappoint me.

No unavoidable accidents waiting to happen.

Shame that Madeline couldn't be here too, but

aside from that, I think I could be quite content here.

In the dark.

The peace and quiet.

Morning, Ridyard.

How are you keeping?

Chapman!

Hole in one, enjoying yourself?

Go away, get out!

This is my coffin!

No, Rudyard!

This is our coffin!

Help!

Help!

Simon!

Help!

That's no use.

We're gonna be here quite a while.

Simon, get me out of here!

Tell you what, let's play a game, pass the time, seeing as we are here for all eternity.

How about I spy?

Do you want to go first?

I'll start then.

I spy with my little eyes something beginning with D.

Go on, Rudyard, give it a shot.

No?

Do you want a glue?

Okay, here we are.

The absence of light.

No?

Okay, we'll call this a warm-up.

Darkness!

Get it?

I spy darkness!

Because I'm locked in a coffin underground with no hope of escape.

Oh, now don't fret, Rudyard.

Here, I've got something to cheer you up.

Done?

Nearly.

Flowers!

No!

Flowers, Rudyard!

And lots of them!

Flowers, Rudyard!

And lots of them!

Yes, alright.

Bit of dramatic license back there, but you see, Rudyard's nightmares had been getting more frequent of late.

The poor boy was really coming unstuck.

And today, he woke up to find himself knee-deep in bouquets of flowers.

You can only push a man so far.

I'll get it!

Georgie!

Where are all the vases?

Ow!

Now look here.

What?

A flower delivery?

Damn it, Pejuni!

I didn't order any flowers.

I hate flowers.

What?

Rate my delivery experience out of ten.

Ten is high.

How about one?

Put that in your vase and water it.

Georgie!

Morning, sir.

What the hell's going on?

Why is my funeral parlour filled with flowers?

Read the note.

For Georgie, with fondest wishes,

Chapman.

Siding with the enemy, are we?

At two, Georgie.

Don't be stupid, sir.

He makes my skin crawl.

Why is he sending you flowers?

Riddle me that, Georgie.

Because he won't take apathy for an answer.

He thought rescuing me from drowning was a tender moment.

But you elbowed him in the face.

He thought all seven times were accidents.

That does it.

It's high time we sorted out the Chapman conundrum once and for all.

You mean kill him?

Next best thing.

We get a rhinoceros, a really hungry one, and set it loose at his next funeral.

Masterful.

No,

that won't work.

Why not?

You can nab us a rhino from somewhere.

Well, yeah, I'm great at acquiring rhinos, but that's not the point.

Rogad?

Georgina?

Oh.

Hey, Antigone.

I have something very important to tell you both.

I'm leaving forever.

Look, it's got to be a rhino.

We've tried everything else.

Lyric will just train it to give rides to children or something.

I said I'm leaving forever.

What?

No, you're not.

You never go anywhere.

I go to the cinema.

Since when?

Oh for God's sake!

Look, I went to the flower market and the yacht club.

I got lost in the Atlantic with you.

But none of it helped!

Damn it, this place is a shambles.

You're a shambles.

I'm ashamed that I've allowed you to make use of my talents for so long.

Are you listening to me?

Georgia, how about this?

We challenge Chapman to a no-holds barred winner takes all funeral off.

We just did that.

For God's sake!

And we won a trunk full of raunchy boxes.

That man doesn't know what he's missing.

Rajard, this place has become a failure under your watch, and I won't let it hold me back any longer.

I'm leaving to seek my fortune in the cruel, wide world.

All right, this is me leaving now, forever.

Understand?

You know, I think we should reconsider this rhino idea.

Oh,

goodbye!

Oh, what was that, Hunting?

Oh, she can tell me later.

Look, face it: sabotage doesn't work, competing with him doesn't work.

You've tried everything,

except

what's the one thing Eric relies on?

Uh, us failing.

Yes, but also

his reputation.

Destroy the reputation, and we destroy the man!

Brilliant!

What's the plan, Georgie?

I don't have one.

Never mind, I do.

He'll be run out of the village.

We're very nearly a town.

Yes, your worship.

Coming on!

He'll be run out of the village before you can say putting the fun in funerals.

Don't you want to give yourself a little longer than a split second to come up with a plan campaign?

No, frankly, I don't.

Now, while I'm burning all these damnable flowers, I need you to make me a life-size realistic replica dummy of Eric Chapman.

Okay.

I'm great at making life-size realistic replica dummies of people.

I think we'll need a cat.

What do you think, Madeline?

Cats or very small childs?

Cat it is.

Oh, and we'll need the camera.

Antigone!

It's in the camera!

Antigone!

Where does that woman get to when you actually want her?

Blinking in the daylight, Antigone made her way across the village square of Piffling Vale, seething with the ruddyard-induced rage she knew so well, yet tinged with what could only be...

excitement.

A taste of freedom.

The wide-open vistas of the unknown, of unbounded possibility.

Good morning, Antigone.

Chapman!

How are we today?

I'm leaving.

Leaving?

Forever.

That's so.

I'm off to seek my fortunes in the cruel, wide world.

How does that make you feel?

Me?

Knowing you'll never see me again.

Oh, well, I'm very encouraging of people who want to seek their fortunes in the cruel, wide world.

Bring me that horizon.

That's what I say.

Right.

By the way, is uh is Georgie in?

Oh, keep it in your pants, Eric.

She's not interested.

I'm sorry.

Things were prevented from going down a lurid path by the sudden appearance of local licorice merchant Agatha Doyle.

Hello?

Or should I have said, Ello, Ello, Ello?

What's all this then?

Sorry, sorry.

I'm investigating a brutal murder case, and it's so exhilarating.

Oh, what, Mel?

I see.

Who's this?

I'm Antigone Funny.

The Roodyard sister.

Oh!

Antigone!

Gosh!

I thought you died years ago.

Fancy that.

I'm leaving, by the way.

Oh, yes.

Forever.

On the runny.

You could say that.

Very interesting.

Suspicious, one could say.

Why is that?

And what is it you're running from, Antigone?

Unhappiness, the past, myself.

Oh, that's all right, then.

Off you pop down.

Farewell, Eric Chapman.

Farewell.

Forever.

Bye.

Funny weather.

Suspicious, one could say.

I know.

It's usually so sunny here.

Anyway, you said a brutal murder case?

Well, you know, I couldn't take my mind off Captain Sodbury's poor slaughtered seagulls.

Somebody must have done them in, I thought.

So...

I toddled along to see the mayor, and I said, why don't I launch a whacking great murder investigation?

You know, drag oneself out of retirement, so to speak.

And he got so excited.

They investigate lots of murders in towns, you see.

Aha.

Because

there's been quite a few little unexplained deaths recently.

Ever since you arrived, in fact.

Oh, crikey.

Hmm, I know.

Actually, as a professional in the field of death, what would your expert opinion be?

Off the record, of course.

Well, business has been booming, I can't deny it.

Very interesting.

Suspicious, you could say?

Good Good lord, no, Mr.

Chairman.

We couldn't suspect you.

Why, I've been run out of the village because.

We're very nearly a drowned, Constable.

Oh, yes, Mayor, awfully good.

Well, good luck with your investigation, Miss Doyle.

Thanks, dreadfully.

Oh, and stay safe.

There's a killer on the loose, you know.

Right, oh, enjoy yourself.

Now, where's Georgie?

I wonder if she got my flowers.

Licking the wounds of a rejected heart, but more determined than ever to escape this piffling vale of tears, Antigone made her way to the outskirts of the village ten minutes away.

There, she arrived at the local village bus stop, traditional haunt of the local village hoodlums.

These were the three terrors of Piffling Vale.

Teenage petty criminals and graffiti taggers extraordinaire, and nightmarish specters of ignorance and violence to the good citizens of Piffling Vale.

Yeah, but like if you think about it, the very meaning of art as we know it like changed throughout the 20th century, like conceptually, I mean.

That's just it though, innit?

Concept art, yeah?

Art that has a purpose beyond being aesthetically or like technically significant, innit?

Yeah, but that's why I mean to lose the semantic ambiguity, because it's crap.

Yeah, just saying art, like it means something, you know, like when you should say like concept art or platform art or performance art.

Wait, shush, shush, someone's coming.

Look busy.

Oh,

Helen.

Sorry.

Hello.

Good morning, Miss Antigone.

Are you the local village hoodlums?

Yeah, that's us.

I see.

Mind if I join you?

Sure, yeah.

Move over, you stupid pricks.

Miss Antigone wants to sit down on it.

Thank you.

Uh,

so, how are we all today?

Oh, you know.

Could be worse.

Just hanging out, passing the time.

Talking about art.

Shush.

Art?

I've never even seen a painting.

At least, not a real one in a gallery.

Yeah, but I mean, does a gallery context make work of corporate?

Oh, shoot!

Come to think of it, I've never really seen anything ever.

Just corpses.

Jars of formaldehyde, more corpses, jars of ashes, trifofilms, more corpses, jars of cavity fluid, cocteau films.

He's well good.

Shut up, he's one with you.

I agree.

Cocteau is overrated, in my opinion.

Too fanciful.

I'm more partial to the new Valvag.

Oh,

tell on.

Whilst Antigone was ingratiating herself with the terrifying youth element of Piffling Vale, Ruddy and I had found the perfect location for his master plan, conveniently deserted street.

We were in luck.

It was deserted.

And

that's the bin in position.

Yes, Madeline.

You want me to go over the plan again?

What for?

I didn't know you were writing a book.

Am I in it?

Good.

Well, keep it that way.

Now pay attention.

We prop up the dummy next to the dustbin.

Accept.

Then Georgie comes back with the cat.

Then we'll tie the cat to the dummy's hand.

We'll position the cat over the bin, which is filled with fish.

Also the cat doesn't mind.

And then, when everything's in place, I'll snap a picture and bingo!

A most convincing photograph of Eric Chapman dropping a cat in a bin.

Unendurably damning.

We'll spread it far and wide.

Send it to Piffling Matters.

Stick it up on every street lamp and every street corner.

Chapman's reputation reputation will be an absolute tatters.

Of course it's foolproof.

It's so foolproof, it's actually genius proof.

What do you have to say to that?

Someone's coming.

That's a non-sequitur, Madeline.

You're going senile.

Is that you, Mr.

Farmer?

What?

The dummy!

Afternoon, Mr.

Farmer.

Ah, um, uh, hello, Miss Doyle.

It's constable now.

Oh, God.

I mean, uh, uh, uh, on the beach rather than the streets today, are we?

Now, don't try and confuse me with amusing wordplay.

I'm on duty.

What are you doing on conveniently deserted street?

What are you doing on conveniently deserted street?

Looking for suspicious people.

Conveniently deserted streets are fertile stomping grounds for suspicious people.

Well, seeing as there's now two of us on conveniently deserted street, it's evidently not deserted.

Which makes neither of us suspicious after all, does it?

Good point.

Suspiciously good, one could say.

What's that smell?

What smell?

Why is that bin full of fish?

Well,

where else would they be?

In the sea.

Hardly.

Haven't you heard of...

overfishing?

The ocean's populations are in crisis.

We've fished all the fish, so instead of being in the sea, they're now all in bins.

Really?

In fact, look, here's your evidence.

This bin is full of fish.

Golly, you're right.

Mr.

Fun,

between you and me, have you ever considered becoming a detective?

Oh, Oh, no.

Too much talking to people, always having to ask them questions.

I hate asking people questions.

Never listen to the answers.

My God!

What's that?

What's what?

That foot!

That foot sticking out of that bush!

What is it?

It's.

it's.

art?

Art?

Art.

Yes, art!

Those local village hoodlums have been at it again with their street art.

It's my liquor short salts that do it, you know.

A bag of those and they go absolutely spare.

Well, you know, liquor short sorts, it's their decision.

I'll remove the foot at once.

No, no, no!

Why not?

Huh?

Because, because, because I'm

contemplating it.

Contemplating it?

The art.

Contemplating the art.

Oh.

Oh, yes.

What do you think it means?

Having the foggiest.

Oh, well, I'm off on my rounds.

Let me know if you work it out, won't you?

Oh, yes.

Definitely.

And stay safe.

There's a killer on the loose.

Yep.

Whatever.

What did I tell you, Madeline?

Foolproof.

Now, help me get dummy Eric back out of this bush.

Get it, Dummy Eric like he's a dummy.

As in imbecile.

What do you mean, decaying sloth?

Meanwhile, in a dark and dodgy alleyway, the other phase of Radyad's plan was facing difficulties.

kitty, kitty.

Hey, kitty, kitty, kitty.

Ugh, I hurt my job.

Hey, kitty.

That's right.

You just stay there, right in my laser-sharp, cat-napping telescopic sights.

Ha!

Got you, you purry little.

Hi, Georgie.

Oh, hey, Eric.

Uh, what are you doing down here?

Skipping.

What?

Skipping?

Collecting rubbish to eat.

Back alleys are good for that sort of thing.

Ah, very eco.

And you skipped a cat.

Yeah.

It's still alive.

Cats are like lobsters.

You have to boil them alive.

Well, never mind that now, Georgie.

There's there's something I've got to tell you.

Can it wait?

Kind of in the middle, something.

Please, it won't take a second.

You can eat him later.

Fine.

Stay right there.

Yes, just like that.

Just striking my pose.

I need a mantelpiece, really, so if you could just imagine that.

Okay, right.

In vain I have struggled.

It will not do.

My feelings will not be repressed.

You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.

I came to this

dark and dodgy alleyway only to see you.

I have struggled between inclination and my better judgment, my sense of your inferiority, of a degrading match, my rank.

What rank?

Your family.

What family?

Details, Miss Bennett, mere details.

And yet, despite my endeavours, the strength of my

Kindle?

Maybe.

Why are you reciting off a Kindle?

Read in the magazine that this is every woman's favourite proposal.

Not a fan of the marriage plot genre myself.

But there are surveys.

I am not a statistic.

Dash it all.

Georgie, let me throw this Kindle aside.

I'll say it in my own words.

I.

I love you.

The thing is, Eric.

Wait, I'm not done with my own words yet.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.

Eric, I'm in a bit of a rush.

No, no, wait, you'll have this bit.

Can reach when feeling out of sight for the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day's most quiet need.

Whilst Georgie endured a grueling proposal, Antigone was finding herself in a confessional mood.

And the thing is,

I just don't think I've ever really been happy.

Not in, you know, a broad existential sense.

Ever since I can remember, even from childhood, I'd see all the happiness around me and have a sense of myself as a separated being, standing alone in the dark, looking at, but unable to reach the light that others seem to experience as their due.

Happiness is an illusion, a sedative for the masses, isn't it?

You're better off without it, honest, Miss Antigone.

You know, it's only been over the last couple of months I've even started getting about, besides my midnight forays to the cinema.

Before that, I hadn't left one funeral since I was 18.

Why's that?

Do you really want to know?

Positive time.

It was the end of school dance.

Oh, Yeah.

Rudyard, of course, always believed himself to be above societal niceties, and in fact, society in general, which meant that I had to go into the arena without the support of the only person I might conceivably, potentially, gun to the head sort of situation, describe as a friend.

Courage, I told myself.

Courage, Antigone.

I spent the evening preparing.

I brushed my hair, I put some shoes on.

Surely, I thought, surely someone will finally notice me.

Admire me for who I really am, beyond my somewhat macabre fascination with embalming action men and the lingering scent of formaldehydes that trails in my wake.

Do you know what they called me at school?

What?

Heidi.

As in Formalda Heidi.

That's rubbish, that is.

Kill kids, innit?

Lord of the Flies, am I right?

Kill or be killed.

Hunt or be hunted.

Paint or be painted.

What happened at the dance, then?

I waited at the sidelines, trembling with naï anticipation.

Young men and women brushed past.

With each turn, my spirits rose, only to be dashed when nobody stopped to talk to me.

Nobody asked me me to dance.

Nobody seemed to care whether I was there or not.

I sat in agony until the end, too ashamed to draw attention to myself by leaving.

The best I could hope for was to disappear, to sink back into the furniture and not be recognised.

So absolute was my achievement in this regard, that come the end of the night the caretaker tried to sweep me out with the streamers and deflating balloons.

When I got home, I descended into the mortuary with only my loneliness and shame for company, and stayed there for 17 years.

Unwanted.

Unloved.

Alone.

Did you know that a corpse can weep for days after death?

Rawl.

As sushi.

Meanwhile, back in the dark and dodgy alleyway, Eric was regretting casting aside his kindre.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Something, something, something.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of...

Ooh, April.

No, June.

No, April.

Oh, what do you think, Georgie?

Should we toss on this one, too?

Alright, heads, April, tails, June.

Here we go.

June it is.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of June.

Whilst on conveniently deserted street, Rudyard was awaiting Georgie and the cat with his signature calm and equanimity.

Yeah, like all the best artists were only admired after they died.

Only rubbish ones get attention during their lifetime, like a castle.

Banksy.

Well, hold on there.

Is Banksy really an artist then?

Hmm, discuss.

No, it's time to move on.

My life has been a closed book, and now nothing remains but to head off into the cruel wide world and, well, open it and read it and make notes in the margins, and then maybe lend it to someone and be embarrassed about the notes in the margins, and then never get it back and learn the lesson of not lending people books.

Bring me that horizon.

Or the bus, at least.

Where is the bus, anyway?

What bus?

The bus.

The local village bus that comes to the local village bus stop to carry daring travellers to their as-yet-unknown destinies.

There is no bus in it.

What do you mean there is no bus in it?

There's like never been a bus.

Why not?

That's the point, see?

Basically, what happened, yeah, was Mayor Desmond Desmond said that every real town has a bus stop for the local hoodlums to hang out at.

Pass the time.

So, he ordered the building of the bus stop, didn't he?

And here it is.

And here we are.

Tada.

But that's ridiculous.

Well, not as ridiculous as having a bus on an island that's only a mile long.

We don't actually really like the bus stop, but we don't want to hurt the mayor's feelings.

Yeah, it can be quite touchy, you know, really.

Oh, well, that's that then.

So much for the great escape.

Even my will to freedom ends in failure.

Oh, what can it all mean?

What, in the end, did it all mean?

She'd lived quietly, sadly, passing each day, elbow-deep in corpses and vats of fluid.

And now, her one attempt to discover her real potential had been thwarted at the first post.

Thwarted!

Entirely thwarted!

Could it have been more than random chance that had brought her here?

Was there, in fact, some reason for her detainment?

Was she indeed being kept on the island to face her true destiny?

Was she actually only running away from her?

You know, I'm really just speculating.

I've no idea what she was really.

I've got it.

Oh, thank God.

Fun funerals.

Fun funerals needs me.

So does Roger now I think of it.

I mean, didn't he cry for a whole week from birth when, despite being twins, my own worldly entrance was delayed due to my ineutrodepression?

I don't know, we never met him.

Didn't he stop wailing at the very moment of my arrival?

Are these questions rhetorical?

And damn it, am I not the single most talented mortician and embalmer in a one-mile radius?

Just it.

Without my expertise and skill, my artistry, bloody hell.

I make embalming fluid that smells of cinnamon, for God's sake.

Nice.

Without all that, fun funerals would descend into total ignominy and bankruptcy.

And thanks to Eric Chapman, we're facing the greatest crisis in our history.

Damn his incredibly blue eyes.

Do you fancy him or something?

Stop talking.

Our family have been funeral directors in Piffling Vale since the 15th century, and we won't go down without a fight.

That's for spirit.

Probably.

I could return to Piffling Vale, force my brother to take me on as a partner, and become the greatest mortician this cruel wide world has ever seen.

You go, go.

Yeah, yeah, sorry.

Thank you, local village hoodlums.

Should you ever need anything embalmed, I am at your disposal.

Yeah, cool, ma'am.

Cool.

We found that dead rhino in the weey bin.

Bye, Miss Antigone.

See you next time.

And whilst Antigone retraced her steps with newly found passion and pride, Georgie's thoughts were swiftly turning to mindless violence.

In conclusion, it only remains for me to tell you that my love is like a red-red robin that goes bob, bob, bobbin along.

No, hang on.

Eric.

Oh, yes.

Hello.

How are we doing?

Yeah, yeah, great.

I am literally swept off my feet.

Oh, amazing.

Ah, great stuff.

So, uh, you fancy it?

Going down the aisle and that sort of thing?

Here's an idea.

Do you see that darkest and dodgiest corner of this dark and dodgy alleyway?

Oh, probably never seen the light of day.

No chance of anyone passing at an inopportune moment.

Yeah,

that one.

How about you just step over there into the shadows and wait for me?

And I'll give you your answer.

Really?

Your final answer, Eric.

Oh, wow.

Oh, gosh, I'm all of a flutter.

How do I look?

You look perfect.

Right-oh.

See you in a moment.

Enjoy yourself.

No, Eric.

You

enjoy yourself.

Thank.

Of course, I'd only pick this all up much later.

I'd spent my afternoon bored to tears in Rudyard's top pocket whilst he did Bugger All.

Now, however, he was changing tack.

The fact is, Madeline, if you want something done, you've got to do it yourself.

I've always said so.

We've been here for hours.

It's a miracle conveniently deserted street has managed to live up to its name for so long.

Well, thank God the farmer's market got cancelled.

I mean, really, how hard can it be for one girl to find a cat?

As Rudyard posed this very question, a cat, drawn by the scent of fish, made its approach, sensed me tucked away in Rudyard's breast pocket, and made a dramatic bid for supper by leaping at Rudyard's head and trying to claw me out.

Rudyard fought valiantly, the cat demonically, whilst I

scampered up and down his trouser legs.

I say, Mr.

Fun!

Mr.

Fun!

I understand the art.

Just popped into my head.

You see, this is very clever.

The bush represents the digital age's tangled oversaturation of...

Did you just throw a cat into the rubbish bin?

Um...

Dodgeon did what?

Uh...

He just threw a cat into a bin.

Wait, everyone!

Dodjon threw a cat into a bin!

Shocking!

Disgusting.

Animal cruelty!

Now, now look here!

If you just give me the chance to explain, we can settle this very reasonably.

When I say run, run.

Run!

Whilst Rudyard voted from the spontaneous swarm of vigilantes, Antigone arrived back in the square.

Now listen up, Piffling Vale.

I'm back, and I'm gonna embalm the hell out of you.

Wait, Georgie.

Oh,

Antigone.

Kind of impress you could see me down this dark and dodgy alleyway.

My eyes have adapted to darkness over the years.

Still getting used to the sun, mind you, but onwards and upwards.

Where's Roger?

So now.

What are you doing with that cat?

Working.

Explain.

Well, it's a long story.

Well, begging.

Rebecca threw a cat in a bin, and an angry mob has run him out of Tiffling Vale.

Oh, hey, Mr.

Man.

He's done what?

Our first angry mob since the 15th century, isn't it, Marjorie?

That's right, sir.

Everyone in the village.

We're very nearly a town.

My brother's being pursued by a furious mob.

They've got flaming torches and everything.

Cool.

No, not cool, Georgie.

Not cool at all.

I think they're heading for the Piffling Cliffs, sir.

We might just be able to catch them up.

Oh, yes.

Wonderful, fun.

See you later, ladies.

Jesus wept.

I'm gone for one afternoon, Connor Man, stay out of trouble.

No.

Stop gabbling, Georgie.

We've got to rescue fun funerals from the worst PR disaster in its 600-year history.

Now throw that cat away and let's go.

Rudyard was running for his life, hoping to find somewhere to hide both himself and the life-size realistic replica dummy of Eric Chapman.

Fortune, however, was not smiling on him, and on the way, he tripped over some cans of vivid red paint,

tore his way through some brambles,

and inexplicably grabbed a discarded hatchet.

So it can't be this like ground, it's not safe.

Until, ragged, splattered with red paint and wielding a deadly weapon, he took a brief pause to expend his rage on the dummy Eric Chapman.

He's got Eric Chapman!

His beautiful, beautiful face!

Oh, come on, he's got a charming everyman quality, but failing.

Radyad raced away with the dummy.

The mob hot on his tracks.

And then finally, he arrived at Piffling Cliffs and began to climb its slopes at the worst thunderstorm Piffling had seen since the 15th century.

Stop with this rage.

Keep looking, everyone!

A top of Victim Curial to whoever catches him.

Oh, Mrs.

Doyle, there you are.

Afternoon worship.

Don't worry.

We'll catch that callous little grizzling.

If only we could see properly.

Ah, Marjorie has gone to the lighthouse.

She'll get old Captain Sodbury to shine a light on us to help the third.

What a capital idea.

Yes.

Ah, there it is.

With that beam, we'll soon pick him up.

Mr.

Mayor, your worship?

Marjorie!

Top work for laying on the third!

So much, sir!

It's the lighthouse keeper!

Captain Sodbury, what about it?

Dead!

Murdered!

I'm going to the hut!

Good lord!

You were right, Miss Darling.

There is a killer on the island, and I think I know who it is.

Meanwhile, Radiat made his determined way to the edge of the cliff and hurled the dummy into the broiling ocean, destroying all evidence of his former plot.

That'll fox him.

I think we're in the clear Madeline.

Hey, Roger's clerical, but clearly.

Murder game, unbelievable.

Oh, Chris.

All right, Madeline, don't panic.

If we stay very still, they might not see us.

Roger Hot Fun!

Oh, hello!

Rodier Hotfun!

I am arresting you for the murder of your eminently popular rival, Eric Chapman, director of Chapman's funeral colour.

We put the fun in funeral!

Damn that slogan!

And furthermore, I also believe you to be the very serial killer that I've been searching for.

And what?

Rodiard son, you are the monster of Pifty Bale.

Anything you say will be taken down and entirely disregarded.

Take him away!

No, no, you've got it wrong!

I'm gonna...

Stop that!

Out!

No!

I'm gonna go!

I'll never have children!

I'm gonna

And as Rudyard was dragged away by the mob to answer for somebody else's crimes, it was left to the mayor to ponder.

Rudyard funny?

Who'd have thought it?

He always seemed such a well-adjusted fellow, didn't he?

The Cliffhanger was written by Cordelia Lynn and featured Felix Trench as Ruddiard, Beth Eyre as Antigone, Tom Crowley as Eric, Kira Baxendale as Georgie, Steve Hodson as The Mayor, Alison Skilbeck as Agatha, Ellie McAlpine as Marjorie, and Belinda Lang as Madeline, with Jason Forbes, Phil Wang, and Ella Garland as the Hoodlums, and additional voices from Holly Campbell, Pip Gladwin, and Max Tyler.

The original music was composed by James Whittle.

The script was edited by David K.

Barnes, and the programme was recorded at the Art Space Studios by Tom Guillier and directed and produced by Andy Goddard and John Wakefield.

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