“Tch.” Jasfoup gave him an upward nod. “All right. On our way.” He turned and pointed to the side of the house, sending the zombie shuffling ahead of him.
Harold closed the door and popped his head into the sitting room. “I'll just be outside, Lucy. Are you all right there? Do you need anything?” He contented himself with a view of the back of her head, shaking.
In the kitchen, Ada was just pouring the water into a pot. “I've made tea, love, but would your zombie prefer coffee, do you think?”
“He's not 'my' zombie.” Harold scowled. “I expect he'd prefer a glass of liquefied brains. Do zombies still eat brains? Or is that passé?”
“How would I know? We didn't allow zombies when I was a girl. There was none of these new-fangled denizens in the fifties. There were just vampires and werewolves and ghosts and never the twain shall meet.”
“Even you know that's not true, mum. All the species have always existed, pretty much. Certianly for a few centuries. A species doesn't suddenly exist because somebody writes about them. Somebody writes about them because they exist.”
“If you say so, Harold.” Ada made up a tea tray. “I'm sure you know best. Do you think Mr. Zombie would like blackcurrant squash? It's the nearest I have to brains.”
“In what way is blackcurrant squash close to brains?” Harold sighed, deflated. “Yes, I'm sure he'll be thrilled.”