Harold turned onto Markham Road and accelerated. At this time in the morning the streets were quiet. Even the ghosts had gone home. He leaned across to switch on the radio. The sounds of smooth jazz slid through the speakers set into the doors.
“Didn't realise you were that old.” Dill turned the air funnel on and huddled against its cold vent.
“What do you mean?” Harold glanced across. “I can turn the heating down if you like.”
“It's fine. I can decompose quietly. Thanks to the copies of your book I should be able to get housed in something a little less worn soon.”
“You never get more than one wash-and-wear suit, you know. The second never fits as well as the first one did.”
“This one was a bit saggy in places, to be honest. I'd rather have one a couple of sizes smaller.” He scooped up a line of green bile that was leaking from the side of his mouth and slurped it back in. “That should be our selling pitch when we produce skin suits for the rich and stably mobile. 'Get a new you. Just like the old you, but with better physique.'”
“What did you mean about me being old? I'm not that much younger than you.”
“You listen to jazz voluntarily. You probably even say 'cool' and think it's hip.”
“I do no such thing.”
Dill gave his impression of laughter again. “You forgot to say 'man'.”