“Tell me you haven't just eaten somebody.” Harold tentatively touched the flesh of Dill's hand.It was warm to the touch like a living person's would be, though it had a scabrous quality similar to the sharkskin tsuka of Ada's ancient katana.
“I haven't just eaten somebody.” Dill made a quarter-turn and leaned against the wall of the elevator. He folded his arms, the blood on the sleeve of the jacket nothing compared to the pink stain on the collar of the shirt.
Harold looked at the tiny pinpricks pupils in the zombie's white-on-white eyes. He shook his head, his lips tightening. “You're lying, aren't you?”
“Yes. Of course I've eaten somebody.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wallet. Henry Pullman. Twenty-seven years old, lives at eighteen, Hillview. Want to check it out?” He dangled a set of keys in front of Harold's face. “He's got a five-year old Corsa, too, but I wouldn't bother with it, they're rubbish.”
“Of course I don't want to visit.”
“Are you sure?” Dill pulled out a loyalty card for Fallen Earth, the comic and science fiction store in Salisbury. “He was a geek.”
“Well...” Harold bit his lip. Stealing from a dead man's house? That was a new low, even for the son of Lucifer. “What about his family?”
“I don't think he had any. There are no photographs in the wallet, anyway.” Dill gave a lighter version of his wheezing laugh. “Which is surprising considering how big his dick was.”
“So he lived alone?” Harold imagined glass cabinets of action figures, boxes of comics in pristine plastic baggies. “We'll have a look on the way home.”
After all, it wasn't like Harold had killed him, was it?