“They look like a right load of weirdos,” said Iris. “I’ll bet yer they’re all immigrants, those three. Probably from somewhere in Eastern Europe.”
The one with the pompadour turned his head and flashed a charming grin at the two pensioners and waved at them, while directing his gaze into Brian’s eyes, which were watching him at an odd angle necessitated by the newspaper he was holding.
“Nice day,” he shouted, in a plummy accent. “I see you’re both enjoying the sunshine.”
Brian reddened. He thought he’d been very discrete. He waved back uncertainly, and watched the three odd-looking people saunter further down the steep road.
“They didn’t sound very foreign,” said Brian.
“No, you’re right. What the bloody hell was going on? Have you ever seen the like?”
“Wait a minute. I know exactly what it was. Look at this.”
Brian held up the front page of his newspaper and pointed to the opening paragraph of the lead article.
“See that? They’re having a festival in the town centre to raise money. They’re getting folk dressed up as clog-dancing zombies to raise the money for us. I bet you those three are in fancy dress and they’re on their way to a rehearsal for the festival.”
“They weren’t wearing clogs.”
“Can you blame ’em? Clogs aren’t right comfortable. They’ll probably be putting their clogs on when they get to the rehearsal room.”
“Aye, happen.”
Iris poured another cup of tea and Brian got back to reading his newspaper. He felt another nudge in his ribs.
“Brian, we’ve got company,” his wife said.
Brian looked up. The three odd-looking yellow people were standing in front of him and his wife.
The one with the flamboyant hairstyle spoke.
“Hello again,” he said. “Please do excuse us for interrupting your time together. We couldn’t help but notice the headline on your newspaper, and all three of us want to take a quick look at the front page, if you don’t mind. Is that all right? We’ll only take a minute.”
Brian turned his head and looked at his wife for guidance as to whether he should mind or not. She shrugged, so he handed the newspaper over.
Floyd Rampant took it and stood reading it, with Fletcher and Divine on either side of him, reading it at the same time as him.
When he finished he removed the front page and returned the rest of the newspaper to Brian.
“I hope you don’t mind if I keep this to study later, at my leisure,” he said.
“Well, actually—”
“Don’t say you won’t let me take this one tiny little piece of your newspaper,” Rampant said. “You’d hurt my feelings if you said that. And my friends don’t like it when people hurt my feelings.”
Fletcher and De Vine both glared at Brian.
“Well, when you put it that way, of course you can take it.”
Iris opened her mouth to speak, but thought the better of it, and kept her feelings to herself.
“Thank you so much,” Rampant said, pinching Brian’s cheek. “You’ve been an absolute little gem. I’m ever so grateful. Toodle-oo.”
He turned and led his two colleagues away.
Brian and Iris looked at each other and they both shrugged. Brian got back to his newspaper and iris poured them both another cup of tea.
“When are we going to get something to eat?” I’m ravenous. Can’t we go back and eat those two?” Fletcher asked.
“No, you silly-arse, we can’t. If we eat someone in broad daylight, we’ll be seen for sure, and before you know it, they’ll be sending in the army to wipe us out again. We have to be subtler than that,” Rampant replied.
“What are we going to do then?”
“When we find somewhere suitable, we’re going to collect some money for charity.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
CHAPTER 7
Bob Trotter looked up from his desk, which was in front of a picture window. He lived in one of the few large houses that had been built near the top of South Stonker Lane to take advantage of the views it offered.
Through his window he could see most of Huddersfield sprawled out in the valley far below. It was a view that disturbed him these days, because it always reminded him that the centre of his beloved home town had been flattened by bombs during the military action that had wiped out the zombies.
He watched as people scurried amongst the rubble, operated diggers, and, in a few cases erected scaffolding for the rebuild that would soon be taking place, money permitting.
He lowered his head and began writing again. Having retired the previous year, Bob had taken up writing as a hobby. He liked to write longhand then type it up later. Like every second person on the planet, he believed he had a novel in him, if only he could find it. So far it had proved elusive, but he persisted in looking for it. Having tried and failed to get anywhere with almost every conceivable genre, he’d decided on what was for him a radical approach: he was going to write about zombies.
He was halfway through a sentence on the first page when the doorbell rang. He stood up, left his study, walked through his small library, and then through the magnificent entrance hall to his front door. It was all kept immaculately clean due to the efforts of the cleaner he paid to do his cleaning every day of the week.
Trotter’s front door had a decorative glazed panel set into it. The panel was translucent and it allowed him to see visitors, and allowed visitors to see him, but not very clearly. He peered through the glazed panel. He could tell that there were three people standing in the porch, but they were no more than shadowy figures, seen through a glass darkly. They were an odd colour, and he wasn’t sure he liked the looks of them, insofar as he could see them at all. He was glad he had multiple locks and bolts on his front door.
“Who is it?” He asked.
A plummy voice answered:
“Charity clog-dancing celebrity chef zombies.”
“Charity what?” Trotter asked.
“We’re clog-dancing celebrity chef zombies. We’re collecting money to help with the rebuilding of Huddersfield. We’re part of the festival team.”
Rampant pressed the front page of the Huddersfield Examiner against the glass panel on the front door, and Trotter looked closely at it. He read the headline and the first few paragraphs, and then he pressed his face against the panel so that he could get a better view of his visitors.
They looked like people dressed as zombies all right, and they were collecting for a cause close to his heart, the rebuilding of his home town.
Trotter undid the many bolts securing his front door and unlocked it and pulled it open.
“You better come in,” he said. “I’ll see what I can give you.”
His three visitors followed him in and Rampant shut the door behind them, and secured it with the bolts.
“No need for that,” said Trotter. “You won’t be staying long after all.”
“Oh, but we will,” said Rampant. “This is our new home.”
“What-what do you mean?”
“We were homeless until a few minutes ago. Now we’ve got a home. This is it. That’s what I mean.”
Trotter’s jaw dropped.
“Perhaps you could take us on a guided tour and show us around our new home. We’re very interested in everything about it, especially the kitchen.”