“What is a life?” Scapegrace continued. “Is life merely living? Is it having a heartbeat? Or is life the effect you have on others? Is it the effect you have on the world around you? If so, what have I done with mine? How have I wasted it?”

Thrasher shook his head sadly.

“I was never that great a sorcerer,” Scapegrace said. “I can admit it now. My magic was never that powerful. But I thought my skills and my talents would make up for it. Even when I realised that I had no skills or talents to speak of, that still didn’t stop me. I was the Killer Supreme, and then I became the Zombie King. That, I thought, was a life worth having.”

Thrasher nodded in agreement.

“But now… now look at me. I barely have a face. Bits fall off me all the time. I have to keep them in jars in the ice-cream van. And I’m going to rot away to nothing within a year.”

“You still have me,” Thrasher said kindly.

Scapegrace shoved him in the lake, then marched back towards the town. “Unless I take action. Unless I seize the day! Nye won’t return me to life until I make it worth his while? Then I will make it worth his while!”

Thrasher splashed about.

Scapegrace avoided the main street, went instead down one of the alleys between buildings until he came to a pub. The doors were chained shut, fastened by a rusted old padlock. He smashed the padlock with a rock and walked in. The place was dark and dusty. Thrasher scurried in wetly behind him.

“This will be my base of operations,” Scapegrace said grandly. “From here I will build my power, make my plans and convince Doctor Nye to return me to life. I have a year to do it, and by God, do it I shall!”

Thrasher applauded. Scapegrace pointed to a bar stool beside him.

“Sit there and don’t annoy me.”

Thrasher hopped up on to the bar stool.

“Vaurien,” said a voice from behind.

Scapegrace turned. A man walked in, tall but thick around the middle. His hair was silver, and he had a stern look in his eye.

“McGill,” Scapegrace said.

Taciturn McGill walked right up to him. “Why are you here?”

“How are you?” Scapegrace smiled. “How have you been? You’re looking well. Better than me, anyway. But that’s not hard. I’m a zombie now. How are you?”

“Why are you here, Vaurien?”

“I, um…”

“Can I take it that you won’t be staying?”

“This bar is mine,” Scapegrace said, losing the smile.

McGill shook his head. “You lost this establishment to Deadfall ten years ago.”

“That was a gentleman’s agreement, that was. I lost that bet and I handed everything over, and I left without kicking up a fuss.”

“I recall some crying.”