Thrasher had tried to convince Scapegrace, when faced with his wrath, that an ice-cream van was ideal – it was innocent, it was unexpected, no one would ever imagine it housed a terrifying zombie. Scapegrace fumed. Innocent was not the same as discreet. His mobile base had a smiling plastic penguin on its roof, and it couldn’t go faster than forty kilometres an hour. They couldn’t even find a way to switch off that damn Popeye music that jingled and jangled on a constant loop. It was driving Scapegrace mad. What was worse, every time they stopped in traffic, he could hear people run up and tap on the window.

They were moving through yet another small town. Scapegrace hated small towns. He felt the van slow, and heard the kids immediately swarm out on to the road, waving money and shouting their orders. Scapegrace stayed where he was, safe in the frosty confines of the freezer, trying to think of things that would soothe his impatience. He thought of tranquil lakes, of birds singing, of plucking out Thrasher’s eyes, and eventually, he reached a place within himself that had some degree of balance.

He heard Thrasher’s voice, the one thing guaranteed to ruin the Zen of even the most placid monk, and opened the freezer lid. He could hear people battering on the window above him.

“What did you say?” he called out.

“I’m just wondering,” Thrasher answered from the driver’s seat, “if maybe we should serve some ice cream.”

“Why on earth would we want to do that?”

“To be inconspicuous. They’re all around us. If we give them ice cream, they’ll go away, and we won’t arouse suspicion.”

Scapegrace struggled to control his temper. Tranquil lakes. Birds singing. Eye-plucking. Calm.

“Thrasher,” he called out, “we have no ice cream. I’m in the freezer, Thrasher. Did you forget that?”

“Well, what about the machine?”

“The ice-cream-making machine?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how to work it?”

“You just, you just put the cone under the nozzle and you pull the thing and the ice cream swirls out and you stick a chocolate flake in it.”

“It’s that easy?”

“Yes.”

“Should I get out of the freezer and do it?”

“If you want.”

“You’re an idiot, Thrasher. I have bits falling off me and I have a burnt head. I’d say that would arouse a little suspicion, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh… yes. Well, I could do it, if you want to drive. I always wanted to work in an ice-cream van, ever since I was a little boy.”

“Is that right?”

“Oh, yes. My mother would take me to the beach and I loved hearing the tinkle tinkle of the ice-cream van as it made its way across the—”

“Shut up!”

Thrasher shut up. “We’re not serving ice cream, do you hear me?

We’re not! Tell these people to go away! We’re closed!”