Tom Blesset scowled when he saw who'd climbed into the back of his cab. He'd have liked to have refused the fare but it had been a slow night and he'd be luck to break even. "Where to?" he said.
"Itth Lane," said the rasping voice from the shadows of the back seat. At least he'd moved out of the light from the street. That was a blessing.
"Itth Lane," said the voice again, agitated now. "'E'ind the canal turnin' 'oint."
"Pitt's Lane? You should have said." Tom clicked the odometer and pulled off, red neon numbers clicking away the fare. He opened a window when the smell permeated the interior of the cab. He'd hung three of the cardboard air fresheners in the back but it wasn't enough. "There's a surcharge if you soil the cab," he said. "Fifty quid. More if there's a stain I can't get off."
"Ith all righ'," said the voice. "I brough' my own theet to thit on."
Tom, somewhat mollified, shook his head and continued driving. He hated zombies.