DISCLAIMER: Strawberry Banana smoothies are yummy. Designing trifold brochures is annoying. And all Shaun of the Dead characters belong to Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright.

Shaun remained at the patio table for a while after the detectives had returned upstairs, trying to collect his thoughts. He wasn't ready go back to London just now, yet he didn't feel like he could face Sara either. Somehow just sitting at this wrought-iron lattice table, shivering without his jacket in the mid-morning air, was neutrally comforting. Sort of like popping in Soul Calibur and beating the shit out of one of the pretty boys for half an hour on practice mode, because you might be arsed to go to the pub, but you haven't decided yet and you're not willing to commit to a full game.

For fuck's sake, Emma was right. He was such a child. Shaun heaved a miserable sigh and folded his arms in a circle, burying his head between; on second thought, considering the conversation he'd just had, he really needed to talk to Sara. But she was probably busy, anyway. Maybe it was best just to go back to his room and see if he would be allowed to collect his things. If he caught her in a good mood, maybe Mrs. Fairfax would give him another room for one night. A small room. A broom cupboard would do.

He stood slowly and walked inside, started across the dining room; though it was completely empty, he could have sworn he heard the faint clink of a china cup against a saucer. When he turned his head to see the source of the noise, he saw a petite woman calmly preparing a cup of tea at a table in the corner. A comforting sight for his sore eyes. But one that absolutely, positively should not be there.

"Mum?" Shaun whispered.

Barbara's face lit up at the sight of him. "Hallo, pickle! Won't you join me?"

Though he felt as if his knees were about to give out under him, Shaun stepped warily closer. "Mum…you're dead."

"Yes, I'm well aware of that, dear. Do sit down."

He took a seat, staring at her from across the table. She looked the same as she did that awful day. The pink top, grey sweater and jeans. But no bite, no bullet wound. His hand flew up to cover his mouth and he choked back a sob.

"Two sugars, is it?" she asked, pouring the tea into a cup.

Swallowing hard, he fought to answer. "Um, sure. What…why are you here, Mum?"

"I always did love the Lake District," she said, setting the cup before him and looking wistfully out the windows. "Your father used to take you fishing on the river, do you remember? You were always so disappointed if you didn't catch anything." She turned her attention back to him. "You don't look at all well, Shaun. Are you eating properly? Is Liz taking good care of you?"

"Liz and I broke up, Mum."

"Oh, pickle. That's a shame. She seemed like such a nice girl. Have you found someone new? I hate to think of you alone now that I'm not there to look after you."

"Sort of, there's…someone." Shaun muttered. Then shaking his head, he placed the teacup on the table with a frustrated pout. The living dead, that's one thing…but his mother was most certainly dead dead. "Mum, I don't understand. Am I dreaming this? Why are you here?"

"Oh, Shaun, I don't want to cause a fuss, but I'm afraid that things might get a bit worse around here before they get better."

"What do you mean 'worse'?"

"A lot of people are going to die, Shaun. And I worry about you; you're always so concerned about helping people. I believe you'll do what's right."

"Do what's right for what?"

"When the time comes, you'll know. Even if that means…oh, dear…"

Overcome, Shaun finally leapt from his chair and embraced his mother. Holy shit, she felt real, not like a ghost…or a dream. Barbara smoothed the hair on his temple, just the way she used to when he was little and woke up screaming from that nightmare where the Daleks death-rayed Ed on their way home from school and then chased him the rest of the way. "What's happening in this place, Mum?"

"Really, it's terrible of me to ruin your holiday like this. I shouldn't have said anything."

"Mum, just tell me," Shaun insisted, bolting upright and staring into his mother's loving but sorrowful eyes. The sound of a slamming kitchen door distracted him, and when he turned back, she was gone. Shaun looked down at his outstretched hands and quickly folded his arms about him; after a moment to gain his composure, he wearily rubbed his eyes and decided that maybe he should stop in at the bar before going anywhere else.

Elsewhere, the gentle tingle of the bell over the shop door rang out as Julian entered the Spice of Life curio shop on Penrith high street. There was a musty air about it, but nothing looked particularly threatening - books, candles, aromatherapy oils. He picked up a small mason jar and read the label – Toadstool and Bergamot Face Cream. Lovely. He'd walked into the Diagon Alley chapter of the Body Shop.

"Can I help you?" A woman stepped out from a back room, the beaded curtain rattling behind her. She appeared to be in her 40s, dressed in Bohemian fashions, with gently greying hair and violet eyes that seemed almost unnatural.

"Uh, yes, I'm looking for Prunella Davies," Julian said.

"You've found her. Are you looking for anything special?"

"I was hoping you might be able to help me."

"That's why I'm here," she smiled cordially.

"Are you acquainted with Evelyn Fairfax?"

"Of course. Though I know her as Evelyn Bryant. We've been friends since childhood."

"I understand she just went through a rather unhappy divorce."

"Yes. Horrible time for her, but she's well-rid of that bastard. Pardon my language." Something about the way she blushed seemed mighty forced. Julian would wager she was pretty tart-tongued once you got to know her.

"And you were there to lend a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on?"

"It was the least I could do. And perhaps some lavender to calm her nerves." She paused. "I'm sorry, are you a friend of Evelyn's?"

"Not exactly. I'm sort of an auditor. There's been some recent unpleasantness at her inn, and if Miss Fairfax cannot maintain control of her property…"

"Oh, goodness! Oh, but she loves that inn. She's devoted to it. If she ever felt that she were in danger of losing it, she might…"

"Might turn to witchcraft?" he offered.

A serious expression descended on the woman's finely-boned face, but within seconds, it evaporated like mist and she laughed dismissively. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, you know, small village like this—people gossip."

Her jaw clenched, minutely. "People can be ignorant, superstitious fools."

"I couldn't agree more." Julian flashed his most charming smile. "Anyway, from what I've seen, Miss Fairfax is a quite capable innkeeper, and I shall recommend that she keep possession of the place. Do you mind if I just look around for a bit?"

"Not at all."

The bell above the door rang out again as an elderly woman with a small Yorkshire terrier in tow bustled into the shop. "Oh, Pru, I need your help!"

"Yes, Mrs. Harmon?" Pru left Julian's side and walked over to the woman.

"Those rabbits are getting into my garden again."

"I'm sure we can find something to keep them out."

While she was occupied, Julian stepped casually over to the backroom, brushed the hanging beads aside and scanned the room. Normal office – bookshelves, a slightly outdated computer, stacks of paperwork…and a small stack of blue triangular objects. He held one in his hand, its blue surface smooth, its point as sharp as any blade. In a flash of recognition, he realized what he was holding.

Meanwhile, Sara lay in her hotel bed staring at the clock and willing herself to get some sleep. Too bad she was wired and it was the middle of the afternoon. She wondered if there were any micro-bottles of booze left in the minibar; she couldn't quite remember how many she and Shaun had drank last night and it didn't seem worth the effort to get up otherwise.

"Trouble sleeping?"

The voice came from behind her. A posh and cynical voice she recognized. One that still haunted her nightmares. Her hand moved slowly and deliberately toward the knife she'd stashed under her pillow. She struck out quickly and lodged the blade directly in the stomach of Malcolm Ryland.

"No…..way." Sara's mouth hung open in disbelief.

The corpse smirked and looked down at the knife. "Now is that any way to greet an old friend?" He gripped her arm with Herculean force, dislodged the blade and wrenched it from her hand, tossing it across the room. Sara fell back onto the mattress, rubbing her wrist.

"You're not real," she insisted, scrambling off the bed and backing toward the door.

"I'm as real as your friend Will. He is rather obnoxious, isn't he? I never imagined that I would have to spend my afterlife listening to a twat like him droning on and on. I mean, he's just so annoyingly self-righteous."

Sara rushed to open the door, but Ryland seemed to float across the room, slamming it shut and pinning her against it. "I suppose that's where you get it from. Like handler, like slayer. But now he's dead, and soon you will be, too. That'll be another thing you two have in common." He leaned in close and the stench of rotting flesh emanated from his throat, making Sara sputter.

"You don't scare me, Ryland."

"I know. Pity. But there are plenty of other things that do. What you're feeling right now—all that fear and uncertainty? Wondering if you'll be next? If your precious Shaun will be next? That frightens you. You're not in control. You're terrified."

"Maybe I am terrified, but I still smell nice. Which is more than I can say for you."

Ryland hissed and hurled her to the floor, pinning her to the ground and latching his hands around her throat. She thrashed as he squeezed tightly. "So, Miss Cross…you lied to everyone, your family, your loved ones, and told them you were dead. I think it's time to make an honest woman out of you."

Sara struggled against his grip, desperately trying to catch her breath. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Sara jolted up in bed, dripping with sweat, her heart beating frantically. Looking around, she realized that she was alone in the room. Didn't give her much comfort, though; Will came back for seconds, and she was certain Ryland would too.

She hauled herself slowly out of bed and shuffled to the door, all the more startled when it opened and she found Shaun on the other side of it, holding a suitcase. He looked marginally better than when she saw him last, no more tears. But still tired. Weary. The weariness she sensed the first time she laid eyes on him, that behind those eyes he'd been through enough heartache for five lifetimes. She battled the urge to hold him for the second time today.

"Hey," she greeted hesitantly.

"Hi. Um, my room is still a crime scene, and I'm not sure when or if they'll let me back in. So I was wondering…" Shaun worried a peeling edge of wallpaper just outside Sara's door with his index finger. "I mean, feel free to slam the door in my face…"

"No, no. Please come in." She held the door open and he nodded, entered and laid his suitcase gently on the bed.

"Are you okay? You look like you just ran a mile," he inquired, noticing her flushed appearance.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Bad dream." She glanced in the mirror and attempted to compose her appearance. When she turned back, Shaun was sitting on the bed next to his things, hands folded. Glancing around restlessly, as if he wanted to get comfortable but didn't think it was appropriate.

Sara felt an equal amount of tension and discomfort. She kept her distance, leaning against the dresser. "I thought maybe you'd gone back to London."

"No, I rang Yvonne and told her what happened."

"You told her we found a demon in the basement of a chapel, that he spiked you, that you bonked me, and that Emma mysteriously drowned?"

Shaun shrugged. "Sort of."

"I kinda' need to know more than 'sort of'…"

"Look, she knows what you do. She freaked out but then I mentioned you were here…"

"I'm here? I'm Helen, remember? Sara is dead…"

"I know, Sara. Look, we can trust Yvonne, okay, she's a more efficient killer than me to be honest. Someone's got to look after Ed. And I knew if I mentioned you she wouldn't ask any more questions. She just said 'Right, come home when it's taken care of.' And 'I'm so sorry', and all that…"

Sara closed her eyes as his voice trailed off. "Anyway, I can't go back to that house. Not yet. Too many things that would remind me of her…" He seemed to stop himself short and looked away, then stared her right in the eye, pleadingly. "The police wouldn't tell me anything, Sara. Was it that demon that killed her?"

"Highly doubtful, it's dead."

"You killed it? On you go, slayer."

"I didn't get to do the honors."

"Shame."

"I know. Julian and I found it dead in the chapel this morning."

"Who killed it?"

"We don't know. And with the Velkor gone, we're not exactly sure what killed Emma. But Jules is out on an interview right now," she offered, thinking he might want a change of subject. "He thinks he might have a new lead. We'll figure out who…what did this and we'll stop them, Shaun. I swear to you, we will."

He stared at her, smiling again…and for a moment, she thought it held the promise of something more. But he looked away, and her heart sank. "So much for a well-planned holiday." He stood, grimacing at the pain of the wound from the previous night's fight, and walked toward the patio doors.

Sara sighed, dreading a necessary shift into professional mode. But if he'd been confessing to Yvonne, she needed to know if he'd been as forthcoming with the police. "Did, um, did Detective Ashford speak with you?"

"Yeah."

"I trust she didn't harass you too much. I mean, after Julian gave you an alibi, she wouldn't have any reason to suspect you of any involvement in Emma's death. She'll just proceed with the knowledge that you were simply helping out a co-worker and that you would never have harmed Emma."

Shaun's expression changed slowly to one of slight concern and possible regret. "Ah."

"What do you mean 'Ah'?"

"Nothing." He shrugged.

"No, 'Ah' means something. Does 'Ah' mean that you gave her a reason to suspect you?"

He finally cracked under the pressure of her stare. "I might have told her about us."