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did something no god is allowed to do. She fell in love. With a young man. The goddess took him for her lover, but she was so ashamed of what she had done that she killed the young man and threw herself into a lake.
    “Of course, being a god, she didn’t die but became half-fish, half-lady. And she continued to protect her people from the deep. She protected them against calamities and hardship. She and her many children protected them against illness too.”
    I thought about Leonard’s cold touch. I thought about Ned’s cough. I wondered if the children of Atargatis were still in the business of protecting. Would that protection extend to miracles? That’s what we needed: a miracle—nothing less. Maybe it would come at the touch of our strange friend.
    “They named those stars in her honor.
The Great Fish,
they called them. And when they saw Fomalhaut rise, they’d know she was still watching over them.
    “And that, Jamie, is the story of the first mermaid.”
    Granddad had finished his tea. He put his hand up to my head. “You all right there?” he said. “Looking a bit pale.”
    “I’m OK,” I said. “That’s just a good story.”
    Granddad said, “Ned’ll be all right,” even though he didn’t know that. I nodded and suggested we leave mermaids for a while and look at the atlas. We stayed in Iraq and Syria, traveled down through Jordan, then into Israel. When we hit the Mediterranean Sea, Granddad proposed we have a little rest before lunch. I made him another tea and sat in the front room.
    I couldn’t settle, though. My head was full of mermaids and mermen, protecting people, making sure they were well. My head was full of the children of Atargatis.
    I thought I didn’t mind if our adventure became Ned’s adventure if it led to something good. If it led to a miracle, this child of Atargatis—Leonard—could have my brother to himself.
    Right then, I believed a miracle was coming.

When you’re homeschooled, you don’t have many friends. You have to be friends with other mums who come over for tea and biscuits. And policemen who live three doors down. And fishermen whose names you don’t know. We’ve made friends with our postman, Bill, who’s a big
Star Trek
fan too. He bought Ned a Starfleet badge when he found out Ned was ill. We have friends up and down our little road.
    Mrs. Clarke next door isn’t among them. Dad calls her “a nosy old bat.” Tony, the policeman, says she phones the station about all sorts of tiny things. Mum says we need to look after her; she’s very old. But I heard Mum calling her “cow” under her breath when she came to complain Mum was hoovering too loudly.
    Ned and I still have one friend from school. Tibs. On the day Ned was at his appointment, when Granddad finished my lessons and closed his eyes for a nap, I went to check on Leonard and Tibs found me there, with my ear pressed against the garage door. He called from the front gate where he sat on his bike.
    Tibs had vomited the night before. He hadn’t told his mum he’d snuck a whole packet of Mint Viscounts from the cupboard and eaten half of them before dinner, so she thought he was ill and wouldn’t let him go to school. But she’d seen he was “recovered” soon after breakfast and told him to get out from under her feet.
    “Go see Ned and Jamie.”
    “So here I am,” Tibs said. “Where’s Ned?”
    “Hospital.”
    “He all right?”
    I shrugged at this. I didn’t say anything about the miracle I hoped for.
    Tibs went red for a moment, then said, “So, do you want to go to the prison or something?”
    The prison sits on the highest hill on Portland. The road winds up and up. You can see the beach behind you all the way. We don’t go there for the prison or for the views. We go there for the ride back down. We call it the Slalom and shout the theme tune to
Ski Sunday
as we pedal.
    If you go too fast, you skid off on the bends. You haven’t gone fast enough if you don’t lose your