He wriggled further over the edge of the tank and leant down as far as he dared. The tank was huge and he didn’t want to fall in. He got into a position from where he could reach down and scoop water up to his mouth with one hand, holding on to the tank with the other. As he reached out, his fingers broke the reflection and sent it shimmering off in all directions, the water no longer glassy but dancing, crazed. He brought his hand back up to his mouth, lapped water from his palm. It was cool, clean. Tasted of nothing.

It hurt to swallow. His throat felt like there were razor blades embedded in it. His whole head was bunged up and burning. Thick mucus filled his nose and ears and he was forever coughing up sticky green gobbets streaked with red.

The edge of the tank hurt where it cut into his belly. His guts were rumbling, churning. He dipped his hand in again, managed to scoop more water up this time. He drank it down greedily then belched and nearly threw up. That wouldn’t do. He didn’t want to poison his water supply. He held the puke down and splashed up more water, sucking it from his dirty fingers. He tried not to think about how sick he felt, how much his stomach hurt, tried to lose himself in the mechanical process of getting water to his mouth, his hand rising and falling like a machine. At last he had drunk enough and stopped, panting, his eyes closed. Listening to the water as it slopped about in the tank, the sounds echoing off the metal sides.

When he opened his eyes the world was settling down, the reflections slowing their mad dance, coming together again. He watched the hypnotic display. Gradually everything calmed and grew still and finally he could see into the dark depths of the tank.

He realized with a shock that there was something down there. Moving. Alive. A creature, rising slowly from the bottom, looming up at him. As he stared, he began to make out its shape.

Black flesh and grey bones, broken wings and a gaping chest, greasy feathers …

He wanted to be sick again.

It was Boney-M, swimming about down there, an oily trail following him through the water, spreading out like the filthy discharge from a ship’s engine.

Paul clamped a hand to his mouth. He mustn’t throw up. But the thought of drinking water polluted by this filthy beast made his stomach flip. Boney’s beak opened like a shark’s mouth and came up out of the water. It made a choking sound then closed with a clack.

One beady eye stared at him. The leathery eyelids closed slowly over it and then slid open.

‘You shouldn’t swim in my drinking water,’ said Paul.