“Some people believe, you see, that mermaids can grant wishes,” he says, handing over a coin. We carry on along the street. “However that’s not so. And Elsa tried to tell the man this, but he wouldn’t listen. Every day he grew a bit angrier, until one day he drained the pool of water and left her there to die.” Jorzy glances down at me. “For you see, a mermaid cannot live for very long without water.”

I don’t like the direction this story is taking. “Then what?”

“Well, the mermaid died, of course,” Jorzy says abruptly. We’re at our street door now, but my brother seems to be in no hurry to go inside. He leans against the wall, and this hanging about makes me nervous, though there aren’t any Black Marks in sight. “The thing is, that very day her soul went up to heaven, where the queen of the mermaids lives–”

Jorzy turns his face to the darkening sky, as if thinking about something else. The clean, fine lines of his face are lit by a nearby gas lamp.

“And this queen,” he continues dreamily, “gave the mermaid back her life, because it had been taken so unfairly from her. Elsa the mermaid went back to the river and the fine mansion and …”

He trails off altogether, and I have to jog his elbow to hear the end of the story. “What happens?”

Jorzy gives me a piercing, thoughtful look that I know has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the story. “Ah, and then,” my brother murmurs, “with one flick of her strong tail, she destroyed the evil man.”

* * *

The house is murmuring and breathing around me as I lie tossing and turning in my bed. I could’ve gone out into the night, to distract myself, but it’s raining, and I don’t like walking around in the rain. I roll over, trying to get comfortable.

Normally sleep hits me like a sledgehammer as soon as I’ve crawled into my cubbyhole. And it is literally that – a cubbyhole that was once used to store coal. So I can touch the ceiling as I lie on my mattress and, by stretching out my arms, the walls. It’s a cosy cave, and I like it that way. Though not tonight.

I keep picturing the man with the moustache and his clenched fist. I’m not ignorant; I know what they’re planning, even without Jorzy telling that silly story: an overthrow, is what I suspect. People talk about it often enough – or rather, whisper it in corners – how to assassinate the Director. If only … Then the city could go back to what it used to be like, before the Director came along with his Black Marks and his broadcasts and his hatred of Cerels. If only …

But Jorzy. How can my brother think he can get away with something like that?