“Do you think Calpol will do?” Ned whispered.

We were meant to be reading, while Mum cleaned. Instead, we were planning our operation to fix Leonard.

I shrugged at my brother. “If Leonard’s a kid, maybe.”

“He is little.”

“So?” I said.

“Maybe he won’t need something too powerful.”

I shrugged again and looked back down at my book about Billy and his fox.

“I hope you’re reading in there,” Mum called from the bathroom.

“Indeed we are, Mother,” Ned called back.

“Less cheek. More reading.”

I read. Billy had to let his fox go in the end. Stories often end with letting something go. Ned flicked through the book of fish.

“Might be poison to him, though,” he whispered after a while.

“What?”

“Calpol might be poison to Leonard.”

We agreed to leave the painkillers. Pinching unwanted fish was one thing, rooting around the medicine cabinet was another. But I said I’d find something to make a sling.

Mum appeared at the door. “Right, Ned, time for your percussion.”

Ned winked at me as I took my book upstairs. I couldn’t read; I hated to hear Mum thumping Ned’s chest, hear the gunk he coughed up. I listened to Dad’s Specials cassette on the Walkman.

While I listened to the rock-steady beat, I searched through our stuff, settling on a pair of football socks. I cut them open and tied them together. I thought it could work.

—

Once she’d finished clearing Ned’s lungs, Mum said we could go outside, but not farther than the gate. I hid the socks in my pocket.

It was a clear day, bright and fresh. A day where the sky goes on and on, as if forever, till it hits the sea. A day where if you stare at the place where the sea and sky meet for too long, you forget where one begins and the other ends, and you forget which is which and it’s just blue and blue and blue.

“Bit nippy, eh?” Ned said as we stared.

We knew why we waited. Neither of us wanted to do the deed. Neither of us wanted to try to wriggle the little fish-man’s arm back into its socket. We stood by the back fence and neither of us talked about it. But we knew.

“Look,” I said. “Big one.” A huge boat slowly held its course across the open sea.

“Fishing?”

“Some big industrial job,” I said.

“Probably that’s the kind of thing that hurt our little friend.”

This seemed as good an idea as any. Granddad had told us about those big trawlers, ripping up the sea bed.

We stared and I imagined Leonard’s underwater home, raked and destroyed. I imagined the storm coming and saw him and his damaged arm, flung back and forth. Then we’d found him on our beach.

“Come on, then,” Ned said. “Let’s get this over with.”

—

Leonard was sitting on the edge of his tub again. He didn’t dive under the water. He knew it was us.

“Morning, Len,” Ned said.

Leonard clicked and gurgled, holding out the bone whale.

My brother sat by his friend. I stayed by the door.

“Len,” Ned said. “We’ve got to do something. I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”

More clicks. More gurgles.

Ned looked up at me. I stared back. “You’ve gotta hold him, Jamie.”

I shook my head a little. I wasn’t squeamish about fish and flesh, but bones and joints….Bile rose in my throat. I shuddered.

Ned nodded, big nods. “You’ve got to.”

I’d only touched Leonard once. Back on the beach when I’d pressed one finger into his smooth back and bundled him into our sack. He’d felt alien then. But now I could see him—this strange new life. I thought about fetching Mum’s yellow rubber washing-up gloves, but Ned wouldn’t have liked that.

“Come on,” my brother said.

I sighed, then took a step and another and another till I was beside them.

Leonard looked from Ned to me and back to Ned. His big fish eyes swiveled in his head.

“All right,” Ned said. “Do it.”

Before I could think a moment more, I slid my arms around the merman’s chest, under his arms. He was light, like I remembered. He wriggled and pushed away. He wasn’t strong but his movements were quick and squirming.

“Right, right, right,” my brother said, taking hold of Leonard’s arm.

My head began to swim. I swallowed, pushing down nausea.

Leonard let out a squeal, high-pitched and ghastly.

“OK, OK,” Ned whispered, turning the arm.

Another squeal.

Ned turned it again and again as Leonard squealed and writhed.

“OK, OK, OK.”

Then there was a wet sound, a slurp and plop, like when Dad used the plunger to clear the kitchen sink. It was done.

Ned dropped the arm. I dropped Leonard and fell to my knees. The merman slid back into the water. He snarled at us. He tested his arm. Then he smiled his wide fishy smile.

Ned smiled back. “We did it,” he said. “All fixed.”

I blew out a long stream of air, picked myself up and grinned at my brother. “We did,” I said.

All fixed.