He was especially unhappy when I upgraded her, installed a new-fangled electric motor, and left him with the indignity of coal dust still puffing from his backside.

He was smart, though, he worked out what to do.

Logic would decree that a mechanical mermaid was never meant to go near water, but I’d made her water-tight, given her a layer of that strange new stuff out of the rubber tree. In the corner of the workshop I created a little pond, with a waterfall and a large rock for her to sit on. The pond was big enough that she could immerse herself. I thought again about a voice for her, so she could sing to me, and went off on a shopping expedition.

And that’s when it happened. He waited until I came home so I could see what he did. I opened the door to the workshop, ardent as a lover at the thought of seeing my cold metal darling again, only to find her in the water with Tobias sitting on the edge beside her, his hand on her chest.

I gave a great bellow and he bared his carved mother-of-pearl teeth at me and made an awful sound. He dug his sharp, bright nails under the mermaid’s  breastplate and wrenched it away, then pushed her down underneath the surface. Water rushed into her chest cavity, in among all my fine, tiny clockwork that kept her going with electric sparks. The water began to boil, steam rose from the pond, and Tobias himself danced happily as she fused. Or rather, I thought it was dancing, until I realised he was shorting-out, too. In the end there was only a lot of steam, fused metal, and a nasty smell of burnt hair and fur.

You shouldn’t get greedy. A monkey in the hand is worth a mermaid in the bath.

I waited outside what was, until recently, my father’s house. I could feel the eyes of Rahab, his second wife, and her sons watching from inside the white-washed walls.

I had not changed, my flame-coloured hair marked me out. Perhaps they didn’t think I would return.

Laban, the eldest, came out and asked, ‘What do you want, Mariamne?’

 ‘My portion of the inheritance.’

But they refused. As if I had no right, as if I did not carry my mother’s blood, as if I wasn’t Mechaieh’s daughter.

‘Tell you mother that she will lose each of you if I am not given my due.’

For three mornings they found a corpse. Every evening I was in a tavern with witnesses while my stepbrothers died.

Now, in a cave outside Shechem, I wait again. Torches light the rough path down. I can hear Laban’s footsteps.

‘I have it. I have it all outside.’ His voice rasps. ‘You will leave us alone?’

‘As promised. It could have been easy, now you have three brothers to bury.’

His rage seemed to surge and bubble over. Fury overcomes fear and he leaps. I Don’t move, simply speak one word before his hands close around my throat.

Behind his back I see the creature coalescing, motes of dust, clay, any material from the ground it can muster to its call. All rush together to form a giant man, features rude but definite. It lifts Laban turns him so he can stare into its empty sockets.

‘They call it a golem, brother. We make it by mirroring God. It does the bidding of the one who breathes life into it. You see the word on its forehead – emet, means truth. It couldn’t have harmed you if you hadn’t wronged me.’

I watch as the light goes out of Laban’s eyes and foam collects around his swollen lips. The golem drops and faces me. It bows and I lick my thumb. I rub the wetness across the first of the letters etched on its brow. The word now reads met – dead. My lips meet those of the golem and I taste the rich ferment of the cave earth as I draw its breath away.

For a few moments we stand like lovers then the magic flees, and the man of clay crumbles to motes that swirl around like a lost love. Mechaieh’s blood serves me well.

            Erzulie is different, sweeter, sloppier. She would turn a blind eye, figuring ‘What are the odds?’ Not the Baron, though.

            The other loas will be here soon. They always gather before a ceremony, to drink, eat, gamble. Their poker chips are souls.

            The humans – my people, once, before I wandered, too stupid to know better – call the loas down. Offer them food and libations – little do they know the spirits would come if offered nothing else. They hunger for the moment of possession, of stealing a physical form if only for a few minutes, a few hours, before the living body spits them out again.

            For the most part, the loas are lazy, which is why they steal away small idiots like me. I should have known better than to take the shiny beads the pretty lady dangled in front of me. But I didn’t and I’ve spent nearly thirty years trapped in the body of a nine year old.

            And I’m searching, seeking, looking for the thing that will set me free. The grain of truth they all talk about in hushed voices, the thing that will release me.

            There’s a knock at the door – the Marassa Jumeaux have arrived, the divine twins. They are children, they look like me, but I don’t play with them. Mama Bridgette lumbers up the stairs behind them and glares at me …

I’d read about sailors who’d caught a mermaid in the South Seas and tried to bring her back to Portsmouth. They kept her in a barrel of water on the deck, but it seemed she jumped ship not far out of the harbour, waved the men goodbye and ducked under the dark, cold roiling sea.

But if I could create something that knew no home but mine?

The mech-monkey had been easy, comparatively. This was far more complex, far more challenging. I do like my things to be beautiful and the mermaid had to be exquisite.

It took two months of solid work, the mech-monkey labouring madly by my side. Sometimes it refused to participate. I just thought it was being, well, monkey-ish. After I yelled and threatened to turn it into the guts of a harpsichord, it obeyed, albeit bitterly, dropping things, straightening things that were meant to be bent and bending things that were meant to be straight.

In the end, though, she was finally ready. Polished brass for skin, covered with engraved scales, an articulated tale where the smoke came out (a farting monkey was one thing, a farting mermaid another entirely). Her irises were emeralds, her lips embossed gold. Her hair I bought from a magnificent whore in Spitalfields who let me take the whole glorious flaming red torrent for twenty guineas. I spent another twenty guineas having it made into the finest wig you’ve ever seen, then fitted it tightly over the metal egg of the skull.

The breasts were my pride: jutting things, ruby tipped, inviting, hard to the touch, and cool in the mouth. I thought about making her a voice-box, but then decided that her smile was enough, the way the corners of her mouth slid back like a sled across an icy lake.

The monkey, needless to say, hated her. My clever little creature, so smart, so learned, such a happy companion when we were alone. And I started to neglect him, poor little sod. But in all honesty, dear reader, I thought her too large for him to do anything about.

‘Tad, we need to talk.’ ‘Oh, no. You’re froggist, I knew it,’ he sighed.

‘Tad, you’re a frog. A genuine, dyed-in-the-wool-not-gonna-be-anything-else frog, aren’t you?’ She tapped a finger on the table.

‘I might…you never know with these things, really…’ he said lamely.

‘Why did you pretend?’ she demanded. ‘Well, guys be they men, frogs, or dogs, always want what they can’t have.’ He thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘But I’ve got to tell you, I’m really not attracted to you. You’re not nearly green enough and your legs are really awfully long and straight. It’s more of a trophy thing.’

Great, Felicity thought, dissed by someone who swim in the toilet. ‘Well, I’ve got good news for you, Tad. I have a cousin.’

‘Aw, Felicity, you’re a good stick but I really don’t want another human girlfriend. They’re pretty high maintenance.’

By now Felicity was ready to throw Tad against a wall just to see if he would stick, but she gritted her teeth. She could hear footsteps running along the corridor. The doors to the dining room opened and Bob stumbled in. He smiled broadly.

He held a pink silk cushion and on it sat the greenest of girl frogs, with bendy legs, large eyes, a little purple cape and a teeny-tiny tiara. She batted her lashes at Tad.

‘Tad, this is my cousin Gwyneth. I think I mentioned my great-great-aunt Bernadette of Grenouille-sur-le-Tapis? This is her great-great-granddaughter, a greenblood through and through. I think you’ll find you’ve got a lot in common.’

The look on his face was one of pure rapture; Tad was a real gone frog.

A day later, the pre-nup had been drawn up and Gwyneth, with Tad in-tow, headed back to her kingdom. The last thing Felicity heard as the coach pulled away was Tad’s voice, low and romantic, asking ‘Do you have any carrier pigeons in your castle?’

‘Euuuw,’ said Felicity and Bob in unison.

The very next day, Felicity ordered the pond be drained and filled in. All the foliage was uprooted and burned. The whole area was turned into a soccer field.

Much to her dismay Felicity discovered that planning to get rid of Tad and actually getting rid of him were two very different things,.  She’d sourced a stout sack and taken to carrying about a croquet mallet. Tad, alas, had a habit of always being around someone like her father, or mother, or the chief minister, or the master of the king’s pigeons.

One afternoon, Bob the stableboy found her sitting in a tree in the apple orchard.

‘Whatchya doing, princess?’

‘Shhhh.  I’m in seclusion,’ she whispered around a mouthful of juicy red apple.

‘Really?  I thought you were in an apple tree.’ Bob grabbed a lower branch and swung himself up.

‘I’m hiding, numbskull.  From that frog.’ She gestured wildly with her half-eaten apple. ‘He’s driving me nuts.  He’s a con man.  Worse – he’s a con frog!’

 ‘You know, Princess Felicity, sometimes a frog is just a frog,’ said Bob.  ‘There’s no prince hiding underneath the green skin.  Genuine frog, that’s it.’

‘You know that, I know that, but my parents…You know, my parents aren’t very bright.’ She shrugged.  ‘And they honestly think I’m going to kiss that amphibian?’

‘Let’s face it, the only one who’s ever truly attracted to a frog is another frog,’ said Bob.  Felicity looked stunned.

‘That’s it!’ She threw her arms around him, planted a big, wet kiss on his cheek and made them both over-balance so they fell out of the tree.  Felicity bounced right back up like a Jack-in-the-box and helped Bob to his feet. ‘Bob, be so good as to get me a carrier pigeon.’

‘Err, Tad ate all the carrier pigeons.’

‘Ate?’

‘He’s a very big frog.  Said they tasted like chicken.’ He shrugged his shoulders, palms to the sky helplessly.

‘Euuuw.  Okay, get me the fastest horse we’ve got – he hasn’t eaten those, has he?’  He shook his head. ‘Good.  You’re going for a ride.’

            Felicity negotiated Tad down to a family dinner. Was it Great-aunt Bernadette of Grenouille-sur-le-Tapis had married a frog who’d turned into a handsome prince? Whatever, someone had married a frog and it all turned out happily ever after. If worst came to worst, there was always frogs legs for dinner.

            Now, Felicity lay so close to the edge of her big princessy bed that if she breathed too heavily she would fall out. That would be better than looking at what sat on the other side of her teddy bear.

            Her parents had been utterly charmed by Tad. They ooh’d and aah’d when he told his tale – turned into a frog by a witch – Felicity suspected he’d deserved it. After dinner she’d tried to show him out, but her parents wouldn’t hear of it.

            Wasn’t he a fine, brave fellow? Hadn’t he retrieved Felicity’s treasured soccer ball? Wouldn’t he turn back to a handsome prince if kissed? Perhaps Felicity could – ah, perhaps not just yet then. Felicity put down the plate she was about to throw. But Tad was definitely staying and as he was Felicity’s special friend he would share her room.

            He lay like a blob of snot on her frilly pillows. She’d have to burn them. He was snoring incredibly loudly. It rattled the frame of her four-poster bed. She moved to the couch.

            Eventually she drifted off, the snoring dulled by the earmuffs she’d found. She was having a wonderful dream about kicking a frog-shaped ball when she woke with a start.

‘How did you sleep?’

            Felicity opened her eyes. Tad was sitting on her chest.

            ‘Gnaaaargh!’ she yelled and pitched about. He landed with a splat on the floor.

            ‘Careful! I have delicate bones.’

            ‘Do that again and you’re toast, mate.’

            ‘You’re not very hospitable.’

            ‘How long do you plan on staying? This wasn’t supposed to be a sleep-over.’ Felicity pointed out.

            ‘Well, when I re-prince …’

            ‘When exactly will that be?’

            ‘The moment you kiss me. C’mon, pucker up.’ He blew a big smooch at her, made all the more gross because frogs have no lips to speak of.

            ‘Not going to happen.’

            ‘Then I’m here for the duration. I wonder what’s for brekkers.’ He hopped out of the room.

            Felicity glared. There was nothing else for it: the frog was going down.

            It lay at the fartherest corner, hidden by scrubby shrubs, and gnarly trees that dropped leaves into the nasty brown water. Frog spawn clung to the edges of the pond like an unfashionable necklace. Really big spiders waited for short-sighted flies. Pretty awful, all in all.

            Princess Felicity generally stayed away but one day when she was playing soccer with the stableboys (because she was an egalitarian sort of a princess), she mistimed a kick. Her golden soccer ball spun off into the nasty tangle of foliage. There was a splash. The stable boys disappeared speedily.

            Felicity was very fond of the ball (it was magically treated gold that gave when you kicked it so you didn’t hurt your foot), so she headed in the direction of the splash.

            She got tangled up in a vine, lost her balance, and fell face first into the water. When she stood up, sputtering, she spotted the ball, out in the middle of the deep stinky pond. Unless she could find a stableboy, she was going for a swim – except she didn’t know how.

            ‘Hiya!’

            She looked around but saw no one, and went back to starring at the ball.

            ‘I said hello.’ A bit tetchy now. ‘Down here!’

            The frog was the size of a moderately fat cat, green and shiny, with eyes set wide on either side of his bumpy head. He wore a worse-for-wear crown. ‘Hello again.’

            ‘Hello, errr, you.’ Talking frogs were par for the course. ‘I’m Princess Felicity.’

            ‘Tad. Prince Tad. Lost your ball?’

             ‘Obviously.’

            ‘Not a big swimmer?’

            ‘Not so much.’ Felicity was getting annoyed. ‘Is there a point to this?’

            ‘Well, I was going to offer to get your ball back but if you can’t even be civil…’ Tad began to hop away.

            ‘No! Sorry. Just a bit tense about the whole falling in the disgusting pond incident. I do apologise.’

            Tad gave her a sly look. ‘An in return: a date?’

            ‘You’re a frog!’

            ‘Look, if you’re going to be froggist about this…’

Maybe it would be easier to ask for a new ball.

            ‘One date.’

            ‘Agreed.’ With that, he plopped into the pond and swam out to the golden ball which he pushed back to the shore with his nose. Felicity thanked him reluctantly. He hoped about excitedly. ‘Pick you up at seven, then?’

Sure. Great idea. That was before whatever it was that happened, happened.

By the time I arrived in Sydney, my auntie was nowhere to be seen, and when I tried to go home the trains had stopped running, with no one to drive them.  And the phones had stopped working; my mobile just hummed back at me, same as the public phones and the ones in the private houses I’ve broken into in later days.  Sometimes I pick up a handset just to pretend it’s something alive.

I was lucky, I found Billy – or maybe he found me – and brought me to the safe-house. He said he’d show me the ropes, but he disappeared a day later.  I waited until I was starving then went out.  Only in daylight – you can see things coming at you then, kind of.  

Maybe Billy got swallowed by the night.  He boasted he’d lasted longer than anyone. That’s why he was so surprised to see me that day, wondering down the Pitt Street Mall like some half-witted lamb, eyes wide, mouth slack, staring at the complete lack of devastation. At the total nothingness.

I haven’t seen proper sun for weeks now.  It’s like it’s scared to come out.

I’m braver now, about going out for food and the useful etceteras like bottled water, because what comes out of the taps now is the colour of mud. Sometimes it just looks like blood and I don’t fancy re-hydrating with that. Some days I just wander because I’ve nothing else to do. I go to that big bookstore, Berkelouw, and pick through the stacks. My idea of an apocalypse is no new books – but it should take me an age to get through this lot.

Other days I just stay inside, under a table where nothing can see me. Those are the days I can hear noises from outside.

But here’s the thing: I cut my hand on this piece of glass. It sliced the lines of my palm that are supposed to map out my future, heart, head, and life, all snipped. That worries me especially on the days when all I can hear is the flapping and swooping noises of things that might once have been angels. And some days there’s a voice in the darkness and it knows my name.

I should have known. Mere days after I finished the mech-monkey, I found it dissecting its real-life counterpart. Pinned it to the table with my set of German-engineered scalpels, and taken it apart. The dirigible from Stepney Marsh was running late, so when I arrived home with a sack of new books, the deed was almost done. I should have disassembled it then, but I thought I saw something in its eyes, something human. A desire to know, to learn, to understand why it was different to the soft, furry mirror that wailed and squealed and gave up life so quickly.

All I could hear was my father’s voice, heavy with disappointment but no real surprise: Oh, Phineas. You’re so careless. Look at the mess you’ve made.

So I tidied up the sticky, stinking corpse and threw it down the chute. I listened as it clanged along the shaft, whirled around the spiral bits, thudded into the sharp bends, then came the faint whomp as the flames gobbled it up.

I was careful to clean all the bevelled and engraved edges of the mech-monkey, and under his glass nails (which I realised were too sharp by half). I checked his insides to make sure the clockwork mechanisms were all working, not misfiring in a way that might cause a psychotic episode. Turning him around, I opened the little hatch in his lower back where, each morning, I scooped three small loads of coal to feed his tiny internal furnace. The emissions came out as small, popping farts and, if I forgot to open a window, my workshop filled up very quickly with a nasty charcoal smoke.

I kept it – it was useful for fetching and carrying, and it opened cans terribly well. Then one Tuesday I found it reading; it saw me and threw the book away, but it was too late by then. I knew.

It probably would have been okay if I hadn’t got the next idea. I had been thinking about making a Galatea, but then I read about some sailors who’d caught themselves a mermaid and tried to bring her back to Portsmouth. They kept her in a barrel of seawater on the deck, but it seems she jumped ship just out of harbour, waved goodbye and ducked under the dark, cold sea.

And I thought ‘What if?’