To my alarm, I realized Nigel was close to tears.

Hugo has a way of affecting other people's luck.

Nigel's third dart hit the rim of the board and pinged off. He snapped. 'You're always turning people against me!' Red and furious. 'I hate you, you bloody bastard!'

'Not a nice word, Nigel. Do you know what a bastard is, or are you parroting your playmates in your chess club again?'

'Yes I do, actually!'

'Yes you know what a bastard is? Or yes you're parroting your playmates?'

'Yes I know what a bastard is and you're one!'

'So if I'm a bastard, you're saying our mother shagged another man to conceive me, right? So you're accusing her of playing away, are you?'

Tears brimmed in Nigel's eyes.

This'd bring trouble crashing down, I knew it.

Hugo did an amused tut. 'Dad won't be best pleased to hear your accusation either. Look, why don't you just run along and fiddle with your Rubik's cube in a quiet corner somewhere? Jason and I will do our best to forget the whole business.'

'Sorry about Nigel.' Hugo got 3, a miss and 4. 'Such a space cadet. He has to learn how to detect hints, and act on them. One day he'll thank me for my tutelage. Alex the Neandarthal dork is beyond help, I fear.'

I did a sort of laugh, wondering how Hugo makes words like "tutelage" and "alas" sound powerful and not prattish. I threw a miss, then a 2, a 3.

'Ted Hughes came to our school last term,' Hugo mentioned.

Now I knew he didn't hold my poetry prize against me. 'Yeah?'

Hugo threw a 5, a 6, a miss. 'He signed my copy of The Hawk in the Rain.'

'The Hawk in the Rain is brilliant.' A 4, a miss, a miss.

'I'm more into the First World War poets, myself.' Hugo threw a 7, an 8, a miss. 'Wilfred Owen, Rupert Brooke and that lot.'

'Yeah.' I threw a 5, a miss, a 6. 'I prefer them too, if I'm honest.'

'But George Orwell's the man.' A 9, a miss, a miss. 'I've got everything he ever wrote, including a first-edition Nineteen Eighty-Four.'

A miss, a miss, a 7. 'Nineteen Eighty-Four's just incredible.' (Actually I'd got bogged down in O'Brien's long essay and never finished it.) 'And Animal Farm.' (We'd had to read that at school.) Hugo threw a 10. 'If you don't read his journalism,' a near miss, 'you can't say you know Orwell.' Another near-miss. 'Damn. I'll post you this collection of essays, Inside the Whale.'

'Thanks.' I fluked an 8, a 9, a 10, and acted like it was nothing special.

'Brilliant throwing! Tell you what, Jace, let's liven things up a bit. Got any money on you?'

I had 50p.

'Okay, I'll match that. First to twenty wins fifty pence off the other.'

Half my pocket money was a bit of a risk.

'Go on, Jace.' Hugo grinned like he really liked me. 'Don't be a Nigel. Tell you what, you can have your turn again, to start. Three free throws.'

Saying yes'd make me more like Hugo. 'Okay.'

'Good man. But best not mention it to' Hugo nodded through the garage wall 'the maters and the paters, or we'll spend the rest of the afternoon playing ludo or the Game of Life under strict supervision.'

'Sure.' I missed, hit the wall, and missed.

'Bad luck,' said Hugo. He missed, got an 11, missed.

'What's rowing like, then?' I got my 11, missed, got 12. 'All I've been on are the pedalos at Malvern Winter Gardens.'

Hugo laughed like I'd made a really funny joke, so I grinned like I had. He missed 12 three times in a row.

'Hard luck,' I said.

'Rowing's phenomenal. All rushing, muscles, rhythm and speed, but only the odd splash, or grunt, or crewmate's breathing. Like sex, now I think about it. Annihilating your opponents is fun, too. Like our sports master says, "Boys, it's not the taking part that matters. It's the winning that counts!"'

I threw a 13, 14, then 15.

'My God!' Hugo made a blowing, impressed face. 'Not suckering me here, are you, Jace? Tell you what, how about fleecing me for one pound?' Hugo slipped a sleek wallet from his Levi's and waved a 1 note at me. 'The way you're playing today, this smacker'll be yours in five throws. What does your piggy bank say?'

If I lost I wouldn't have any money until next Saturday.

'Oooooo,' crooled Hugo. 'Don't chicken out on us now, Jace.'

I heard Hugo talking about me to other Hugos in his rowing club. My cousin Jason Taylor is such a space cadet. 'Okay.'

'Okay!' Hugo slipped the pound note into his top pocket. He then threw a 12, a 13 and a 14. He made a surprised noise. 'Wonder if my luck might be turning?'

My first dart hit the brick. My second pinged off the metal. My third missed.

Without hesitating, Hugo threw a straight 15, 16 and 17.

Footsteps clopped from the back door to the garage door. Hugo cursed under his breath, and flashed me a look that said, Leave it to me.

I couldn't've done anything else.

'Hugo!' Aunt Alice stormed into the spare garage. 'Would you care to tell me why Nigel's in floods of tears?'

Hugo's reaction was Oscar-winning. 'Tears?'

'Yes!'

'Tears? Mum, that boy is unbelievable sometimes!'

'I'm not asking you to believe anything! I want you to explain!'

'What's there to explain?' Hugo did this lost, sorry shrug. 'Jason invited Nigel and me for a nice game of darts. Nigel kept missing. I gave him a couple of pointers, but he ended up storming off in a tizzy. Spouting foul-mouthed "French", too. Why's that boy so competitive, Mum? Remember how we caught him making up words just to win at Scrabble? Do you think it's growing pains?'

Aunt Alice turned to me. 'Jason? What's your version of events?'

Hugo could sell Nigel to a glue factory and Maggot would still say, 'It's just like Hugo said, really, Aunt Alice.'

'He's welcome back,' Hugo assured her, 'once his tantrum's blown over. If you don't mind, Jace? Nigel didn't mean what he called you.'

'I don't mind at all.'

'Here's another idea.' Aunt Alice knew she'd been stalemated. 'Your Aunt Helena's low on coffee, and your father'll need a strong mug when he wakes up. I'm volunteering you to go and get some. Jason, perhaps you'd show your non-stick cousin the way, since you're obviously such allies.'

'We've almost finished this game, Mum, so-'

Aunt Alice set her jaw.

Isaac Pye, the landlord of the Black Swan, came into the games room at the back to see what the fuss was about. Hugo stood at the Asteroids console, surrounded by me, Grant Burch, Burch's servant Philip Phelps, Neal Brose, Ant Little, Oswald Wyre and Darren Croome. None of us could believe it. Hugo'd been on for twenty minutes on the same 10p. The screen was full of floating asteroids and I'd've died in three seconds flat. But Hugo reads the whole screen at once, not just the one rock that's most dangerous. He almost never uses his thrusters. He makes every torpedo count. When the zigzagging UFO comes he lays in a salvo of torpedoes only if the asteroid storm isn't too heavy. Otherwise, he ignores it. He only uses the hyperspace button as a last resort. His face stays calm, like he's reading a quite interesting book.

'That's never three mill'yun!' said Isaac Pye.

'Almost three an' a half million,' Grant Burch told him.

When Hugo's last bonus life finally erupted in a shower of stars, the machine did bleepy whoops and announced the All Time Top Score'd been topped. That stays on even if the machine's switched off. 'I spent a fiver getting up to two and a half mill'yun the other night,' grunted Isaac Pye, 'an' that were the bullock's bollocks, I thought. I'd stand you a pint, lad, but there's two off-duty coppers in the bar.'

'That's good of you,' Hugo told Isaac Pye, 'but I daren't get caught on a drunk-in-charge-of-a-spacecraft rap.'

Isaac Pye did a Wurzel snigger and ambled back to the bar.

Hugo entered his name as JHC.

Grant Burch asked it. 'What's that stand for, then?'

'"Jesus H. Christ".'

Grant Burch laughed, so everyone else did. God, I felt proud. Neal Brose'd tell Gary Drake how Jason Taylor hung out with Jesus Christ.

Oswald Wyre said, 'How many years did it take you to get that good?'

'Years?' Hugo's accent'd gone just a bit less posh and just a bit more London. 'Mastering an arcade game shouldn't take that long.'

'Must've taken a pile of dosh, though,' said Neal Brose. 'To get that much practice, I mean.'

'Money's never a problem, not if you've got half a brain.'

'No?'

'Money? 'Course not. Identify a demand, handle its supply, make your customers grateful, kill off the opposition.'

Neal Brose memorized every word of that.

Grant Burch got out a pack of cigarettes. 'Smoke, mate?'

If Hugo said 'No' he'd damage the impression he'd made.

'Cheers,' Hugo peered at the box of Players No. 6, 'but anything except Lambert Butler makes my throat feel like shit for hours. No offence.'

I memorized every word of that. What a way to get out of smoking.

'Yeah,' Grant Burch said, 'Woodbines do that to me.'

From the bar we heard Isaac Pye repeat, '"I daren't get caught on a drunk-in-charge-of-a-spacecraft rap"!'

Dawn Madden's mum peered at Hugo from the smoke-fogged bar.

'Are that woman's boobs for real?' Hugo hissed at us. 'Or are they a pair of spare heads?'

Mr Rhydd sticks Lucozade-yellow plastic sheets over his windows to stop the displays fading. But his 'displays' are only ever pyramids of canned pears, and the plastic sheets make inside his shop feel like a photograph from Victorian times. Hugo and I read the notices on the board for second-hand Lego, kittens needing homes, good-as-new washing machines for 10 O.N.O. and ads promising you hundreds of extra pounds in your spare time. The cold-soapy, rotting-orangey, newsprinty smell of Mr Rhydd's hits you the moment you're inside. There's the post office booth in one corner where Mrs Rhydd the postmistress sells stamps and dog licences, though not today 'cause today's Saturday. Mrs Rhydd's signed the Official Secrets Act but she looks quite normal. There's a rack of greetings cards showing men dressed like Prince Philip fishing in rivers saying 'On Father's Day' or foxgloves in a cottage garden saying 'For My Dearest Grandmother'. There are shelves of alphabet spaghetti, Pedigree Chum and Ambrosia Rice Pudding. There are packs of toys like blow-football and play-money that never sell 'cause they're too crap. A Slush Puppy machine makes cups of snow in felt-pen colours, but not in March. Behind the counter are cigarettes and shelves of beer and wine. On high shelves are jars of Sherbert Bombs, Cola Cubes, Cider Apples and Navy Tablets. These come in paper bags.

'Wow,' said Hugo. 'Thrillsville. I've died and gone to Harrods.'

Just then Kate Alfrick, Julia's best friend, breezed in, and got to the counter at the same time as Robin South's mum. Robin South's mum let Kate go first 'cause Kate just wanted a bottle of wine. She can buy alcohol 'cause she's turned eighteen.

'Ta very much.' Mr Rhydd handed Kate her change. 'Celebrating?'

'Not really,' said Kate. 'Mum and Dad are coming back from Norfolk tomorrow evening. Thought I'd have a nice dinner ready to welcome them home. This,' she tapped the bottle, 'is the finishing touch.'

'Jolly good,' Mr Rhydd said, 'jolly good. Now then, Mrs South...'

Kate passed us on her way out. 'Hello, Jason.'

'Hello, Kate.'

'Hi, Kate,' said Hugo. 'I'm his cousin.'

Kate studied Hugo through her Russian secretary glasses. 'The one called Hugo.'

'Only three hours in Black Swan Green,' Hugo did a funny stagger of amazement, 'and I'm being discussed already?'

I told Hugo it was to Kate's house Julia'd gone to revise.

'Oh, so you're that Kate.' He gestured at the wine. 'Liebfraumilch?'

'Yes,' Kate said, in a what's it to you? voice. 'Liebfraumilch.'

'Bit sweet. You look drier. More the chardonnay type.'

(The only wines I know are red, white, fizzy and rose.) 'Could be you don't know your types as well as you think you do.'

'Could be, Kate,' Hugo combed his hair with his hand, 'could be. Well, we mustn't keep you away from your revision any longer. Doubtless you and Julia are hard at it. Hope we'll bump into each other again, some time.'