Kate did a frowning smile. 'I shouldn't pin your hopes on it.'

'Not all my hopes, Kate, no. That would be rash. But the world can surprise you. I am a younger man, but this much I do know.'

At the door Kate looked over her shoulder.

Hugo had this cocky See? expression ready.

Kate left, cross.

'How,' Hugo reminded me of Uncle Brian, 'appetizing.'

I paid Mr Rhydd for the coffee. Hugo said, 'That's never real crystallized ginger you have in that jar, right up at the top?'

'Certainly is, Blue.' Mr Rhydd calls all us kids 'Blue' so he doesn't have to remember our names. He blew his cracked Mr Punch nose. 'Mrs Yew's mother was partial to it, so I'd order it in for her. She passed away with a new jar barely touched.'

'Fascinating. My Aunt Drucilla, who we're staying with in Bath, adores crystallized ginger. I'm sorry to send you up your ladder again, but...'

'No bother, Blue,' Mr Rhydd stuffed his hanky into his pocket, 'no bother at all.' He dragged his ladder over, climbed up and groped for the far jar.

Hugo checked nobody else was in the shop.

He eeled forwards on his chest, over the counter, reached between the rungs of the ladder, just six inches under Mr Rhydd's Hush Puppies, took a box of Lambert Butler cigarettes, and eeled back.

Numb, I mouthed at him, What are you doing?

Hugo stuffed the cigarettes down his pants. 'Jason, are you okay?'

Mr Rhydd shook the jar down at us. 'This'd be the badger, Blue?' His nostrils were sockets stuffed with hairy darkness.

'That would indeed be the badger, Mr Rhydd,' said Hugo.

'Jolly good, jolly good.'

I was shitting myself.

And then, as Mr Rhydd eased himself down the ladder, Hugo snatched two Cadbury's Creme Eggs from the tray and dropped them in my duffel coat pocket. If I'd struggled now or even tried to put them back, Mr Rhydd'd've noticed. To top it all, in the moment between Mr Rhydd's foot touching the ground and Mr Rhydd turning round to face us, Hugo swiped a packet of Fisherman's Friends and stuffed that in with the Creme Eggs. The packet rustled. Mr Rhydd wiped dust off the jar. 'What'll it be, Blue? Quarter of a pound do you?'

'A quarter of a pound would be excellent, Mr Rhydd.'

'Why d'you' (Hangman blocked 'nick' then 'steal' so I had to use the naff 'pinch') 'pinch the fags?' I wanted to scarper away from the crime scene as quick as possible, but a slow queue of traffic'd built up behind a tractor so we couldn't cross the crossroads yet.

'Plebs smoke "fags". I smoke cigarettes. I don't "pinch". Plebs "pinch". I "liberate".'

'Then why did you "liberate" the-' (now I couldn't say 'cigarettes').

'Ye-es?' prompted Hugo.

'The Lambert Butlers.'

'If you mean "Why did you liberate the cigarettes?" it's because smoking is a simple pleasure, with no proven side effects except lung cancer and heart disease. I intend to be long dead by then. If you mean "Why choose Lambert Butlers in particular?" it's because I wouldn't be seen homeless smoking anything else, except for Passing Cloud. Which that tragic old dipso doesn't stock in his village grocery, of course.'

I still didn't get it. 'Haven't you got enough money to buy them?'

This amused my cousin. 'Do I look like I haven't got enough money?'

'But why take the risk?'

'Ah, the liberated cigarette is the sweetest.'

Now I knew how Aunt Alice felt in the garage earlier. 'But why'd you take the Fisherman's Friends and the Creme Eggs?'

'The Fisherman's Friends are insurance against Mr Tobacco Breath. The Creme Eggs were insurance against you.'

'Insurance against me?'

'You'll hardly grass on me if you also had liberated contraband on you, would you?'

An oil tanker inched past, puking out fumes.

'I didn't grass you off when you made Nigel cry earlier, did I?'

'Made Nigel cry? Who made Nigel cry?'

Then I noticed Kate Alfrick's house, or rather a silver MG parked round the side. This guy who definitely wasn't Julia opened the front door for Kate as she walked up her drive, carrying her wine. The upstairs curtains twitched. 'Hey, look-'

'Let's cross.' Hugo edged towards an oncoming gap. 'Hey, look what?'

We dashed across the road, to the path to the lake in the woods.

'Nothing.'

'No no no no no, you're holding it like a Hollywood Nazi. Relax! Just hold it like it's a fountain pen. There. Now, let there be light...' My cousin reached inside his jacket. 'Of course, it takes a lighter to impress the quality quim, but lighters do give the game away if found in your blazer pocket by prying Nigels. So Swan Vestas will have to do for this afternoon's lesson.'

The lake was nervous with riplets and counter-riplets.

'I didn't see you liberate those at Mr Rhydd's.'

'I took them from that grebo in the pub who called me "mate".'

'You pinched Grant Burch's matches?'

'Don't look so appalled. Why would "Grant Burch" suspect me? I'd turned down his mucky cigarette. Yet another perfect crime.'

Hugo lit a match, cupped it and leant towards me.

A sudden jostle of wind snatched the Lambert Butler from my fingers. It fell between the slats of the bench. 'Oh, bum,' I said, bending down to retrieve it. 'Soz.'

'Take a new one and don't say "soz". I'll have to donate the surplus tobacco to the local wildlife, anyway.' My cousin held out the pack of Lambert Butlers. 'The wise dealer never risks getting caught in possession.'

I looked at the offered packet. 'Hugo, I'm grateful to you for...y'know, showing me, and everything, but, to be honest, I'm not sure if-'

'Jace!' Hugo did a jokey-amazed face. 'Don't say you're backing out now? I thought we'd decided to strip you of this shameful virginity of yours?'

'Yeah...but maybe...not today.'

Blind boars of wind crashed through the anxious woods.

'"Not today", huh?'

I nodded, worried he'd be pissed off.

'Your choice, Jace.' Hugo pulled the gentlest face. 'I mean, we're friends, aren't we? I'd hardly twist your arm into doing something against your will.'

'Thanks.' I felt stupid with gratitude.

'But,' Hugo lit his own cigarette, 'it's my duty to point out, this isn't just about smoking a humble cancer stick.'

'How do you mean?'

Hugo grimaced in a Should I or shouldn't I? quandary.

'Go on. Say it.'

'You need to hear some hard truths, cousin,' he took a deep drag, 'but first I have to know you know I'm telling you them for your own good.'

'Okay. I' (Hangman gripped 'know') 'understand.'

'Promise me?'

'Promise.'

The green or grey of Hugo's eyes depends on the weather. 'This "not today" attitude of yours is a cancer. Cancer of the character. It stunts your growth. Other kids sense your not-todayness, and despise you for it. "Not-today" is why those plebs in the Black Swan make you nervous. "Not today" I would bet is at the root of that speech defect of yours.' (A shame-bomb blew my head off.) '"Not today" condemns you to be the lapdog of authority, any bully, any shitehawk. They sense you won't stand up to them. Not today, not ever. "Not today" is the blind slave of every petty rule. Even the rule that says' (Hugo did this bleaty voice) '"No, smoking is BAD! Don't listen to naughty Hugo Lamb!" Jason, you have to kill "not today".'

This was so appallingly true I could only try to smile.

Then Hugo said, 'I was you myself, Jace, once. Just the same. Always afraid. But there's another reason why you must smoke this cigarette. Not because it's the first step to becoming someone your turkey-shagging schoolmates will respect instead of exploit. Not because a young blood with a mature cigarette is a better proposition to the ladies than a boy with a sherbert dip. It's this. Come here. I'll whisper it.' Hugo leant so close his lips touched my ears and 10,000 volts sang all over my nervous system. (For a split second I had a vision of Hugo the Oarsman out on the water, cathedrals and river banks blurring by, biceps stiffening and loosening under his vest, with girlfriends lining the river. Girlfriends ready to lick him where he told them.) 'If you don't kill "not today",' Hugo did a horror-movie trailer voice, 'One day you'll wake up, look in the mirror and see Brian and Uncle Michael!'

'Attaboy...breathe in...through your mouth, not your nose...'

The mouthful of gassy dirt left my mouth.

Hugo was stern. 'You didn't suck it into your lungs, did you, Jace?'

I shook my head, wanting to spit.

'You have to inhale, Jace. Into your lungs. Otherwise it's like sex without an orgasm.'

'Okay.' (I don't actually know what an orgasm is, apart from what you call someone who's done something stupid.) 'Right.'

'I'm just going to pinch your nose,' said Hugo, 'to stop you cheating.' His fingers closed off my nostrils. 'Deep breath not too deep and let the smoke go down with the air.' Then his other hand sealed my mouth shut. The air was cold but his hands were warm. 'One, two...three!'

In came the hot gassy dirt. My lungs flooded with it.

'Hold it there,' urged Hugo. 'One, two, three, four, five, and-' he released my lips, '-out.'

The smoke leaked out, a genie from its bottle.

The wind atomized the genie.

'And that,' said Hugo, 'is all there is to it.'

Vile. 'Nice.'

'It'll grow on you. Finish the cigarette.' Hugo perched himself on the back of the bench and relit his own Lambert Butler. 'As aquatic spectacles go, I am a trifle underwhelmed by your lake. Is this where the swans are?'

'There aren't any actual swans in Black Swan Green.' My second drag was as revolting as my first. 'It's a sort of village joke. The lake was classic in January, mind. It froze over. We played British Bulldogs actually on the ice. Though I found out afterwards there's about twenty kids who've drowned in this lake, down the years.'

'Who could blame them?' Hugo did a weary sigh. 'Black Swan Green might not be the arsehole of the world, but it's got a damn good view of it. You've gone a bit pale, Jace.'

'I'm fine.'

The first torrent of vomit kicked a GUUURRRRRR noise out of me and poured on to the muddy grass. In the hot slurry were shreds of prawn and carrot. Some'd got on my splayed fingers. It was as warm as warm rice pudding. More was coming. Inside my eyelids was a Lambert Butler cigarette sticking out of its box, like in an advert. The second torrent was a mustardier yellow. I guppered for fresh oxygen like a man in an airlock. Prayed that was the last of it. Then came three short, boiling sub-slurries, slicker and sweeter. Must have been the Baked Alaska.

Oh, Jesus.

I washed my puke-stained hand in the lake, then wiped away the tears from my puke-teared eyes. I'm so ashamed. Hugo's trying to teach me how to be a kid like him, but I can't even smoke a single cigarette.

'I'm really,' I wipe my mouth, 'really sorry.'

But Hugo's not even looking at me.

Hugo's squirmed out on the bench, facing the churned-up sky.

My cousin's sobbing with laughter.

Bridlepath My eye spidered over my poster of black angelfish turning into white swans, across my map of Middle Earth, around my door frame, into my curtains, lit fiery mauve by my spring sun, and fell down the well of dazzle.

Listening to houses breathe makes you weightless.

But a lie-in's less satisfying if other people aren't up and about, so I jumped out of bed. The landing curtains were still drawn 'cause Mum and Julia'd left for London when it was dark. Dad's away on another weekend conference in Newcastle under Lyme or Newcastle on Tyne. Today, the house is all mine.

First I pissed, leaving the bathroom door wide open. Next, in Julia's bedroom, I put on her Roxy Music LP. Julia'd go ape. I turned up the volume, dead loud. Dad'd go so mental his head'd blow up. I sprawled on Julia's stripey sofa, listening to this kazookering song called 'Virginia Plain'. With my big toe, I flicked the shell-disc wind chime Kate Alfrick'd given her a couple of birthdays ago. Just 'cause I could. Then I went through my sister's chest-of-drawers looking for a secret diary. But when I found a box of tampons I felt ashamed and stopped.

In Dad's chilly office I opened his filing cabinets and breathed in their metal-flavoured air. (A duty-free pack of Benson Hedges has appeared since Uncle Brian's last visit.) Then I twizzled on Dad's Millennium Falcon office chair, remembered it was April Fools' Day, picked up Dad's untouchable telephone and said, 'Hello? Craig Salt? Jason Taylor here. Listen, Salt, you're sacked. What do you mean, why? 'Cause you're a fat orgasm, that's why. Put me through to Ross Wilcox this instant! Ah, Wilcox? Jason Taylor. Listen, the vet'll be around later to put you out of our misery. Bye-bye, Scumbag. Been nasty knowing you.'

In my parents' creamy bedroom I sat at Mum's dressing table, spiked my hair with L'Oreal hair mousse, daubed an Adam Ant stripe across my face, and held her opal brooch over one eye. I looked through it at the sun for secret colours nobody's ever named.

Downstairs, a wafer of light from where the kitchen curtains didn't quite meet sliced through a gold Yale key and this note:Wow. My very own door key. Mum must've decided to leave it for me at the last minute this morning. Normally we hide a spare in a welly in the garage. I dashed upstairs and chose a keyring Uncle Brian gave me one time, of a rabbit in a black bow tie. I hung it on my belt-loop and slid down the banister. For breakfast I ate McVitie's Jamaican Ginger Cake and a cocktail of milk, Coke and Ovaltine. Not bad. Oh, better than not bad! Every single hour of today is a Black Magic chocolate, waiting in its box for me. I returned the kitchen radio from Radio 4 to Radio 1. That fab song with the dusty flute in it by Men At Work was on. Three Marks Spencer's French Fancies, I ate, straight out of the packet. Vs of long-distance birds crossed the sky. Mermaid clouds drifted over the glebe, over the cockerel tree, over the Malvern Hills. God, I ached to follow them.