"It doesn't sound all that bad, really." Toby kicked his heels against the grimy stone of the canal wall, peering down at his reflection in the sluggish water. Not much to look at: a limp tangle of unkempt black hair hanging around a thin, pallid face. Black eyes, circled under with unhealthy grey-blue shadows. Mouth turned down - in thought, rather than discontent, but still giving a faintly sulky air. Big nose, too big he thought, putting a hand over it and eyeing his mirror-self appraisingly. Deciding that it wasn't much of an improvement, he dropped his hand and instead tugged at a tuft of dry grass, teasing out individual strands and twisting them deftly in abstracted knots and braids. "I can think of worse ways to go. Did you mean to do it?"

He was silent for a moment, his head cocked attentively, then nodded. "I s'pose so. It'd be scary, though. When did y-" There was a commotion further up the tow-path and Toby scrambled to his feet, snatching up his satchel and pulling the strap across his shoulder, apprehension drawing his lips into a tight, thin line that seemed far too old for a boy of eight. Wasting no time, he darted down the overgrown path to where a greenish wooden beam protruded from a rusting pivot, jumping a clump of summer-sprung nettles, and ran sure-footedly across the narrow ledge of the lock gate, careful not to step on a grey-green patch of spreading lichen that had, once before, sent him skidding into the dank murk below. That had been months ago, but time hadn't faded the memory of water closing over his head, all sound reduced suddenly to the dull, hasty thud of his own heartbeat and water chiming in his ears.

He shivered, in spite of the lazy afternoon heat, and glanced up the parched embankment, plotting a course that would lead him between a loose sprawl of barbed wire someone had tossed over the edge earlier that year, and a flourishing patch of brambles that he and the local birds had been watching carefully for the first hint of autumn fruit. The thought of hypothetical blackberry jam wasn't enough to lift his spirits, though; two older boys had rounded the corner, squabbling half-heartedly, and he froze, caught between a desire to run and an equally strong urge to hide. Maybe if he stayed still, they wouldn't see...

"Oi, Beaky! Didn't anyone tell you school finished a month ago?" Toby clutched his satchel to himself and stared at them miserably, saying nothing. Sooner or later, they'd get bored. One of the newcomers drew inexpertly on a cigarette, coughed, and flicked the glowing end towards the dry grass where the younger boy stood. A twist of breeze stirred the canal, batting the ember down into the water, where it winked out with a brief hiss.

"He's prob'ly so used to sitting on his own he didn't notice there wasn't anyone else there," the smoker suggested, grinning. The other laughed uproariously, as if this was the single most hilarious thing he'd ever heard. "Is that right, Beaky? You been sitting up there waiting for someone to teach you something?" By tacit agreement, both of the older boys began to move towards the lock gate.

Toby backed away, feeling the slope steepen beneath his feet, not quite daring to take his eyes off the two boys as they approached, hoping against hope that they didn't know about the slippery patch and might end up in the water while he made good his escape. No such luck. They weren't quite as nimble as he had been, but they stepped easily over the dangerous spot and jumped to the bank.

"What's in the bag, then?" Saying nothing, he held the satchel even more tightly to his chest, his arms wrapped around the scuffed leather, and took another cautious step up the embankment. "Come on, give it us. What are you hiding, you -"

"I can't." It was barely more than a whisper, and the older boys glanced at one another. Toby wasn't looking at them - his words were addressed to an empty patch of air some five feet to his right. "It took me all morning to find -"

"Who're you talking to, Beaky? We're over here." And 'here' was getting uncomfortably close. The smoker nudged his companion, a malevolent delight dancing in his eyes. "Look, Gord - he's got an imaginary friend. Awwww sweet. Won't anyone else play with you, you little freak?"

Toby bridled, a sudden surge of anger twisting his mouth into a snarl. Good. Angry's good. If you're angry they can't make you cry. And even though he suspected that they would, eventually, he latched onto the anger and held it up in front of him, like a shield.

"She's not imaginary! She's a ghost. You're just... too stupid to see her..." This did not have the effect that he was hoping for. The boys stared at him, open-mouthed, then both erupted into laughter. Smoker recovered first, his speech punctuated with hitches and snorts of deep amusement.

"You what? Ohhh, that's even better. Beaky's got a make-believe girlfriend. " Gord spread his hands in a don't blame me sort of gesture.

"A dead make-believe girlfriend. Told you he was mental. Him and his creepy mum -"

That did it - Toby shoved the satchel round behind him and hurled himself at the stocky boy, no finesse in his method, quite content to kick, punch, gouge or bite until he was either victorious or exhausted. Unsurprisingly, the latter came first. Initially shocked, Gord found himself the focus of a small, savage whirlwind, sustaining several bloody furrows from the smaller boy's ragged nails before he realised that he could simply hold him at arm's length and wait for him to run out of steam. He did so, gripping Toby's shoulder tightly through an unravelling brown jumper clearly meant for a much older boy, the hem somewhere around his knees. There were bones beneath the faded wool, bird-like and fragile, and one hard squeeze took the last of the fight out of the boy.

"Here, Gord, he cut you!" Gord put his free hand to his bleeding cheek, not taking his eyes off his would-be attacker, just in case he rallied for a second attempt. "You're going to need that seeing to. He could've given you something."

"Oh, you little bastard."

Toby gritted his teeth, stifling a whimper as he was shaken roughly, his shoulder aflame. "Don't you ever talk about my mum. Ever!" Too late, he realised that Smoker was behind him, yanking at the strap of his satchel.

"Or what, you'll set your girlfriend on us?" The leather, aged and brittle, resisted a moment longer, then parted wearily, depositing the bag on the grass. Toby tried to twist out of his captor's grip with a cry of hurt and frustration that rang clearly in the still summer air. A cloud crossed the sun, and a cold breeze briefly whipped the heat-scorched grass of the embankment.

"What's he got in there? Tez said he caught him with a jar of dead beetles last week." Gord tightened his grip as Toby struggled frantically, clawing at his wrist.

"It's not yours! Give it back!" Toby kicked out and, finding that he still couldn't reach, turned his head and sank his teeth as hard as he could into the back of the stocky boy's hand, which gained him his freedom but earned him a brisk, backhanded slap that knocked him to the floor. Tears were unavoidable now; he fought them as best he could, and scrambled for the satchel, scuffing his sleeve across his face to clear his blurring vision.

As he reached for the trailing leather strap, it was whipped away, his fingertips barely grazing the end. Smoker had pulled the buckle undone and thrust the open satchel towards his friend, his voice dripping with amused scorn.

"Look at this... Pick these for your loony mum, did you, Beaky?" This time, the gust of air that swept along the canalside was icy, tugging angrily at their clothes and blowing the grass flat. "You know what? I think we should chuck 'em in the cut. And then I reckon' we should -"

Toby didn't hear what the older boy suggested. His heart was pounding a furious rhythm against his ribs, and his vision was filled with a glaring, hard-edged glitter that had nothing to do with the tears that rolled treacherously down his hot face; he squeezed his eyes shut, but that seemed to make no difference. He was too tired to fight any more, and simply knelt where he was, hugging himself tightly, and waited for what came next.

What came next was a moment of breathless silence, and then a vicious CRACK, followed almost immediately by twin howls so eerily close in pitch that they might have issued from a single throat. After a minute, Toby risked opening his eyes, still huddled against the expectation of a kick, and saw his satchel lying nearby. He couldn't pay much attention to it, though, because it was impossible to ignore the cries of pain coming from further up the bank.

The larger boy, Gord, had somehow landed amidst the bramble patch, and while Toby mourned the contamination of the year's upcoming crop of blackberries, he was inwardly delighted to see that the thorns had found their way to every patch of exposed skin, leaving delicate tattoos of blood that smeared brightly with every movement. Smoker had not got off so lightly, having found his way into the barbed wire. Of the two, he was bleeding rather more severely, his struggles serving only to press several of the twisted metal prongs into his flesh.

How they had come to be there, however, was a mystery.

Gathering up his bag, Toby stared for a minute longer, storing the scene away with a feeling of sick exultation. Serves you right. Except... such satisfaction as he could gain from the sight was marred by a fear that had nothing to do with the threat the older boys had posed. It twisted through him - he clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a moan of realisation. It had happened again, hadn't it? Like when I fell in the canal. There had been the feeling of his heart drumming, rapid and untethered, then brightness, and he had found himself on the canal bank with water vapour billowing from his clothes in clouds, the scent of the water dank and sour. He could accept the idea that he had somehow clawed his way onto the tow-path, too shocked and scared to remember exactly what had happened. But then his clothes had dried themselves, and that - that, he couldn't explain away.

The sound of the boys painful attempts to extricate themselves from their prickly prisons forced its way into his awareness, and he blinked and rubbed his face, suddenly wanting nothing other than to be away from here. Home. I want to go home. He turned, and there was a horrible, uncertain second when the world lurched around him, and he could almost see the house in front of him. It was the final straw - without another thought of the embankment, he ran.

Rosemary watched him go, absently combing canal water from her hair with colourless fingers. Strange little creature. She gave a melancholy sigh, then brightened up as she contemplated which of the trapped boys to torment first.

                                                                ***

Even without using the bank as a shortcut, it only took five minutes to reach the loved, hated, familiar gate to the back yard of Number 23, Spinner's End. Toby slowed to a walk as he approached, trying to get his breath back and brushing the worst of the tow-path dust from his clothes. There was a thin pall of smoke visible over the fence, and Toby gazed up at it for as long as it took for his heart to resume a more normal rhythm, letting his eyes rest on the drifting haze.

As he put his hand on the latch, he heard a slight, sharp inhalation and quickly called "it's just me, Mum," before pushing the gate open. The back yard was a small affair and the high fence cast a broad strip of shadow over the cracked concrete, but the sun fell full on the house itself, and the brickwork was barely visible behind tumultuous greenery. Criss-crossing lengths of twine had been fixed to the wall, tied round long iron nails, and baskets dangled from curling brackets. Leaves sprouted forth in profusions of dark and glossy green, pale and slender, round, powdery leaves the size of sequins. Delicate tendrils spiralled avidly around supporting cords or dangled expectantly in every empty space.

Toby slipped into the yard and pushed the gate back until the latch caught, then slid the heavy bolt into place. Even with the acrid smoke dissolving slowly above him, the air smelled green, and he breathed the healing scent appreciatively, trying to ignore the smoke that his mother was sighing between barely parted lips. Her chair - a squat and graceless thing, bleached grey by the elements - was pushed back to the wall so that it was almost embedded in the greenery. Toby regarded it with a hint of reverence - the chair was a sanctuary. When the arguments grew to loud to ignore, even with his hands over his ears, and it was too dark to escape to the allotments, or to the faintly eerie seclusion of the canal, he would make the chair his own, pulling the cascades of greenery around himself and be an explorer, and the noises he heard were jungle animals. Just tigers - nothing to be afraid of.

"What have you been up to? Come here, love - your nose is bleeding and you're covered in dust. Have you been fighting?" Toby shook his head, mutely, considering it only to be a lie if he actually said the word aloud. He put his hand to his upper lip and felt a trickle of blood there.

He changed the subject quickly. "I got everything - there's not much yarrow, but  I found some water-plantain." He dug through the bag and brandished his findings proudly, a trickle of mud creeping slowly up his arm. "It all got a bit mixed up. Sorry."

"You have been fighting. Look at your bag!" And the disappointment in her voice cut him harder than any of the boys' taunts, and his resolution to dismiss the whole event crumbled as he tried to explain.

"They tried to take it, and... Rosemary said to give it them, but you never get plantain this far down the cut, and they were going to throw it all away, and..."

She held out a handkerchief that she had produced from the pocket of her dress, and Toby gingerly cleaned the trickle of blood from his face. "They? I don't care if it was a solid gold sunflower, love - if someone was giving you trouble, you should have run straight home to me and let me deal with them."

Toby looked down at the broken strap. "But Dad says -" he hesitated, looking for a way to voice his protest that wouldn't sound critical, and settled for muttering "I'm not a coward."

"Never you mind your father." She took the bag from him and set it down beside her chair, then gently brushed the hair out of his eyes so that she could look at him properly. "You went down to the canal, didn't you? You know I don't like you going down there."

"But -"

"It's not safe. You can't swim, and the sides are too steep to climb easily. People have drowned in there, you know..."

"I know! I met -"

"Severus."

He looked up, startled. It was their code, the name she used when she wanted to tell him something secret, or to invite him to do the same. Things not to be talked about in front of his dad, like the owl that would sometimes come and perch on the privy roof, or the times when she would send him to his room before going out, although he never seemed to hear the door close behind her. Or her smoking, of course. Toby liked it no better than his father, not that he would ever have said so. He liked the name, though. It sounded as if it came from far away, and he often wished himself to that exotic place, away from greyness and shabby austerity, overlooked by the disapproving sentinel of the mill's single great chimney.

One day, she said, she'd explain where it had come from.

One day, Toby thought, when I'm older, I'm going to use it all the time. I'll have my own house, and I'll make things with herbs, like Mum. And there'll be no more secrets.