The hoon car was almost on me. Through its tinted windows, I saw someone wrenching at the steering wheel, struggling to keep it straight. A last strip of rubber arced sideways into the fence. The whole vehicle slewed to the right, straight towards where I stood.

Next second, I was in mid-air, body looping over the top rail, stick in front of me, a pole-vaulter at some mad Survival Olympics. I’d never made a jump like this before. I could never do it again. I came thudding down on hands and knees in the rough grass beyond the rails, head twisted around to gape behind me.

The fleeing black car slammed into the side of the bridge, right where I’d been standing. Its doors buckled. The bonnet and boot crumpled and sprang up. Crashing and tearing sounds filled the air. I heard myself yell out. The car splintered its way along the timber side of the bridge for ten metres, bounced back into the middle of the deck, and was still.

I began to stand, then ducked as something else flashed into the corner of my eye. The police car, lights still flashing, siren cut off suddenly.

The front doors of the wreck flew open, window glass cascading and crunching from them. Two figures fought their way out onto the deck. One had dreadlocks; the other was shaven-skulled. They snatched a look at the cop car as it skidded to a stop. The shaven-headed guy yelled something that would have Mum grounding me for a week if I’d said it. Then he sprinted away along the bridge towards the far end. The smashed car half-blocked the deck behind him.

The one with dreads stared around. I could see his face twitching. Next second, he leaped for the broken railings that I’d high-jumped a couple of moments before, right above where I now crouched.

Blue uniforms were jumping from every door of the cop car. Voices shouted ‘Stop! Police!’ Hey, it was just like TV! Two of them — one was a woman, I saw — pushed past the wreck, and pounded off along the deck after Skinhead. Two others headed for the rails over which Dreads was clawing his way.

He threw himself down heavily, clumsily, landed on all fours just a metre from where I was hunched. For half a second, he didn’t seem to see me. I made a gasping sound, and suddenly he was staring right at me, eyes slitted, face twisted. He’d hurt me if he had to; I knew it. He wouldn’t hesitate. I shrank back.

The guy sprang up, started turning to leap down the track towards the riverbed. Above us, the cops were struggling over the rails (they weren’t Olympic jumpers like me), still yelling ‘Stop!’