Dreadlocks sneered, set himself to run. Even as he did so, anger rushed through me. Who did this guy think he was? How dare he invade and spoil this place that was so special, so precious to me and all my family?

My body flung itself forward. I swung the stick at him, smacked him across the back of one leg. It wasn’t much of a blow, but it shoved him off-balance. He lurched sideways, yanking the stick out of my grasp, and half-fell, clutching at the grass.

He was up again instantly, snarling. He mouthed another word that would have had me grounded for a year if I’d said it, and chucked himself at me. I huddled into a ball.

He never touched me. Never reached me. The cops were there. One tackled him around the waist; the other grabbed his arms, had them up behind his back and the handcuffs on so fast that my mouth went into its flopping-open act again. Up above, I heard a distant screech and skid, as something happened at the far end of the bridge. More voices yelled. Hey, wasn’t that—

Dreadlocks was struggling, glaring and swearing at me. But one cop grunted ‘Don’t be stupid, Zac. We’ve got you’, and he sort of slumped suddenly. The second cop, a chunky, fair-haired guy, was looking at me, and at my stick where it lay on the path down to the riverbed. He nodded. ‘Thanks, mate. Looks like we owe you.’

The two of them turned Dreads around, pointed him towards the railings. ‘Up you go, Zac. No silly business.’ The guy said nothing. All the aggro seemed to have drained out of him.

‘They went straight through the road spikes and kept going,’ the first cop told me, as we started climbing back onto the road. ‘Stupid fools. Could have hit somebody.’

Yeah, me — like they almost had. But it was Aunt Maggie I found myself thinking of.

We were back on the bridge. My body shook; my breathing felt heavy, but I was OK. Both cops had a firm hold of Dreadlocks now, and that made me feel more OK.

A few metres away, the smashed black car almost blocked the deck. Its hot engine ticked and hissed in the sunny morning. Bags of green plants spilled from the sprung boot. Hey, wasn’t that—? Yeah, must be. I felt angry again. Growing that stuff in our valley!

I saw something else, too. At the far end of the bridge, Marama’s rural delivery van stood, angled across the road, its doors open so there was no way past. The shaven-headed guy lay spread-eagled across its bonnet, while the other cops, the guy and the woman, clamped handcuffs on him, too. Marama was halfway out the driver’s door, watching them. While beside the front passenger’s door, holding it firm and watching me, stood Melody.