The white bike went down, skidding out. The rider got it back up fast, but the passenger was thrown. He had to walk back to his seat. The red bike was in position by then, engine revving. The red bike’s rider shouted something in a derisive tone. He wore a white helmet with flames up the middle, like a mohawk haircut. The white bike squealed around in a rubber-burning doughnut and got back in position. Then they did it again.

This time the mohawk helmet guy went down. Passengers were taking a beating. After a while they got tired of it. The white bike did a full screaming circle of the basketball court and rocketed out. The entrance was facing me. The bike braked hard at the footpath and peeled off away from Les Brosses. I saw that the red bike was getting set to do the same. So I moved.

I stepped across to the footpath just as the bike was revving to leave the court, moving towards the entrance, blocking the way. The rider opened up the throttle and lurched forward, keeping a tight rein on the gearbox. I stayed put. They could go through me. But they’d need to be prepared for pain. They couldn’t see my face because of the hood and the lighting. The bike approached slowly in fits and starts. The modified motor had an unpleasant sound, a little too frantic and anxious. I figured these guys would be the same. Frantic and anxious. When the bike got close I put my hands out and approached.

“Can I ask you a question?” This wasn’t acknowledged. So I asked again, “I just have a little question for you. I’m looking for a friend of mine with a broken wrist.” I mimed a broken wrist. “He’s probably got a bandage on. Very short hair with stripes on the side. It happened today. Do you know him?”

I couldn’t make out the faces behind their helmet masks. It was dark. The trail bike made an aggressive high idling sound. There was a minute of frozen time. I figured the rider was trying to calculate, gauging if knocking me over was going to be worth it. Anyway, my goal was to provoke them and if these guys knew the rat-face with the broken wrist, he’d find out about it.

I stepped back and gave them an exit. The rider snapped it into first and hit the throttle. As they passed me, I locked eyes with the rider sitting in the back with the flaming mohawk helmet. We looked at each other for a split second, but it was enough. The guy’s eyes were bright blue, rimmed with dark lashes, like a male model. It was the ponytail guy from earlier. The rat-faced guy’s buddy who I’d put down. But it was too late to grab him.