I was stretched out like a cat and just as silent.

Our little camp site was bathed in moonlight. We were on a bit of spare ground between two factories. The remains of our camp fire smouldering in the still summer air. It wasn't long after midnight, the unholy hour when trouble always brews. The air was still warm after a scorching hot day, and now there was a smell of thunder in the air. But the only things disturbing the silence of the night were a couple of flitting shadows, and the sound of two people breathing as quietly as possible.

"You got the spray paint?" whispered one.

"I've got more than that!" came the reply.

One shadow moved and then the other, silently surveying the site. Then the two shapes retreated under the old conker tree growing out of the tarmac by the entrance to the car park.

There was a small pop, like a cork being pulled from an already-opened bottle of wine, and then a potent scent blossomed in the air.

Petrol. It smelt like hatred.

"Jesus Christ, Clunk!" said the first whisperer, the one who thought he was here to do another paint job on the trailer. "Are you mad?"

Yes, I'd say he was mad. Anyone with a nickname like Clunk couldn't have much up top.

"We warned 'em," said Clunk, in a whisper that turned my spine to ice. "And they didn't move." He spat on the ground. "Anyway, that cocky kid needs teaching a lesson."

Me, presumably.

"I've seen him strutting round acting tough," said Clunk, and spat again.

The spray paint had obviously just been a warning. Now Clunk, who must have been watching our peaceful little camp, was going to stage two. Or so he thought.

"I'm out of here!" said his friend, but I saw Clunk grab him by his hooded top.

"Stay where you are, kid. You're in this now whether you want it or not."

They were close together now. It couldn't have been more perfect. I rolled from the conker tree's branch and dropped on them like an avenging angel.

"Sorry, didn't ruin anything, did I?" I said, but for the moment they weren't listening. They were on the floor, winded and trying to clear their heads. The bottle of petrol flew through the air and landed on the smouldering camp fire. With a soft whump it burst into flames, illuminating the arena for me.

By the flickering light of the flames I had a split second to decide who to tackle first, the leader or the follower. The one who's the boss and calling the shots can be dangerous, but a follower can be just as bad. Some people will become saints if they follow a good man, but will outdo the devil if they hitch up with a bad guy.

The one in the hooded sweatshirt was the first to get groggily to his feet, so I made my decision. I left Clunk, who was still winded on the ground, and squared up to meet Hoodie.

Funnily enough, without his friend he didn't seem to want to square up to me.

"OK, this is all a mistake!" he said, and I could hear the fear in his voice. I think he hadn't recovered from the shock of seeing Clunk brandish a Molotov cocktail followed by me appearing from nowhere.

"Ssh! Keep your voice down!" I whispered, bouncing backwards. "We don't want the gavvers, do we?"

"The what?" he mumbled, stumbling towards me. But I moved further back again. I don't think he'd got all his wits yet, because he hadn't worked out I was trying to edge him further away from the trailers.

"Gavvers, police, cops, it's all the same," I said, still moving lightly on my toes away from him. To tell you the truth, it was my sister's baby I didn't want him disturbing. Jeez, if that little terror woke up, he'd squawk the place down. Then my sister'd come out and she'd probably do more damage to Hoodie than me, because Little Frisco could cry for England when woken up.

I was still dancing back, keeping out of his way, when he got his courage back and lunged forward, punching me on the shoulder. I think he'd got the impression that I couldn't fight back, that I was retreating out of fear. He didn't know that to me the art of fighting is not fighting until you really have to. On good days I believe this is because underneath it all I'm honourable. But on bad days I think it's because, maybe, I won't know how to stop.

He'd got his hood pulled up well up over his head so's I couldn't see his face, couldn't read his thoughts, which is important in a fight. But he was a trier, I'll give him that. Here he was now, getting into a fancy karate position and ghost walking towards me.

Ghost walking, God help him! I could almost hear the ghost of old Hercules saying, "What the devil is he doing that for? Just kick him in the vulnerables and be done with all this fancy nonsense!"

But I didn't do that. I just bounced back a bit more, and let him expend more of his energy.

"Scared to face me, eh?" he said, breaking into my thoughts. And he punched me hard on the jaw. Which just goes to show, never start thinking deeply in the middle of a fight. In fact, don't think at all, just go with your reptile brain, like old Hercules recommended. So I did. For the first time I put my fists up and I fixed him in my sight.