Every playtime the Marauders gathered by the remedial unit where the special needs kids were allowed to stay in from the cold. They pulled their hoods up over their heads, made rude gestures in at the windows and dreamt up gang war stunts and commando attacks. They had fifteen minutes before they had to impersonate small boys again.
The raid on the girls’ toilets had long been tabled but had been shelved while smoking experiments and the acquisition of survival knives through bribed elder brothers had been plotted, saved for and fallen through. The girls’ toilet now lay before them like a fat coastal town waiting supinely for pillage.
The plan was simple. Reaching maximum assault velocity across the playground, they would crash through the toilet, pushing open the cubicle doors and jeering at the squatters and exit by the door at the end. Kev would go first followed by Darren, Gary and Simon. Gary and Simon would see most but would be more vulnerable to capture and retribution. In forty seconds they’d all be back to base.
Kev hit the door like an SAS siege-breaker and tore through, smashing in doors. He was moving too fast to look but would have seen nothing anyway until cubicle four where Mrs Conway, caught short on playground duty, was perching precariously over the infant’s toilet bowl. Darren, slipstreaming in Kev’s trajectory, caught only a fleeting glimpse of blue lace knickers stretched across fat knees but Gary made eye contact and froze in terror. Simon careened into him and together, like rabbits in the headlights, they stared at Mrs Conway’s private parts until her outraged bellow spurred them to escape.
They regrouped shaking by the remedial unit and longed to join the mingers inside. A grown-up reckoning awaited them after break. They had seen too much
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