Chapter 14: The Wrong Toilet

Henckel Fairlaw keeps licking his lips as he watches his unexpected catch, Cherry Croutier, walk in front of him, hands on her head, with her slim little waist and swollen, tempting bum cheeks framed by the shortest Orange skirt he’s ever seen. The bottom four to five inches of her cheeks jut down below the flared, bouncing cloth, while a tight pair of slender white knickers cuts those arse cheeks right and left. She’s small up top, but Fairlaw - as are so many of his counterparts - is a bum man, and the view has him close to drooling just to watch it.

“Straight ahead. Keep on.”

“Please,” she says, “I was only put into this accidentally! I didn’t even do anything wrong!”

“Who’s your teacher?”

“Mr Ford?”

Fairlaw says, “Huh. Ford? That Mrs Luckpine’s your assistant then?”

“She wasn’t there,” whines Croutier. “Mr Ford had sent her out for chalk!”

The girl has stopped. She has half turned around. Fairlaw asks, “What happened then?”

The girl, whose voice has risen since he’s caught her, squeaks, “Potapkiss was absent. Except she wasn’t. Mrs Luckpine knew, Shirelle was having her teeth done, Mrs Luckpine had her note to say she’d be late. But Mr Ford had sent her out for chalk!”

“He picked you because every class needs two orange girls, right?”

Croutier is urgently nodding.

“So come Monday, you might be back in - what - blue?”

“Yes. Please, I’m not supposed to be in this at all!”

“Dear oh dear,” says Fairlaw. “That’s a nasty stroke of luck. Keep on going.”

The girl turns her head forward and starts back up walking.

“So why you, Croutier? Why did Mr Ford pick you today?”

She shakes her head but the movement is limited by her interlaced fingers, which press against the crown of her bobbed auburn hair. This shines back close to red as it catches the sun. “I didn’t do anything,” she says.

“Why do you think he may have picked you? Even if you hadn’t done anything wrong?”

“I don’t know,” says the girl. “My name comes after Clitstrop’s?”

Fairlaw giggles. “Surely not?”

The girl squeaks, “Hollspath comes after Gull and he made her a yellow when Gull was absent.”

“Oh good lord,” says Fairlaw. “That is just so not fair. Stop. Turn tight.”

Croutier turns - then jerks to a halt.

“Go on, inside.”

“But -”

“I told you, in!”

“Please,” the girl begs.

Fairlaw nudges the girl in the small of her back. He’s pushing her inside the concrete walls of the mens’ outdoor urinal. This ugly, squat building backs onto the far end of the girls’ much bigger outdoor toilet block.

“Please, it’s just a mistake - a big mistake!”

He says, “Not if you’re in that skirt, it’s not.” He taps her twice, up between her bum cheeks with the tip of the cane he’s been swishing by his side.

The girl shudders, flinches.

“In!” he insists.

Then she’s through the breezeblock-edged gap in the concrete walled, stale-smelling mens’ urinal. She’s never seen inside a urinal before. Several long slabs of craquelure white porcelain stare back at her. There’s a man in there with his backs to them. She can see the stream of piss running down the white ceramic in a yellow, clinging wave. A squeak of fear leaves her throat.

“What the actual fuck?” The man has turned his thick head around. It’s the red-necked bloke who cuts the grass and trims the hedges. The groundsman. “Oh good god,” he says, shaking his hidden thing and buttoning his flies up. “Fu-kin-ell. The skirt on her! Fuck - my god...”

“You got a camera on you, Alid?” asks Fairlaw.

“Hang on,” says the man. He’s fishing in a leather tool kit slung around his chunky hips. “Hyur. When they made us carry these things, I never thought I’d use it!”

“Turn it on, eh? Maybe put it down low.”

“Not a hundred percent sure I knows how to do that.”

Fairlaw takes it from the groundsman, turns it on, taps in a code. Then announces to it, “Alid Borger’s camera, men’s urinals - allowed - subject Croutier, class twelve plus, brand-new in a super-flimsy orange skirt, new on today, temporary stand-in for an absent student.”

“She came back in, though!” says Croutier. “She was only at the dentist!”

“Fucking delicious, that,” says Borger. “You just caught her?”

“Brand new in it. First time out,” says Fairlaw.

“Good god. Mind if I let a couple of my crew in on this?”

The assistant teacher frowns. “She’s mine to go at first though,” he says.

“Fair enough! Just for the giggles! Since we can, like - you know. She’ll not do us in the knackers in here, like, will she?”

Fairlaw shrugs. “Not likely. Yeah alright.” He addresses the girl. “Hey Croutier, you know the rules, right? For orange?”

She’s shaking her head.

“All you have to do is - well - whatever I tell you.”

Borger is on his phone. He’s saying, “Mens’ bogs. Right! For a show! Yeah, one of the assistants ... Fucking gorgeous, no. Full-on. No messing.”

“Legs apart,” says Fairlaw.

“What?” The frightened girl’s voice is up in a squeak.

“Stand in the middle of the floor,” Fairlaw repeats, “with your legs wide apart. Keep your hands on your head. You heard me.”

“Please, that can’t be right,” says the girl.

“Right or wrong it’s there in the rules. Any pose we fancy. Whatever pose! So stand with your legs apart!”

She’s parted her feet by fifteen inches.

“Wider.”

“Please, that’s not-”

“Wider!”

She jerks her right foot wider.

“Far as I understand it,” says Borger, “if she won’t put herself in whatever pose you’re after, you can move her yourself. Or I can, like.”

Croutier squeaks and widens her feet till they’re out at full stretch.

“Hands on your ankles.”

“What?” The girl has squeaked this with a rising inflection heading up to the rafters.

“What?” Fairlaw imitates. “Go on, go right over.”

“Where you want this camera, lad?” the groundsman asks.

“Behind,” he says. “No, in front. Catch her face.”

“Right you are.”

“Prop it up a bit at the front. So it gets her.” He takes his own camera off and, using the strap to tip it, points it up at Croutier’s crotch from behind.

“Whey! Ooh, fuck.” Another man strides into the toilets. Cherry Croutier risks a backwards glance between her legs. It’s an assistant of the groundsman, dressed in green overalls which are covered in grass stains. “Fuck, that’s a good one, Alid,” he says.

“Think our young teacher friend is about to whack this lovely with his big fat cane,” says Borger. “You know that camera round your neck ... bet it’s never been turned on, has it?”

“Not for a view like this one,” says the lad.

“Tap it on, boy. Fore he starts.”

“Fuck, she’s lovely, her,” he says. “Alright, Miss? I’m Choller, I cut the grass, me! I’d shake your hand but you’ve got it round your ankle! You gonna cane her then?” the young man asks Fairlaw, flicking a floppy stack of straw-blond hair, which bounces as it touches a pair of red ear tops, exposed as they are by his shaved back and sides.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck. How many can you do this one with? By all o’ them rules?”

“Twelve,” says Fairlaw. “Well - twelve, that’s the recommended. Then at the end it says the word recommend is a non-binding recommendation. Conditions on the ground might vary. Further flexibility of action may be required. No wrist-slap if it goes over that - no need to inform the governors or whoever.”

Borger says, “Very open-minded, them governors, aren’t they?”

A fourth man now slouches into the urinal. He’s another wearing green overalls. He grunts and swears under his breath as Fairlaw saws his cane into Cherry Croutier’s curvy buttocks.

“We all ready, are we?” Fairlaw asks.

“Yur,” says Borger. “Alright, Moper? Got here quick enough, thought you was up at the fence up top.”

The third groundsman just grunts again and shrugs.

“Anway,” says Borger, “let’s see how she jumps!”

Fairlaw pulls his cane back, then feints in a stroke which does not land. The girl twitches her hips and whines, then swallows.

“All ready for this then, lads, are we?” Borger asks. “Not gonna be upset if our young friend here makes this silly bitch suffer?”

“No boss,” says the bright, fresh-faced Choller, “bring it on! Why’d you think I kept angling for this job off you down the pub last year, Alid?”

Henckel Fairlaw, twenty-five, 5’8”, black haired with a frown-line forehead and greasy skin, sweeps his long cane into Cherry Croutier’s bum. She gasps, then groans, then jerks her hands off her ankles and touches her sore bum.

“Here, she moved her hands! Think that one counts then?” Borger asks. “If you’ve only got twelve? More or less?”

“Made her touch her arse,” says Moper.

This is the first time the third groundsman has spoken. His voice is monotone, mid-range and nasally blocked. He’s staring intently at Croutier’s backside as Fairlaw rubs his cane hard against it, pushing the tights skin of her cheeks right then left. Then he feints once, twice. Croutier twitches so badly that Borger and Choller start up laughing. Then Fairlaw cracks his cane in again, harder than his first strike. Croutier squeals and stumbles her feet two small steps forward.

The bright lad, Choller, asks, “Has she got to keep her nick-nacks on?”

“Now there’s a question,” says the older Borger. “Mr teacher, has this hyur girl got to keep her nick-nacks on?”

“Nah,” he says, not one this old. And it’s assistant, not teacher, by the way. Here Croutier,” he says, addressing the girl, “you know how I said your job’s to do what ever you’re told?”

“Please...” she says.

“Please you want to take them off?”

“No!” she insists.

“Now that,” says Choller, “sounds a bit too excited. Sounded to me like she wants to take em off!”

“It don’t!” whines Croutier. “I didn’t sound like that!”

“Oh right, deffo,” says the gruff-voiced Borger. “Methinks the young lady protesteth too much! She’d deffo rather have em off!”

“Yep, sorry, Croutier,” Fairlaw says with a catch of a laugh. “Get your knickers off. Quick!”

Cherry Croutier hesitates. Her upside-down eyes flick and dart between the four leering men. Her hands come off her ankles, but then stay there close, twitching nervously.

“Go on, get em off,” says Borger in his deep, sing-song voice.

“Cause we can’t see your snatch yet,” says Choller with a giggle.

When she still doesn’t move, Henckel Fairlaw says, “For fuck’s sake, Croutier, get on with it!”

Borger adds, “After all, it’s only your cunt. Every tart’s got a cunt!”

Shocked into action by the cruel tone of their words, she’s doing it. Her hands are trembling, reaching for her hips. They’ve found the cloth. Then she starts to pull them down. Choller is holding his chest cam in one hand. He drops below her shoulders to catch her face. The knickers are only just at her knees when the third, lumpy groundsman darts a hand in and snatches them down as far as he can - given that her feet are so wide apart. Croutier stumbles her feet together and tries to step one foot out of the cloth. When she stumbles, shoe catching, nearly falling, Borger guffaws.

Choller joins in, giggling. “Give her a spank, Mopes matey,” he says.

The third groundsman doesn’t look at Fairlaw for permission, or Borger his boss. He turns back and smacks the girl’s left cheek several times with a pudgy hand before she’s got her knickers off her left foot. His wild-flailing hand proves none too accurate. One of his smack hits her right between her legs.

“Oh fuck Mapes, you touched her pussy!” says Choller. “You’ll get done for that!”

“Sorry, she moved.”

“Nah - only kidding. Mr teacher, whereabouts can we spank girls this old then?”

“Assistant. Er - I think spank is - well it wouldn’t matter in this case - anywhere below the neck, I think. Cane’s confined to between hips and knees.”

“Nah,” says Choller, genuinely shocked.

“No joke,” Borger growls. “Spank this one anywhere - she’s old enough. He can cane her any spot between her hips andher knees. That not right, Mr teacher?” He’s staring at Fairlaw.

“He’s not wrong,” Fairlaw says.

Choller’s voice is showing its excitement. “You mean like, if I spanked her - I could sort of spank her pussy?”

Cherry Croutier is quietly squealing. She hasn’t gone down into her former pose yet. Her knickers are still stuck around her left ankle. She’s half bent over, one hand to her mouth, and her legs have spasmed tightly together.

There’s a sudden loud clattering from the brick wall to one side. The roof to the concrete urinal black is butted against a much longer, brick-built girls’ toilet block.

“What the fuck was that?” hisses Borger.

The scene freezes. Cherry Croutier’s tight-pressed legs seem to shiver in the silence.

There are clunking footsteps approching from next door, then the bang of a door.

“Right. You two, out.” they hear clearly, bouncing in off the shared roof. It’s an older woman’s deep, angry voice. “Pair of dirty little envelope lickers!”

“Heard noises!” a girl’s voice says.

A cubicle door bangs again. More words come out clipped, then the same woman - Shrimp? - is loudly saying, “Forbidden! And the other with her legs wide? Where did you have her then, standing on a bog seat?”

“Fuuck,” says Choller. “They were listening in!”

“Not now though,” rumbles Borger, “whoever that was has been nicked, and good!”

Footsteps retreat, then disappear. And don’t come back.

Fairlaw, without warning, beats his cane into Cherry Croutier’s bum. “Get back down!” he orders. “Feet back wide!”

The girl reacts. She does exactly what he says, parting her legs, gripping her ankles. She’s even dropped her hips lower, relative to last time. As soon as she’s done it, he whacks her once again.

The young man, Choller, asks with a giggle, “Can we nick a quick spank of her pussy, Mr Teacher?” “We’ll only do it a few times each!”

Fairlaw is shaking his head to himself. Smiling. Laughing. “Yeah, go on,” he says. “Whatever. Just a few.”

And it’s Choller who darts in to take the reward. Placing his camera down on the ground, then turning to show his bright face to the others, he puts his left hand on the girl’s low hips, and the fingers of the other on the fleshy mound right by Croutier’s pussy. The girl’s hips and buttocks flinch. She whimpers.

“Ready?” he asks. Then Choller starts to spank her. His blond hair flops as he slowly smacks in two, three, four, meaty impacts. Her shocked face stares directly down at Choller’s camera, on the floor, at its red light blinking.

“Know what might be good,” says Borger in his deep, rounded voice, “is if she wasn’t down on the cobbles, like, but was more like, up here? On her back?” He’s pointing to a flat length of counter top, just to the right of a pair of grubby wash basins.

Fairlaw’s face shows a flicker of annoyance. She was his catch, not theirs. But there are three of them and just one of him. He shrugs. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Alid Borger is taking his thick jacket off. He lays it out flat on the counter top and doubles it up.

“What’s that for?” the rotund Moper asks his boss.

“Protect her back, like,” he says.

Choller says, “Oh aren’t you nice then, Alid? Dead thoughtful, that.”

Then Choller nods to Moper, and together - with Cherry Croutier tensing sharply and letting out a several high squeals and squeaks - the two younger groundsmen, mirroring each other, lift her between them up off the ground. Holding her by one arm and one leg each, they flip her over so her belly is up.

Borger says, “Well now here’s a picture! Catch that one on them cameras, right?”

The assistant teacher bumps his hand down on the work top. He’s suddenly worried this might get out of hand. “Up in here, quick,” he says.

“Go on, take one,” says Choller to Borger, ignoring the assistant.

Borger retrieves one of the blocky action cameras from the floor. “Can’t really see what it’s seeing,” he says.

“Just point the front bit at her fanny,” says Choller. “Mopes, pull her legs wider.”

As the girl squeals, the two green-clad lads pull her between them as their boss takes their portrait with the video camera. He says, “Give us a grin, girl!”

“Go on, smile!” insists the bright-faced Choller.

Cherry Croutier tries a tense smile. Then this stretches to terror as Choller and Moper swing her backward a short way, then forward at the camera.

“Give her a smack, Alid!” Choller laughs.

With the camera in one hand, Borger clips the girl’s pussy with a downward smack, just as her hips are furthest forward.

“On here. Please!” says the stressing assistant, patting to the right of the basins again. This time, the groundsmen carry Croutier over and plump her down on Borger’s coat. Her head is to the wall, her back is to the leather.

“Legs right over, I think,” says Borger.

“Like that Totally Gratuitous Schoolgirl number, right?” This comes from Choller. He pulls Croutier’s legs right up and back. He hooks her left knee in under her left shoulder, her right under her right. She still has her tiny orange skirt around her hips, but it covers precisely nothing of interest. Her skimpy top still covers her small breasts. And her knickers - still just about flopping around her left ankle - get pulled off and discarded on the grubby cobbled floor.

Fairlaw has now picked up the three other box cameras. He gets one hooked over a mirror top, just above the girl. Perches another on top of an opposite urinal. Places one to the side. Holds the fourth in his hand.

Croutier is now above the men’s belly height, naked at the crotch with her legs entirely split. Her generous little bum cheeks are projecting forward, her clean little bumhole is fully on display. And her faintly chunky pussy lips are already slightly parted. She has a thin fuzz of shiny auburn hair on her pudenda, which reaches to an inch above the top tip of her lips. The girl’s mouth hangs open, wide eyes flicker between them.

“Pretty little tartlet, isn’t she?” says Borger. He leans in first. He turns his head to Fairlaw. “Just a few, eh?” he says. “A few more to break the ice, right?”

Fairlaw has no choice. He shrugs. Then Borger cracks his big man’s fingers onto Cherry Croutier’s fleshy pudenda. The girl squeals a tight squeal, her mouth stretches to a wide grin of fear. Borger grins at his lads. Then does it again.

“How many can we spank her like that with?” Choller asks the assistant. “Is there like, a rule or something?”

Fairlaw says, “I don’t think spanking’s spelled out like that. Just says, limits on hand spanks no longer apply.”

The bright-faced young man gapes his maw. “What, even spanks to her pussy?”

Henckel Fairlaw shrugs. “All it says for her age girls is not to neck or head. And numbers of spanks is up to the spankers.”

Choller shoulders Borger out of the way. He places his hand right between the girl’s legs and stares at her face. “Sorry, luv,” he tells her. “It’s allowed though, right? And, like - sorry, but I want to!” He cracks a meaty smack down right between her legs. “Oh, that’s wicked!” he says, with his head turned to his mates, “I mean I fucked a couple girls, right? But I never got to spank them in their snatches!”

It turns into a free-for-all between the three groundsmen. They barge each other out of the way to get at Croutier’s reddening crotch, then get barged aside in turn. Crowding around, the three green-clad men hog her, with Fairlaw confined to playing cameraman. As the minutes wear on - it’s gone quiet outside, with most of the girls headed off to the refectory - they start smacking Cherry Croutier two at a time, boinging her bum cheeks from left and right at once to try and see how wide they can make her pussy pop. The third man freely spanks down on her pudenda. Choller picks her knickers off the floor, stretches them and tries to ping them at her pussy.

“If there’s no restriction on spanks,” Choller asks, “What about other things - dirtier bits?”

“Er...” Fairlaw is racking his brains for an answer.

“Means HPs,” says Borger.

“Evenings only,” Fairlaw says.

“Nah! You’re kidding, you don’t know nothing! You can give them out in like, five minute poppers!”

Fairlaw says, “Oh. Right, um, five minute H’s you mean? Like that?”

“S’right,” says Borger.

“Full teachers only,” Fairlaw insists. Liberal rules on punishments or not, he’s starting to get worried he’ll get pulled up for this. “Otherwise we can’t, till a teacher approves it.”

“For oranges, that one?”

“Sorry, yeah,” says Fairlaw.

Borger fishes inside the leather tool holder slung around his belt. He pulls out a well-thumbed copy of the governors’ new rules, riffles through it, then says. “Hyur! 7c-1. It is allowable for teachers or other staff to award a 5MH to any girl. During lessons, breaks, um - relative to skirt colour - reason logged and uploaded to the database. We can all of us give orange girls a spanking pretty much any time, right?” He reads on a moment, then says, “Aw, fuck, righto! Any other male staff member can award, like, any girl in orange a provisional 5MH. Award must be confirmed by a full teacher first though. You’re only an assistant, right? You said that twice.”

“Sorry, yes,” says Fairlaw.

“Hang on a minute though.” Borger starts thumbing through his phone. “Who was it said just call him and he’ll likely nod anything through? In the last Monday meeting?” He’s asking this of Choller.

“Don’t ask me, boss,” Choller says.

“Just a minute,” says Fairlaw, and pulls his own phone out. He finds a number and auto-dials it. In seconds, it’s picked up.

“Tund,” is the tinny response from the phone.

“Yeah. Hi. Henckel Fairlaw here. We’re trying to work out the limits on rules. Didn’t you pop your hand up at that meeting on Monday, when someone asked which teachers might approve an HP? Or a five MH?”

“Who’ve you got there?” Tund’s tinny voice asks over the speaker. “I can’t come over, I’m busy right now.”

“Oh yeah no problem. It’s a year twelve. Croutier. Brand new tiny orange skirt?”

There’s raucous laughter at the other end. “Like the skirt then, do you?”

“Tip top, Dunnel. Quite a show!”

“It was me put her in that,” Tund confirms. “Where’ve you got her?”

“Gents’ bogs. Outdoor ones. Me and three groundsmen.”

“Fuck,” hisses Tund. “Now that’s a wicked venue! What’s she done to make you think she needs an H?”

Fairlaw glances at the girl. “She’s probably wet.”

“Down below? How wet would you say?”

Borger growls, “Gleaming. Glistening. Half way to dripping.”

“Oh well based on that description.” Tund says, “definitely. I’d say you’ve got every right to give her an H. Or a 5MH. Or both. Up to you lot. Consider permission for one or both granted!”

“Right,” says Fairlaw.

“Brilliant!” says Borger. “Think we owe you one now, Tundy!”

“Yeah.” There’s a pause. “If you’re giving her an H, make it Saturday. Tomorrow? Bit of a party in the offing, remember?”

“Right. Course we will. Wilco and out.”

But the speaker phone sounds out one more time. “If it’s a 5MH now though,” says Tund, “make sure it’s just totally embarrassing for her!”

Fairlaw taps his phone off. If he was hoping to calm things down by calling Tund, the effect has been opposite. But it’s also given him some confidence back. He positions his a hand-held camera by the girl’s hips. Says, “Pull her bits apart for a sec, eh gents?”

Choller and Moper oblige between them, pulling cheeks and lips sideways with over-eager fingers. The girl’s lower lips part. Her bum gets stretched into the bargain. With a little sucking sound, her vagina opens up. Fairlaw moves his camera right in close to her pussy. “That’s wet in there, right?” he asks.

“Wet. Damp. Moist,” says Borger. “Proper squidgy, if you’re asking my opinion.

“Which you’d call suspected sexual arousal, right?”

“Suspected? No! I think it’s proper full-on girl-parts misconduct. Or something like that.”

The girl makes a little whimpery moan. She swallows, then says, “You’re all looking! I’m not!”

Fairlaw ignores her. “Arousal. Misconduct. Egregiosus whatever. She’s wet inside and that’s good to go.” He taps a code into the camera, then points it directly at the year twelve’s face. “Croutier, right?”

She nods a tiny, eyes-wide, out-of-depth nod.

“I’m Mr Fairlaw, assistant in Mr Beelar’s class nine plus, and I hereby award you a five minute H, with full teacher permission from Mr Dunnel Tund. Depending how you do, I might let you off after. Or I you might get another if you keep on getting wet. Or you don’t do what we tell you.”

“To the absolute fucking letter,” says Borger. “No ifs or buts on that score, right girl?”

“But,” says Fairlaw, “you know we’ve got permission from Mr Tund to award a full HP. For tomorrow. Saturday. So you better try and not get excited. and keep doing what we tell you. No if, buts or maybes.”

The girl, who’s been in overwhelm for most of the day, grips her upended ankles in tight-squeezing fists. When she swallows, her undercarriage seems to swallow too. “Please though,” she says, “I’m not trying to get wet! I don’t want to get wet!”

Borger growls, “It’s not the trying, its the doing that counts. Stick a finger in there and pull it back out. It’ll deffo be shiny.”

When the girl doesn’t move - surely the groundsman doesn’t mean it - Choller pulls her right hand off her ankle, makes her point her middle finger straight, twists her wrist and presses finger tip to opening. “Go on,” he says, “you heard what Mr Borger said.”

“Yurh, push the old dip-stick in the engine,” Borger rumbles.

The girl moves her pointing finger an inch further down. Then Choller presses her wrist like a plunger. The finger sinks in till it’s buried to the knuckle. Then Choller pulls her hand up and inverts it so her finger sticks up.

“Proper glistening wet,” he says. “See? Case closed.”

“But, please,” whines Croutier, “Please, I didn’t mean it!”

“Mean it or not, wet’s wet,” Borger says. “And you, you’re proper dripping! and you know what that says, girl? Whatever your bonce is trying to argue, your girlie parts say, you’re loving this!”

The Pack seems smaller this lunchtime. It was bigger first break, what with yellows and blues all gathered in too. Farthing had seen Cuckles staring from a distance. Staring at her, maybe Mercy as well.

It’s just those three at first, this break - just Farthing, Keet and Mercy Karp, and Mercy still won’t answer Farthing’s questions.

“Cuckles and Fimber, yesterday Merce. What did they give you?”

No answer. Just a face which looks slapped once that subject has been brought back up. A jaw that stays clamped, a stare that won’t meet Farthing’s.

Keet starts waving her hand towards the school. Farthing looks. Even Mercy looks up from her funk. There’s a year twelve girl in the shortest orange skirt that Farthing has ever seen anywhere. She’s standing by the edge of the playground near the school. Behind the girl is Mr Fairlaw. Keet knows him well, since Fairlaw is her own class assistant. She sees his eyes looking hungry when snorty Mr Beelar has at the year nines. And he’s staring at the back of this new-in-orange girl. Keet starts to sign for the older girl to come over to them, quick. The girl looks back, confused. Keet tries again with a more urgent hand call. The girl starts to lift her hands in a question, like she’s asking if she knows Keet. But then Fairlaw’s on to her from behind. He has her attention. Too late - now he’s caught her.

“Come on. Game’s over,” Keet says. “That bugger’s got her, whoever she is.”

She, Farthing and Mercy slip away into the crowd.

By the time Yarra catches up with them, they’re right near the back - at the highest point on school grounds, where the slope rises up to the big industrial bins - the scene of last Friday’s fight with the janitors. Minty Ploom from Keet’s class had joined them as well, but she’s the only other regular who’s located them since Fairlaw collared the new-in-orange year twelve girl.

Yarra, however, has a girl they don’t know with her. “This is Remi,” she says. “Misra Spinks didn’t show up today, so Donder had to pick another girl for orange.”

The four other girls stare at Remi Breech.

“It was sort of done fairly,” Breech says, with her voice rising into a question.

Yarra confirms this. “Coin toss lots, like Donder did to get me and Misra Spinks.”

“It must be gym class,” Keet says. “That’s why loads of girls are missing today.”

Yarra looks back down to the playground. “Where’s Carrel?” she asks. “Where’s Misty?”