Terry sat stiffly on the chair, in the centre of the large room. He knew they would be arriving shortly; and knew, too, that their imminent arrival could not be avoided. The joyless anticipation caused no obvious outward signs of stress; but deep within he could feel knots forming in anything long enough to twist.

The interminable waiting was agony. No point dismissing it as unbearable - a useless adjective always linked to events such as these, that had to be borne whether bearable or not. He was not yet reduced to tears - and confident that he could not be - but torture was not always physical.

The few he awaited revelled in cruelty; bringing down the weak with gay abandon, as though it was more of a calling than a mere pastime. They were ruthless and devoid of pity, even amongst their own. Particularly amongst their own.

He had come to learn through observation that they viewed others with wary suspicion. Only when the first glimmer of weakness was revealed did they harden and react. Even then, it was a slow and steady process of exerting their strength. When fear was sensed, only then were their true colours revealed.

It wasn't cowardice. If he had any respect for them at all it was for their total lack of fear. They were fearless to the point of stupidity; as though they truly believed they were invulnerable. He imagined they knew nothing of pain until they felt it. If the burning match failed to sear their fingers they would continue playing with it no matter how close the flame came.

But it wasn't stupidity, either. Almost an innocent belief in their own safety. And who would ever hurt them? Some, it was true; but few. Could he hurt them?

It was too stupid a question to answer. Even if the circumstances allowed him, he was not of that nature. And they were.

They were due at any moment. He would hear them racing one another down the cold barren corridors of this God-forsaken building. Laughing, joking, as though his destruction was of no consequence. And of what consequence was it to them? He could be so easily replaced... and replaced... and replaced. One day, him. One day, a new guy. Either way, the same sport.

And then the door handle turned suddenly downwards, to signify the very moment of dread. There was a cruel delay - no more than he had come to expect in his hours of confinement here - before the door itself swung open.

The one he had chosen to think of as Mr Blue entered slowly and stood before him.

They stared at one another cautiously for a moment, before Mr Blue purposefully sat down, cross-legged, on the floor directly in front of Terry. He carried, as usual, his precious gun - instantly recognisable due to its astonishing colour. Whoever had thought of making a gun in a so bright a shade of royal blue clearly showed as much flare and imagination as the one who had chosen to buy such an object.

Mr Blue tapped it idly as it rested in his lap. He had a habit of pointing it directly at his victims and shouting 'BANG!' If the victim failed to crumple instantly to the floor, all hell was apt to break loose. Mr Blue's gun never missed its target.

The others filed in directly behind him, of course. Mr Green, with his filofax, behind which he often appeared to shelter, but never used. Terry had caught occasional glimpses of the open pages, apparently filled with childish cartoon stickers and the unintelligible doodles of one with a complete inability to draw.

Mr White, who chose to sit directly on the floor behind Mr Blue, despite the vast space around them, held a new toy. A weapon, certainly, but one not typical of those to be seen in traditional movies. Terry wondered what wound it was expected to inflict. Would Mr White's victims drop instantly to the floor?

Mr Pink was different. Not least because she was the only female among them. He should have dubbed her Miss Pink, perhaps, but in his mind his chosen names helped to lend a certain unreality to the situation.

Mr Pink was not the leader, because they appeared to see no one as a leader. But she was most certainly the one they looked to for ideas, for answers, for general support. She would follow along with their games, if she so desired; but would call an instant halt if she did not. If Mr Pink didn't play along, no one did.

It was Mr Pink who now broke the trend of dropping, cross-legged, to the ground. Instead she stood before him, staring inscrutably, and thrust a book at his chest. He instinctively shied away before it could make sharp physical contact; but then took it from her and slowly turned it over in his hands. A book of traditional fairy tales. The Brothers Grimm; who were indeed.

'You want me to read this?' he asked, never surprised by any of their actions.

Mr Pink simply nodded; and sat down.

He cleared his throat and flicked to the first page.

When finally it was all over, the knots within that had unwound without notice now formed once more in a strange form of relief. He felt an urge to let out a thankful sigh, but was too tense for any such thing. It was over, once more, for an all too brief while. They were still filing out through the door, but soon he would hear their running feet echo into silence down the corridor.

Mr Blue turned suddenly to face him and raised his gun. But then merely smiled and lowered it once more. Mr Pink turned, too. But she did not follow Mr Blue out. Instead she smiled - a genuine smile of friendship which brought a sudden lump to Terry's throat, despite himself.

'Thank you, Mr Carter.'

He was moved, though he couldn't explain why.

'You're welcome,' he said simply; and watched her leave.

When the footsteps had disappeared and he was left alone in the silence once more, he rose stiffly from the chair that had for so long held him prisoner. He stretched and rubbed his head, and straightened his hair, and pulled down the hem of his jumper. Then he stepped out himself into the depressingly bland corridor.

The blank magnolia walls were broken only by oppressive dark wooden doors periodically spaced; and it was into the first of these entrances that he sought sanctuary. He entered with the sigh that had for so long evaded him, and sat at last among his own kind.

'Morning, Terry.'

'Hello, Terry.'

'How'd it go, then?'

Someone handed him a cup of fresh coffee.

'Senior Infants again, was it, Terry? Those little buggers can be absolute hell. Reservoir Sprogs, we call them!' She offered him a chocolate digestive. 'Substitute teachers, eh? Who'd be one.'