Demolition

In the corner, a time bomb ticks, cunningly disguised as a small boy. I pick up the register. Most of my flock are into the routine now. They wish me a cheerful good morning. Tilly, as usual, says nothing, but at least she makes eye contact. When I reach Time Bomb’s name he throws a chewed rubber at me and barks like a manic dog.

‘Who is sitting nicely, ready to choose their first activity?’ I ask, in my brightest voice. The children sit up straight, arms folded, legs crossed, lips pressed together, faces turning red. Time Bomb lies on his back, kicking his legs in the air. I begin to send them off to their chosen areas.

Time Bomb crawls off the carpet and begins to peel the lettering off my Good Behaviour chart, rolling the scraps of paper into tiny pellets and flicking them from the palm of his hand. I kneel beside him and suggest that he might like to draw Mummy a picture. His eyes roll and he selects another noise from his repertoire.

He scurries away on all fours, coming to rest under the writing table. Colliding with its legs, he is showered with crayons. He chortles delightedly, recognising them as ammunition. He crams fragments of wax into his mouth until his cheeks bulge, then dances in front of me, arms dangling, taunting me, daring me to act. Then, suddenly, he loses interest, spits them out and treads them into the carpet. He takes up residence under the table again.

I wander over to the construction area. Four small boys are absorbed in building a fort from large wooden blocks. They have been doing it for days, leaving a note each night, pleading with the cleaner not to disturb it.

‘How are the builders getting on?’ I say. They are too busy to answer. They work in comfortable silence, their tongues handing out in concentration. For a moment, reminded of why I do this job, I relax and smile to myself.

This is my mistake. From nowhere, Time Bomb is there. He explodes. Arms and legs flailing, he sets about his demolition job. Blocks crash to the floor. One of them strikes Tom, hard, on the shoulder. All four boys cry out in indignation. All other activities grind to a halt as stunned children gawp at the destruction. Breathless, and satisfied with his work, Time Bomb grins. He attempts to make his escape.

Shaking with repressed anger, I stretch out my arm to intercept him as he flees. It collides with his face. His baby white milk teeth sink into the fleshy part of my hand and refuse to relinquish their grip. I shake my hand, as though caught in a trap, and almost lift him off his feet. He slumps, panting, to the floor. I stand over him, blood welling in my wound, not quite sure which of us has won.