Mark Billingham - Scaredy cat

And Charlie Garner looked up at him then, his eyes wide and keen, the bright orange screwdriver clutched tightly in his small fist.

'My mummy's asleep.'

In spite of all the horrors to come, the bodies both fresh and long dead, this would be the image, simple and stark, that would be there long after this case was finished, whenever Thorne closed his eyes. The face of a child.

It's been over a week now, Karen, and it's still on the television. I've stopped watching now, in case something comes on and catches me unawares when I'm unprepared for it. I knew that it would be on the news, you know, when they found her, but I thought it would die down… I thought it would stop, after a day or two. There always seems to be people dying in one way or another, so I didn't think that it would be news for very long. They've got some sort of witness they said. Whoever it was must have seen me because they know how tall I am. I know I should be worried, Karen, but I'm not. Part of me wishes they'd seen me up close. Seen my face. A police officer on the television said it was brutal. 'This brutal killing: He said I was brutal and I really tried so hard not to be. You believe that don't you, Karen? I didn't hit her or anything. I tried to make it quick and painless. I don't really expect them to say anything else though. Why should they? They don't know me…

The other one, the one in south London, I can barely bring myself to think about that. It was horrible. Yes, that was brutal. The scratches are fading, but a couple of people at work noticed and it gave them something else to use against me. Not as if they needed any more ammunition. It was all nudges and giggles and, 'I bet she was a right goer' or, 'did she make a lot of noise?' You know, variations on that theme. I just smiled and blushed, same as I always do.

Oh my God, Karen, if they only knew.

Sometimes I think that perhaps I should just tell them everything. That way it would all be over, because someone would go to the police and I could just sit and wait for them to come and get me. Plus, it might at least make some of them think about me a bit differently. Find someone else to belittle. It would wipe a few smiles off a few faces wouldn't it? It would make them stop. Yes, I'd like them to step back and start to sweat a little. I'd like them to be scared of me.

But I'm the one that's scared, Karen, you know that. It's the way it's always been hasn't it? That's why I can't ever tell them. Why I can't ever share this with anyone except you.

Why I'm praying, praying, praying that Ruth will be the last one.

1984

They caught Bardsley just outside the school gates. He had a few mates with him but they took one look at Nicklin, at his face, and melted away into the background. Some of them were fifth-formers at least a year older than he was, and it excited him to watch them scuttle away like the spineless wankers he knew they were. The two of them were on Bardsley in a second. Palmer stood in front of him, solid, red-faced and shaking. Nicklin grabbed the strap of his sports bag and together they dragged him towards the bushes. The park ran right alongside the main entrance to the school. A lot of the boys cut across it on the way to school and back, and the sixth formers would hang around with their opposite numbers from the neighbouring girls' school. It wasn't a nice park; a tatty bowling green, an attempt at an aviary and a floating population of surly kids – smoking, groping or eating chips.

Palmer and Nicklin pushed Bardsley towards the bushes that bordered the bird cages. He grabbed on to the wire of the nearest cage. It housed a moulting mynah bird which, in spite of the best efforts of every kid in school, resolutely refused to swear, producing nothing but an ear-splitting wolf-whistle every few minutes. Bardsley began to kick out wildly. Palmer clung on to the collar of his blazer, which was already starting to tear, and shuffled his legs back, out of the range of the boy's flailing Doc Martens. Nicklin stepped in closer and, oblivious to the pain in his shin as he was repeatedly booted, punched Bardsley hard in the face. Bardsley's hands moved from the wire to his face as blood began to gush from his nose. Smiling, Nicklin pushed him on to his knees, rammed a knee into his neck and pressed him down into the dirt.

After a nod from Nicklin, Palmer dropped on to Bardsley's chest and sat there for a few moments, breathing heavily, his face the colour of a Bramley apple.

Bardsley took his hand away from his face and glared up at the younger boy. There was blood on his teeth. 'You're fucking dead, Palmer.'

Palmer's face grew even redder as his big hands reached forward to grab greasy handfuls of Bardsley's dirty blond hair. 'What did you say about Karen?'

'Who the fuck's Karen?'

Nicklin was standing behind Bardsley's head, his back against a tree, his hands in his pockets, his foot pressed against the scalp of the boy on the ground. He pushed his tongue in behind his bottom teeth, opened his mouth and slowly let a thick, globular string of spit drop down on to the bloody face below. Bardsley flinched and squeezed his eyes tight shut. When he opened them again he was staring up at the pistol in Nicklin's hand.

Palmer and Bardsley moaned at almost the same time. Bardsley in terror at the sight of the pistol, and Palmer in disgust as the groin of the boy beneath him quickly began to grow damp.

'Shit… he's pissed himself? Palmer jumped up and pointed down at the dark, spreading stain on Bardsley's grey trousers. Nicklin giggled. 'Well turn him over then.' Palmer shook his head. Nicklin stopped giggling as the mynah bird let out a shrill whistle from the cage behind him. 'Fucking turn him over…'

Palmer stepped forward nervously. Bardsley glowered at him as he tried with some difficulty to scramble to his feet, one hand wiping away blood and spit and dirt, the other covering his groin. His voice was thick with rage and the effort of holding back tears, 'Dead… fucking dead…' But the fight had gone out of him and Palmer was easily able to yank him over on to his belly. Nicklin moved round and knelt down next to Palmer at Bardsley's feet. 'Pull his pants down.'

Bardsley began trying to drag himself away until Nicklin leaned forward and pressed the pistol into his neck. Bardsley froze and dropped back into the dirt.

'Right, grab that side…' Nicklin took hold of Bardsley's waistband and began to pull. He looked at Palmer, who, after a second or two, did the same, and moments later, Bardsley's trousers and pants were around his ankles.

'He's got fucking blue pants on…'

'Stu, that's enough, isn't it?'

'Pissed his pants like a girl. I can smell shit as well…'

'Stuart…'

Nicklin handed Palmer the pistol. 'Stick this up his arse.'

At these words Bardsley was predictably energised, and his buttocks pumped rapidly up and down in his frantic attempts to get away. Palmer took a step back, staring at the ground, but Nicklin leaned in close to Bardsley, laughing. 'Go on Bardsley, you bummer, shag it. Shag the ground you fucking perv… only thing you'll ever get to shag, you spastic…'

Palmer turned the pistol over and over in his hand. Nicklin looked up at him, smiling, making certain that Palmer was reassured by the smile before letting it slowly dissolve. Looking serious. Concerned. Shaking his head.

'He said he was going to do stuff to Karen, Martin.'

Bardsley tried for the last time to tell them that he didn't have a fucking clue who Karen was, but the words were lost as he dissolved into sobs.

Nicklin lowered his voice and spoke slowly. Things he didn't want to tell his friend; things he had to tell him. 'Dirty stuff, Mart. He called her names.' Palmer wrapped his fat fist around the butt of the pistol and dropped down slowly, his knees heavy on the back of Bardsley's calves. 'Said you'd done things to her… touched her tits.' Palmer pushed the barrel into the soft, pale flesh of Bardsley's buttocks and held it there. Bardsley whimpered.