Lifeless - 5 by Mark Billingham Page A

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 col ar 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. 'Wel turn him over then.' Palmer shook his head. Nicklin stopped giggling as the mynah bird let out a shril 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 cover!ng 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 bel y.
    Nicklin moved round and knelt down next to Palmer at Bardsley's feet. 'Pul 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 pul . 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 smel shit as wel ...' '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'l ever get to shag, you spastic...'
    Palmer turned the pistol over and over in his hand. Nicklin looked up at him, smiling, making