Needing by Sarah Masters

pressure.
    A huge sigh filled Oliver’s mind, then—
    “Yes, he’s been given that stuff I found out about. Been experimented on. He’s like a super-human. Great strength. His eyes were okay until he…”
    Another sigh.
    “Mustn’t think about the death, only him. Just think about him and what he’s like. Yes… He had a woman’s wig on. Some kind of mask or makeup. So he knows. Oh, yes, he knows he’s doing wrong—otherwise, he wouldn’t wear a disguise, right? He knows right from wrong, I know that. Yes, he was brought up right.”
    “You’re doing well, Mark. Keep going.”
    Langham squeezed past Oliver and went to sit at the top of the stairs but changed his mind after staring down at the carpet. It was probably bloodied.
    “I ripped his wig off when he… I ripped it off because he shouldn’t be wearing that. Didn’t suit him. Never wore one before. Pulled out some of his real hair. Saw that on TV once. They said if you were attacked to try and rip out some hair, scratch skin so it went under your nails, give the police something to go on. I did that. I was right, wasn’t I? Right to do that? Even though it was him… Maybe I shouldn’t have tried ratting him out like that.”
    “Yes, Mark. Excellent. You did good. So where are you?”
    “I’m here with you.”
    “No, where is your body?”
    “He took me out of here. Put me in a van.”
    “Think about the van. What colour is it?”
    “Um, yeah, think. It was red. Dark red. Small van, like a car without back seats. You know the kind I mean? He’s had it a while. Remember when he showed it to me before…”
    “Go on.”
    “He took me to this field. Muttered something about some bitch being dumped up the way a bit. I didn’t know who he meant, but I’m guessing I wasn’t his first. Didn’t think he’d come for me. Not him. Thought he was someone else—never thought he’d be like that.”
    “Who? It’s like you know him.”
    Silence.
    “Was there a river nearby, Mark?”
    “Yes. I’m… My body’s on a bend of the river. It’s… I’m half in the water, half out. Like, my hands are in the water.”
    “Fuck.”
    “What? What did I say wrong?”
    “Nothing. It’s fine. Keep going.” Oliver thought of the water doing its damage, possibly taking away those hairs, that skin beneath Mark’s nails. The killer knew exactly what Mark had been up to.
    “He said, ‘There. A little bit of sweetness for you.’ Then he sprinkled some of those things on me. You know the kind I mean?”
    “No. What things.”
    “Those things you get on cakes. Sprinkles over icing.”
    “Sugar strands?”
    “Yes, that’s it. He said Grandmother used to pour them into his mouth when he’d been bad. Said they filled his mouth so he had trouble breathing. And she wouldn’t let him spit them out. He had to sit there until they melted. He said he wouldn’t make me eat them, just sprinkled them on me so everyone would know I’d been bad. But he’s lying. She never did that. And he told me it was ironic the medication was in the same form. Like those strands were haunting him.”
    “How do you know he’s lying? And you, bad? You didn’t do anything wrong, Mark, except to try and make this right.”
    “I did. I poked into something I shouldn’t have. Found out what they were doing. I’d been in his room before that woman at work showed me the notes. He’ll come for you next because he knows you know. You and him over there. Be careful. He comes quietly—he’s right there before you even know it. With those eyes. And he slices and cuts, stabs and chases you around until you can’t get away anymore. Until… Mustn’t think about the death. Have to concentrate only on him…”
    Mark’s breathing intensified, alerting Oliver to his panic returning.
    “Well done, Mark. Now, think about that van. Did you catch any of the licence plate? Anything about it that might help us?”
    “No. But I know where he lives. I know him.”
    “You do?”