The Last Murder at the end of the World

SIXTEEN

It’s dusk, and I’m ringing the bell for curfew.

Ben watches his new friends stop their game dead, turn their backs and walk away from him without any word of warning.

‘What’s happening?’ he asks, startled. ‘Where are you going?’

‘It’s curfew,’ I explain. ‘At 8:45 p.m., I put everybody to sleep, no matter where they are, or what they’re doing. I’ll wake you at dawn.’

‘Why?’

Children always ask this question. They’re more perceptive than adults. His curiosity will dim eventually. Adults are allergic to complication.

‘You need your rest,’ I say evasively.

They’re not the only ones. The villagers demand my attention and pepper me with thousands of questions every day. They have hurts they want soothed and insecurities they want alleviated. They are emotional sponges, constantly soaking up reassurance. They need all of me, and it’s exhausting. The curfew empties the island of their voices, bringing a sweet silence. Some days I find myself scrambling towards it with an unbecoming eagerness.

‘I’m not tired,’ grumbles Ben.

‘It won’t matter,’ I say.

‘What happens if I wake up?’ he asks.

‘You can’t.’

‘Not for anything?’

‘Not for anything,’ I reply, making it sound wonderful, despite the fact that three villagers have slept through fires that killed them.

Of the hundred and twenty-two people who live in the village, only eight haven’t immediately turned for their beds.

Clara’s searching the village for Hui, who’s managed to avoid her all afternoon, and is currently on her way to the silo, where Thea sleeps.

Seth is on the pier, preparing a boat to take Niema out to the lighthouse. Hephaestus is already inside, making a cup of tea for a young woman, who’s wrapped in a robe and peppering him with questions.

Adil is down on the lighthouse jetty, pacing back and forth, clutching his knife with a dreadful eagerness.

Shilpa and Abbas are in the farms to the east, trying to aid a distressed cow that’s giving birth.

Emory is treading water in the bay, schools of parrot fish whirlpooling around her legs. She’s thinking about Clara, who’d typically be with her. It’s a tradition of theirs to swim into the last sliver of daylight, and let it narrow around them as the sun melts across the ocean.

‘Curfew bell is ringing,’ I say, trying to nudge her back inside.

Emory’s replaying this afternoon’s events, wishing she’d acted differently. For three weeks, all she’s wanted is to swim with her daughter again, and hear her voice. She should have apologised at the cable-car station while she had the chance, rather than standing there, waiting to be apologised to.

‘There’s always tomorrow,’ I say.

‘Is she angry?’ asks Emory, swimming gracefully back to the pebbled bay, where the boats are moored.

‘More uncertain,’ I say. ‘But it won’t last. She loves you.’

Wringing out her hair, she stares through the gate into the empty exercise yard, watching the lights in the dorms being snuffed out one after another. It’s an apt metaphor for the lives that will be lost tonight, but I don’t mention that to her. She would only become upset.

She doesn’t understand that the village is a piece of machinery, every life one of its cog and gears. As long as it endures, so will humanity. People will die tonight, but they can be replaced. I’ve done it before.

The only thing that matters is the machine.