The Last Murder at the end of the World

TWENTY

Clara startles awake, roused by the cries of alarm echoing through the barracks.

She looks across the room, expecting to see Hui leaping out of bed, but her friend didn’t come back to the dorm last night. Instead, her beloved violin is lying on the mattress, the neck broken and the body shattered; a few stubborn strings the only thing holding it together. The violin was a family heirloom, passed down to Hui from some distant relative. It’s the only one in the village, and Hui’s fiercely protective of it. Something dreadful must have happened for it to end up in this state. Clara’s about to ask for an explanation, when Magdalene appears at the door.

‘Niema’s dead,’ she says, through her tears. ‘Your mother found her body in a burning warehouse. It looks like the ceiling collapsed on her.’

The sentences are so shocking that Clara immediately thinks she’s misheard. The elders don’t age, and they don’t fall sick. For some reason, Clara assumed they were immune to accidents, as well.

Her head swimming, she tugs on a pair of shorts and a loose shirt, realising that there are five numbers written on her right wrist. She must have put them there last night, but she can’t remember doing it.

Unable to make sense of them, she steps into her sandals, then runs out into the heat after Magdalene. By the time she arrives in the rear yard, the warehouse is smouldering in the driving rain and a dozen villagers are dragging the ancient, much-patched hosepipe out of storage. There’s a fire hydrant built into the wall of the abandoned infirmary, which pumps water up from the ocean.

Emory carried Niema’s body out of the warehouse a few minutes ago, placing it reverentially on the cable-car station steps. A few of the villagers are weeping nearby, but Emory’s kneeling by the body, coolly poking her finger through a bloody tear in Niema’s dress.

‘Mum,’ says Clara, laying a hand on her mother’s shoulder.

Emory glances up at her. The ash coating her face is being streaked by rain, revealing the olive skin beneath. Her eyes are red with tears and hollowed out by grief, but there’s a sparkle in them. She has a question, thinks Clara.

‘You okay?’ she asks softly.

‘Something’s wrong with all of this,’ says Emory, widening the hole in the dress to reveal a deep wound in the centre of Niema’s chest.

Her curiosity reeks of disrespect, and Clara can already hear the murmurs of disapproval buzzing in the air.

‘Come on,’ says Clara, trying to tug her away. ‘We should get you cleaned up.’

Wood groans, then shrieks. A crash comes from the warehouse, followed by a belch of dust rolling out of the door and lower windows. It’s followed a few seconds later by three distinct wet thuds.

Emory exchanges a horrified glance with Clara. The noise was too soft to be wood or brick, and the same awful suspicion has entered both of their minds.

Staggering back into the smoke, they finds the bodies of three villagers lying on a pile of rubble. The floor above must have collapsed, bringing them down with it.

Glancing upwards, Clara sees arms and legs dangling over the edge of the hole.

‘How many more are there?’ asks Emory, shell-shocked.

‘Too many,’ I admit.