The Last Murder at the end of the World

TWENTY-TWO

Rojas lays the last body on the cable-car station steps, before backing away in numb disbelief.

After a thorough search of the warehouse, they found three more people inside, bringing the total number of dead to seven. They have been placed in a neat row, where their families can mourn them. They’re clinging to each other and sobbing, begging to know what happened.

‘Niema and the others were trying to put the fire out,’ I say. ‘Niema was crushed, and the others died of smoke inhalation. It was a dreadful accident.’

It’s a plausible enough story, and they accept it without question. After all, it’s impossible to live in the village without losing somebody to accident, or illness. Tools shatter. Fires start. Roofs collapse. It wasn’t that long ago that Thea lost five apprentices in a boat wreck, including Emory’s husband.

Moving among the crowd, Clara is trying to comfort people as best she can, while examining the faces of the dead. She knew them vaguely, but they sat at the other end of the communal tables – far enough away to be friendly without necessarily being friends.

She sweeps her gaze across the yard, looking for her mother whom she lost in the confusion.

‘She went back into the warehouse,’ I tell her.

Clara stares at the building, which is currently being doused by a hose so powerful it requires six villagers to keep it under control. We drill fire emergencies every month, and they’re expertly beating back the flames, huge plumes of dirty smoke pouring out of the windows.

‘There’s two hundred bar of pressure in those hoses,’ she says incredulously. ‘If one of them hits her, it’s going to blast her through the wall.’

‘I pointed that out.’

‘And?’

‘She said she’d duck.’

Clara scans the windows, searching for any sign of Emory, but there’s no obvious movement inside.

‘What’s she doing?’

‘Being Emory,’ I reply.

More villagers are arriving in the rear yard, drawn by news of the tragedy. Watching them arrive, Clara realises they’re all hurt in some way. There are cuts and scratches, gouges, scrapes, nicks, black eyes and bruised limbs. Some are hunched over, cradling broken ribs, wincing as they breathe. The extent of the injuries worries Clara, who’s yet to see Hui. If her friend isn’t in bed, she’s normally wherever the commotion is, but there’s no sign of her.

‘Where is she?’ she asks, remembering the smashed violin she found in their dorm.

‘Hui is no longer connected to my mitochondrial network,’ I admit.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I can’t hear her thoughts or see through her eyes.’

Clara stares at the bodies, a sick feeling rising in the pit of her stomach. ‘Does that mean she’s –’

‘Not necessarily,’ I interject.

‘I don’t understand … how does … if she’s …’ Her thoughts are all arriving at once, like ten people trying to squeeze through a narrow door.

‘Where’s Thea?’ she asks, at last.