The Last Murder at the end of the World

FORTY-ONE

The school’s empty, filled with heat and dust. Normally, the children would be at their desks, but the decision is still being made on who’ll replace Niema.

Following her mother inside, Clara’s immediately pummelled by a choking sorrow. Niema’s last lesson is on the board, and she left a few sheets of homework in a folder, waiting to be marked. A mourning lantern is sitting on her desk, a candle flame guttering behind the green rice paper. There’s a small pot of glue beside it, the brush stuck to the desk. One of the children must have made it for her.

They adored her. Unlike Thea and Hephaestus, Niema welcomed questions. She enjoyed an argument, or a differing point of view. She was patient when you didn’t understand, and excited when you did. She was a good teacher, and Clara had felt grateful to her every time she walked into this room. She can’t believe she could be that woman during the day, then pop across to the infirmary to kill people at night. No villager would ever be capable of that. They treasure life above everything. Everybody else’s first. Their own second.

Emory’s staring at the mourning lantern, her brow furrowed.

‘What you thinking, Mum?’

‘The candle’s almost burned down,’ she says. ‘This was made last night.’

‘Is that important?’

‘It’s getting increasingly hard to tell,’ she says, taking the laminated map off the wall, then placing it flat on one of the children’s desks, her hands planted either side of it.

‘Hephaestus knows about the experiments his mother was running. He’s not going to talk to us, but if we can work out where’s he been living, we can search it. Maybe we’ll find something useful.’

‘How are we going to do that? Hephaestus could be living anywhere on the island.’

‘Not anywhere. I used to see him leaving the village when I went for a swim in the evening. He always went west out of the gate.’

Her finger jabs the location of the village, then drifts along a narrow trail winding down to a small bay.

‘There’s some sort of building down there,’ says Clara, noticing a symbol of crossed swords over a rectangular block. ‘Could that be it?’

‘It has to be, there’s nothing else out there. How far is the walk, Abi?’ asks Emory.

‘Thirty minutes,’ I say.

‘How long would it take us to go by boat?’

‘Who’s rowing?’ interrupts Clara.

‘What does that mean?’ demands Emory.

‘You know what it means,’ says Clara archly. ‘You’re absolutely terrible in boats. You’ll row in circles for about an hour, realise you’ve forgotten to raise the anchor, then drop the oars in the water when you try. What did Dad call you?’

‘The sea leopard,’ replies Emory, smiling at the memory. ‘Graceful absolutely everywhere except the ocean.’

‘I’ll row,’ decides Clara. ‘I’ve still got my exemption from Thea. It should only take us ten to fifteen minutes, depending on the currents.’

Under half an hour later, they’re passing through the sea wall into the open water, Clara propelling them forward with graceful strokes. She learned to row from her father, who was always at sea. Even as a little boy, he was never settled in the village. He wanted to explore ancient ruins, and go on adventures with Thea. After becoming an apprentice, he would take any assignment that sent him beyond the walls.

It’s always been a source of wonder to Emory that Clara and Jack ended up having so much in common. He died when she was twelve, and, even before that, he was rarely home. How did Jack pass his restlessness onto his daughter? Was it a virus communicated in longing glances at the horizon, or disappointed sighs while he was peeling yet another potato? What did he teach Clara, and when was he doing it?

‘You’re thinking about Dad, aren’t you?’ Clara says, noticing her mother’s expression.

‘How did you know?’

‘There’s a look you get, like you’ve remembered something you want to tell him when he gets home.’

Emory smiles, wistfully. ‘I’d have thought I’d stop missing him by now, but …’ She trails off, shrugging. ‘I must think about him ten times a day. If he was here, right now, I’d tell him everything we’ve done and he’d say something that was just …’ She shakes her head, laughing. ‘Stupid. Honestly, so stupid, but it would help make things clear.’

‘I miss him, too,’ says Clara. ‘Can you imagine how much fun he’d be having racing around the island?’

‘Can you imagine the facts!’ declares Emory, making Clara laugh. ‘He’d be pointing out every animal he saw, and telling us their Latin names, and migratory patterns.’

‘He really loved a fact, didn’t he?’

‘Couldn’t get enough,’ replies Emory, delighted to recall this forgotten habit of her husband’s. ‘I think that’s why he loved being an apprentice so much.’

‘How did you … I mean, you’re not exactly … ?’

‘How did a sceptic like me fall in love with a true believer?’ asks Emory, as Clara struggles to guide them through a strong current.

‘Your father was an apprentice, but he was also kind and loving, carefree and silly. His faith in the elders was only a fraction of his personality. He wasn’t like my dad. It didn’t shove out everything else he was. He understood that I had my questions, but he admired that about me. We loved each other, which made it easy to live with each other’s doubts.’

‘If you could do that for him, why couldn’t you do it for me when I became an apprentice?’ asks Clara, in a small voice.

For years, the best she could hope for from her relationship with Emory was uneasy quiet. After she started making decisions about her own life, it felt like her mother washed her hands of her. There seemed no middle ground they could exist on, so they tiptoed around each other being excruciatingly polite, and entirely superficial, for fear of bumping into any topic that would start an argument.

But today they’ve felt like a team. Emory has listened to her, and trusted her, and depended on her.

And she, in turn, has seen every flaw in her mother turned to a strength. Clara’s never been so proud of her. She can’t believe they may only have less than two days left together.

Emory’s quiet for so long that Clara almost apologises for upsetting her, but when she speaks again her words are laden with emotion.

‘I should have,’ admits Emory. ‘I wanted to, I was just so … angry.’

She swallows, trying to hold herself together. Her head’s lowered, and she’s fidgeting with her fingers.

‘Jack and the others died because they wouldn’t question Thea. They went into that storm because she told them to, even knowing it could be dangerous. But the more I pointed that out, the more isolated I became. Truthfully, I think I liked that because it kept me angry, and while I was angry I could concentrate on something that wasn’t being said.’

She meets her daughter’s gaze, seeing her at every age, right back to the eight-year-old girl Thea brought down in the cable car. Emory and Clara have the same eyes. The same reckless courage. The same big heart, so easy to hurt.

‘After you applied for the trials, it felt like … like you’d sided with Thea, and with the village. And, then I was angry with you.’

‘That’s not what I intended, Mum.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Emory, her anger causing Clara to flinch. ‘It was my job to support you, whatever you did. I hated you working for Thea, but I should have told you I was proud of you for getting there. I really was, Clara. I saw how hard you studied.’

Emory hangs her head.

‘I let you down,’ she says, fidgeting with her fingers. ‘The way my father let me down. I didn’t realise you could stay with somebody and still abandon them, but that’s what I did. I’m so sorry, my love. It won’t happen again.’

Clara hurls herself across the boat, hugging her mother fiercely.