The Last Murder at the end of the World

FORTY-TWO

The bay rears up in front of them, a small sandy beach fenced in by craggy cliffs, hundreds of birds circling overhead.

Clara leaps nimbly out of the boat, then pulls it a few feet out of the lapping water. From this vantage, the bay appears completely sealed off from the rest of the island, but there are sixteen cows lying on their sides, their ears flicking madly as flies buzz around their heads. They’re fat and healthy, and clearly not trapped on this beach.

‘Where was the bunker?’ asks Clara, massaging her palms. The oars have worn the skin away, leaving them raw and painful.

‘We need to follow the curve of the bay to the right.’

The sand slides from under their feet as they stagger up the beach, disturbing a cast of crabs feasting on a dead turtle. The crabs scuttle out of their way, snapping and chattering, only to re-form immediately when they’ve passed.

‘Those injuries to your palms are similar to the ones Thea woke up with,’ says Emory. ‘I think she took a boat out somewhere last night.’

‘The elders don’t row,’ scoffs Clara. ‘Not ever. Grandfather takes them everywhere they want to go.’

‘Maybe he was busy last night.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I have no idea, but I’m telling you, Thea rowed somewhere. And she must have been doing it for a long while to leave her palms like that.’

They arrive at the bunker, which juts out slightly from the rock face, its angular concrete surface covered in graffiti. On the exterior the colours are faded, the names and declarations of love scrubbed away by the saltwater being thrown up by the waves. Stairs have been cut out of the rock, leading to an iron door, eaten away by rust. It’s loose on its hinges, the bottom scraping the ground as they push it open.

It’s dark inside, miserable and damp, the only light coming through three slitted windows with sight lines across the ocean. There are puddles on the floor and a fine haze of sea spray in the air that immediately settles on Emory’s arms.

‘Who’d choose to live somewhere like this?’ she wonders, walking over to a folding metal table, which has been placed under the centre-most window. It’s covered in charts and stacked books, curled up at the edges with damp.

Clara’s peering through a second door, leading into a smaller room. Metal shelves have been knocked over, hundreds of salvaged machinery parts scattered across the floor. A huge chunk of concrete has been dislodged from the wall.

Clara wrinkles her nose in disgust.

There’s no sunlight back here. No fresh air. Damp drips from the ceiling into dirty puddles, and it stinks of rust, oil and sweat.

‘What are we looking for?’ she asks, throwing a glance at her mother.

‘A confession would be nice,’ replies Emory, as she leafs through the books on the table. ‘Preferably in big letters with a signature.’

The books are classics for the most part, Moby-Dick and Tennyson. Greek myths. A Bible. Hercule Poirot and Sherlock Holmes. Sammy Pipps and Arent Hayes. Hephaestus appears to love murder mysteries as much as she does.

‘What’s this?’ murmurs Emory, removing a crushed memory gem from under a sheet of paper, its black circuitry visible through the cracks in the case.

She’s never seen one damaged before.

Before I can warn her about the effects, she touches it to her temple, the jumbled fragments of a life flying by much too quickly to discern. Normally, there’d be sound, thoughts and emotions, but everything’s silent, the scenes flying at her without context.

She sees the old world, crowds, applause, awards. There’s a street, people staring at her, clamouring for her attention. Their faces are all completely different from one another. Their clothes are unique, their hair arranged a thousand ways, their faces painted, their bodies adorned and impaled with decoration.

She’s flying through a beautiful city made of glass and steel, then talking to Hephaestus as a boy.

A mirror appears, with a younger Niema looking back at her.

She’s a little girl, playing with a strange dog with multicoloured fur.

Then the pier outside the village. The bay is full of huge boats, big as cities. People are walking towards them, every face grief-stricken and slightly smug.

It’s a life out of order, and the jumble’s making Emory nauseous.

Niema’s running on a machine. She’s staring at a screen, choosing the features of her new child. She’s shouting at somebody, who looks terrified. She’s being swept up into her father’s arms, holding a little trophy.

She’s in a bright lab, strapping an older woman to a chair who’s talking brightly, happily. Unconcerned. The clock puts the time at 9:14 p.m.

She sees corridors, and equipment. Jack with his eyes closed.

She’s cradling a baby.

Glowing insects in a tube. Boys playing. Her parents. The village, surrounded by smiling faces.

They’re back in the bright lab. Thea’s screaming into Niema’s face, gesticulating, her face contorted by murderous rage. The memories stop, which is lucky for Emory as she’s about to throw up.

Clara catches her before she falls. ‘What did you see?’

‘Niema,’ says Emory. ‘Abi must have pulled the memories just before she died, but it’s a jumble.’

She goes to the door, sucking in the sea air, until the room stops spinning.

A few moments later, Clara joins her, having used the gem herself with equally upsetting results. ‘Did you get to the end?’ she asks.

‘Thea argued with Niema,’ says Emory. ‘She was furious.’

‘We don’t know when it happened. The memories were jumbled.’

‘Niema was wearing the same clothes she died in, and her hair was done the same way,’ points out Emory. ‘Do you know where they were? I didn’t recognise it.’

‘No,’ says Clara, after thinking about it. ‘I haven’t seen anything on the island that looks that new. Do you think Thea’s responsible?’

‘I’m not sure, but she must have been one of the last people to see her alive. Mind you, Hephaestus has the gem, which puts him near the body. Come on then, let’s finish searching this place before he gets back.’

Emory heads back into the machine room, while Clara rummages half-heartedly through the papers on the desk. She pulls open a drawer, causing a sharp knife to come sliding forward. It has a crude wooden handle wrapped in cord.

Clara’s breath catches in her throat.

She takes it out slowly, turning it around in her hands.

‘Mum,’ she calls out.

‘Yeah,’ replies Emory, from the other room.

‘I’ve found Dad’s knife,’ Clara says hollowly.

Emory arrives at her side, staring at it, dumbstruck. She saw this knife every day for a decade. She remembers the shape of the handle, and that odd chip in the blade that he could never buff out.

He left with it when he went on expedition. He would have been carrying it when he drowned.