The Last Murder at the end of the World

FORTY-THREE

They’ve almost reached the village, and the evening sky is ribboned by purple and pink streaks. A storm is blowing over the volcano, the wind whipping their hair, while the first drops of rain lash their faces.

Emory’s oblivious to the worsening weather, and the world at large. She’s sat in the back of the boat, in communion with the knife held in her upturned hands.

Clara’s watching her mother with concern, while trying to ignore the discomfort of the oars rubbing against her raw palms. Emory’s the brashest personality in the village, full of noise and movement, like a skipping stone on a flat sea. Seeing her climb inside herself is unsettling.

‘What are you thinking about?’ asks Clara tentatively.

‘Absolutely nothing,’ says Emory, in a dead voice. ‘And that’s a problem with the fog this close.’

Clara stares past her mother at the horizon. Her entire life the fog’s been a smudge in the distance, a wall around their world, but it’s near enough now that she can see the insects floating inside, their golden glow scattered across the surface of the water.

It’s beautiful, she thinks, shuddering. Do they know what they’re doing? Will they enjoy it?

‘No,’ I say. ‘They’re attracted to the radiation that bodies naturally emit. They’re like me. They were created to do a job. Nobody was interested in them having feelings about it.’

Clara rows their boat onto the beach, the keel scraping up the pebbles. Emory leaps out before it’s settled, almost running towards the gate.

‘Where’s she going?’ asks Clara, alarmed.

‘To confront Hephaestus.’

‘Is that a good idea?’

‘No.’

‘Have you told her that?’

‘Of course I’ve told her that. We need her, Clara. We need her for everything that’s coming, but if this meeting proceeds naturally, she’ll be seriously hurt. Do your best to keep her calm. I’m working another angle.’

Passing through the gate, Clara wades straight into silence.

The communal tables are packed, but everybody’s sunken within themselves, picking at their food. Parents have their children on their laps, while couples hold hands, and friends sit shoulder to shoulder, trying to seal up any spaces where their fear could grow. This is supposed to be a funeral. They should be singing and dancing, and reminiscing. This almost feels disrespectful to the dead.

‘They don’t think we can be saved, do they?’ says Clara, pityingly.

‘Do you?’ I ask.

Clara watches her mother striding towards the lane, almost seeing her for the first time. Under that great mass of hair, she’s smaller than nearly everybody, narrow across the shoulders, with thin arms and legs.

And yet her size doesn’t even occur to Clara when she thinks about her. Her entire life, Emory’s been the biggest personality in every room she’s entered. Where most people were meek and subservient, she was always fearless, forthright and full of energy, like a hornet’s nest that spills questions into the air when struck. She doesn’t stop, and she’s relentless when she thinks she’s right.

But what’s that ever got her?

That’s the niggling doubt in Clara’s thoughts. Under her mother’s bed are more than a dozen notebooks filled with questions. Barely any of them were ever answered. Why should this one be any different?

Clara follows her mother towards the lane, under the twinkling lights of the mourning lanterns, which have been strung between the two wings of the barracks. They needed four ropes to hold the lanterns dedicated to the dead villagers, and nine for Niema’s. The discrepancy makes Clara’s blood boil.

The villagers led kind, selfless lives. Nearly everything they did helped make this place better for other people.

By contrast, Niema ordered the memory wipe that killed them. She experimented on the bodies in the infirmary, and now the fog is closing around the island, because she couldn’t bear to leave anything behind once she was gone.

Niema doesn’t deserve to have more lanterns than the villagers. She doesn’t deserve to have any, at all.

Four steps take Emory and Clara into the lab, where Thea is bent low over the contraption they pulled out of the ocean. She’s using a pair of tweezers to pluck an object from between two bent struts.

Hephaestus is on the floor, his back to the wall, fiddling with the memory extractor like a kid with a new toy. He’s humming a half-forgotten tune that Thea’s obviously enjoying, because her head’s swaying slightly in time.

‘Why do you have Jack’s knife?’ demands Emory, marching towards him. He looks up blankly, putting the memory extractor to one side.

Thea pauses in her work, her eyes flicking between them.

‘Why were you going through my things?’ he asks, in a low, dangerous rumble.

‘This knife was on my husband when he drowned,’ continues Emory, ignoring his question.

Hephaestus rises up in front of her like a vengeful deity. His eyes have the same glitter of madness in them that doomed the vulture in the yard.

Clara desperately tries to pull Emory back. Normally, her mother’s good at adapting to the shifting winds of people’s emotions, but not when there’s a question she wants answered.

‘I found the knife on the beach,’ says Hephaestus.

‘It’s not rusty, and the wooden handle isn’t swollen,’ argues Emory, shaking herself free of Clara’s grasp. ‘This hasn’t been anywhere near the water.’

Emory’s staring up at him angrily, her head barely reaching his chest.

It’s not merely that he’s bigger than her, thinks Clara desperately. It’s what’s underneath all of that muscle. His face is twitching dangerously, like there’re things crawling around underneath it.

‘I repaired it.’

‘It’s identical to the last time I saw it,’ she says, staring into his face. ‘And the blade matches the stab wound in Niema’s chest. Why are you lying? What are you hiding?’

Hephaestus’s hand shoots out, catching her throat.

His grip tightens, causing her to gasp in pain, as she’s lifted bodily from the floor, her legs kicking at the air.

The knife clatters on the tiles.

‘Mum!’ screams Clara, tugging at Hephaestus’s arm, trying to free her.

Hephaestus is staring at them blankly, empty of any emotion. It’s like he doesn’t even realise what he’s doing.

Clara shoots a desperate glance towards Thea, whose face is slack. She’s talking to me in her thoughts.

‘Help her!’ screams Clara, her words echoing around the lab.

Hephaestus’s grip tightens, as Emory gasps her last breaths. Thea’s voice comes from behind them, sharp and dry, betraying absolutely no concern whatsoever.

‘You’re about to kill our best investigator,’ she says.

Hephaestus’s eyes come alive again, his face finally registering the woman he’s choking. He opens his hand, letting her drop in a heap.

Emory gasps, clawing for air, while Clara hugs her protectively.

Hephaestus stoops to pick up the knife, weighing it in his hand, before returning to the memory extractor.

Clara feels Emory stiffen. She tries to get back to her feet and resume the battle, but Clara holds her tight, placing her lips to her mother’s ear.

‘I can’t lose you,’ she whispers.

Emory sags, the anger running out of her.

‘Go,’ says Thea, waving them towards the door. ‘And the next time I see you, you better have a suspect for me.’