The Last Murder at the end of the World

FIFTY

Emory ascends the stage nervously, holding her hands up to get everybody’s attention.

The villagers are clearing the tables and taking down the decorations, but everything’s happening at half speed. Usually, they’d be preparing for bed by now, but they’re afraid to leave the comfort of other people.

For the last two hours, the encroaching fog is all they’ve thought about. They’ve pelted me with questions I couldn’t answer, and searched for the elders who’ve both disappeared. They feel abandoned, which is not helped by seeing Emory fidgeting onstage. They’d hoped for Thea or Hephaestus: somebody with authority and answers.

Emory is the living representation of their doubt.

Her whole life she’s unsettled them with her questions, pointing out inequalities they were afraid to see, and delivering them mysteries they worked hard to overlook. They’ve learned to avoid her wherever possible, even edging away from her at dinner, until she sat by herself every evening, a lonely little island.

‘We’ve been lied to,’ says Emory bluntly, once every face has turned towards her. ‘By the elders, and by Abi. We’re not human. We’re something they made. They grow us in the cauldron to serve them, and we die at sixty because they decided we should.’

The villagers murmur in surprise, but otherwise meet this information with rapt, unblinking silence, waiting for her to go on.

Emory had expected anger, or disbelief – something to propel her. There’s no fuel in this dim expectation. She’s trying to dance on water.

She plunges on, telling them about the humans stored in Blackheath, and how the villagers get out of their beds every night to maintain the equipment keeping them alive. She stumbles over her words, falters, then goes back to fill in the gaps.

Their reactions remain muted.

They nod and murmur, the information sinking through them like stones through honey. They’ve spent their entire lives being told what matters, what to care about and when to be curious. They’ve never had to process so many things at once, all by themselves.

Emory’s itchy and uncomfortable under their scrutiny, unsure what she should be saying.

‘Give them hope,’ I say gently. ‘They’re afraid. That’s what they need.’

We really are in trouble if they need that from me, she thinks. How many people have ever felt better after talking to me?

She scans their faces, searching for the right combination of words.

‘Niema didn’t die accidentally,’ she blurts out, coming up empty-handed. ‘She was killed intentionally. Her death is the reason the fog’s surging towards the island. If I can find out who’s responsible, we can get the barrier back up. We can save ourselves.’

Unease ripples through the crowd, followed by murmurs of excitement as they register what she said.

Emory spots Magdalene, who’s perched on the edge of the fountain. Her friend is hastily sketching this performance with a stick of charcoal, only adding to Emory’s nerves. It’s one thing being the spokesperson for the end of the world, and quite another having somebody keep a record of you doing it.

A little away from the rest, she sees Ben drawing in the dirt with a stick, while Sherko looks at him in concern. Clara’s kneeling down, examining the drawings with a furrowed brow. They must be more equations, thinks Emory.

‘How does finding Niema’s killer help us get the barrier back up?’ asks Seth, who’s standing in the shadows near the kitchen, with his arms crossed.

Emory hadn’t noticed her father before, and his presence immediately kindles the anger from earlier.

‘Once the killer’s confessed, Hephaestus will execute them,’ she says, hating the words coming out her mouth. They sound like validation. It’s as if she’s endorsing murder.

A chorus of protests erupts.

‘There has to be another way!’ shouts Johannes, leaping up in anger.

‘They’re Abi’s rules,’ points out Clara. ‘My mum’s only doing what she was asked to do. Why don’t you go and shout at Hephaestus!? He’d have killed half of us already if it wasn’t for her.’

She glares at Johannes until he sits down again, shamefaced at his outburst.

‘Are you okay with this, Emory?’ asks Seth, coming into the light. ‘Serving up somebody to die?’

She falters, suddenly unsure of herself. She hadn’t thought that far ahead, in truth. Her preoccupation has been with asking questions, rather than the consequences of finding the answers.

‘The fog will hit the island in a little under a day and a half,’ she replies evasively.

‘We don’t kill people, Emory,’ he argues. ‘We don’t help others make excuses for killing, or betray who we are because we’re scared, or angry.’

‘What is it you want me to do instead, Dad?’ she asks, in a plaintive voice. ‘Stop searching?’

‘No, I want you to do it with clear eyes. This is your investigation, but once you’ve got your answer, I want you to think very carefully about what you’re going to do with it. We can survive in the cauldron garden. There’ll be hard choices to make, but I’d rather that than know we ended somebody’s life to save our own.’

The crowd call out their agreement with this point, shaming poor Emory who feels like she’s become the vanguard of a plan that wasn’t her own.

‘Emory’s not making the rules,’ I say, in their thoughts, quietening them. ‘She’s only doing what she was asked to do by myself and Thea.’

As they finally settle down, Emory raises her voice once again.

‘Our entire lives we’ve been told to accept things that seem strange, and not to ask questions, but that’s not going to work any more. We don’t have time to be polite, or reticent. If you’ve seen anything unusual, please tell me. If something’s struck you as odd these last few days, I need to know. Anything could help me.’

In the quiet, people wrack their brains. Emory wipes the sweat from her brow, noticing that her hand is shaking. She hates being up here, in front of people. She always has. It’s a performance, and most performances are lies.

Caoimhin raises a hand.

‘We’ve been dreaming,’ he says hesitantly. ‘I don’t know if it matters, but a few of us have had the same one.’

He looks at his friends for support, but they can barely meet his gaze. They’re red-faced and ashamed, wringing their hands, fidgeting in their seats.

‘What was it about?’ Emory prods.

‘We were …’ He licks his lips nervously. ‘We were attacking Hephaestus. All of us, we chased him through the village and then we …’

‘What?’

‘We wrestled him down,’ he says, obviously disgusted. ‘The others were trying to hold on to him.’

Portia puts her hand up. ‘I’ve had that dream,’ she says sickly. ‘Except it was Thea I was holding. I was hurting her, I know it.’ Her regret could drown the village. ‘She kept trying to free herself, but I wouldn’t let her go.’

Some of the others murmur, recalling their own dreams.

‘Anything else?’ asks Emory.

Portia nods grimly. ‘I was holding something sharp,’ she says. ‘I think I was trying to stab her.’