The Last Murder at the end of the World

FIFTY-THREE

It takes two frustrating hours to reach Adil’s shack in the pitch-black night, and she’s limping by the time she arrives, having twisted her ankle scrambling up the first ridge. Since then, she’s had to drag herself over the uneven ground.

She’s tired and thirsty, covered head to toe in cuts and bruises. She hasn’t stopped for anything. She’s convinced that Jack’s trapped behind that door, waiting to be rescued.

The tree Adil directed her to is on the other side of the stream, perched on top of a perfectly round hill. In the bright moonlight, the ancient trunk is twisted into a toothless, frowning face, the shining clouds hanging from its branches.

Limping around to the far side, she finds a recessed steel door built into the rock. It’s badly rusted, with huge dents marking its surface.

‘How do I get in?’ she demands, running her hands across the surface, desperately searching for a handle or a button.

‘There is no way in,’ I say. ‘This is one of the entrances to Blackheath. Niema sealed it forty years ago.’

‘Jack!’ she hollers, pounding on the metal with both of her fists. ‘Jack! Answer me.’

Her voice echoes across the plains, desperate and alone.

Unable to find a handle, she hurls her entire body against the steel, over and over again, kicking and pounding, calling his name, until finally she slumps to the ground in exhaustion.

‘You knew he was alive all this time!’ she says. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

I meet her question with silence.

‘Answer me!’ she screams in impotent fury. ‘For once, just answer me!’

Clutching her knees, Emory curls up on the ground, her chest heaving, sobbing in desperation for the husband she can’t reach.