The Last Murder at the end of the World

FIFTY-SEVEN

Emory groans, her head throbbing. She touches it tenderly, as slapping waves soak her. She sits upright, nearly vomits, then closes her eyes to stop the world spinning. Every bit of her is competing to ache the most.

‘Clara!’ she calls out.

‘I’m over here,’ she says, in a voice as groggy as Emory’s thoughts.

They’ve been delivered to a grotto in the cliffs, their boat smashed to firewood. The pieces are floating on the surface of an ocean that is perfectly calm again.

Emory gets to her feet, stumbling over to Clara, who’s trying to drag herself up the wall. She’s covered in cuts and bruises, strands of lank hair clinging to her pale face.

‘Is everything where it ought to be?’ asks Emory, worriedly checking her daughter over for broken bones.

‘Aside from us, you mean?’

‘Have you seen your grandfather?’

‘I’m here,’ he replies, stumbling forward out of the gloom. ‘I ended up at the back of the cove,’ he says, hitching a thumb at the darkness. ‘I don’t wake up in beds as much as I used to.’

‘How long were we unconscious for?’ wonders Clara, noticing that the sun is a little higher in the sky.

‘An hour,’ I inform them.

‘Anybody know what happened?’ asks Emory, whose hands are jittery with adrenaline.

‘I’ve been out here hundreds of times,’ says Seth ruefully. ‘Niema had me row her at least once a month, and I’ve never seen the sea like that before.’

‘There were machines churning up the water,’ says Clara. ‘I saw them when I was dragged under.’

‘Why didn’t they sink me when I was rowing back yesterday?’ wonders Seth.

They exchange looks, but there are no answers forthcoming.

Emory squints into the darkness at the back of the grotto. ‘Don’t suppose you saw a way out?’

‘Nope, and it’s pitch black,’ he tells her. ‘I wouldn’t want to chance it without a light.’

She walks to the cave mouth, her legs still wobbly. ‘We’ll have to follow the coast,’ she says.

‘That will take hours,’ groans Clara.

‘What choice do we have? Abi can’t send another boat. It will just end up stuck, like we are.’

‘Your mother’s right,’ says Seth. ‘It’s shallow enough, and there should be plenty of handholds. We just have to go slow.’

It’s late afternoon by the time the three of them reach safety. For three hours, they’ve edged their way around the treacherous coastline, clinging tight to the rock face every time a wave tried to dislodge them. Whenever possible, they waded out into the shallows, picking their way across the pools, but they’re choked with dead turtles, being feasted on by seabirds.

Finally, they reach the jetty under the lighthouse, where they slump onto the planks in exhaustion, the sea below slapping the sides.

Their bodies are battered, their fingers bleeding. The tatters of a dead shark are floating nearby. It obviously got too close to the fog.

That’s not difficult any more, thinks Emory. The great black wall is so close to the island now that you can’t help but see it from the corner of your eye.

A metal staircase zigzags up the cliffs. It’s rusted and rattly, and gives the impression of being attached to the rock by choice rather than bolts. After getting her breath back, Emory gives it an experimental shake, causing it to shriek in indignation. The top of the cliff looks terrifyingly far away, given the indifference of the staircase.

‘Right,’ she says, geeing herself up.

The three of them complete their climb without too much trouble, and are soon standing in the last of the afternoon’s sunshine, staring at the lighthouse, which is surrounded by thousands of pink and purple flowers, a deer sleeping peacefully amongst them.

Motes of pollen swirl in the air, the drone of bees almost enough to drown out the distant pounding of the waves.

Emory’s staring at the lighthouse with an appraising eye, as if it’s something she’s going to have to rip out of the ground and take home.

Clara crunches over the dry grass to inspect the flowers surrounding the lighthouse. They’re knee high on thick green stems with two crisp leaves apiece. Each one has a perfect crown of symmetrical petals, and none of them are wilted. The entire field is swaying back and forth metronomically. Hypnotically.

And against the wind, notices Emory.

‘They’re beautiful,’ gasps Clara, closing her eyes and lowering her nose to sniff one. The nearest four flowers turn in her direction, the beautiful petals peeling back to reveal a ring of thorns, leaking a clear liquid. The leaves tilt, aiming their blades at her.

‘Dad!’ screams Emory, calling to her father who’s behind Clara.

Seth leaps forward, grabbing his granddaughter by the shoulder and yanking her away, just as the leaves shoot a large cloud of spores into the air.

Clinging to each other, they stare at the flowers in horror. The blooms are straining forward, rustling madly, desperate to reach the three of them.

‘What are these things?’ asks Clara, her voice trembling.

‘I always walk through these flowers and they’ve never reacted that way before. I didn’t think they could do much more than make you sneeze.’

Emory points to the sleeping deer, its ribcage rising and falling. Over thirty of the flowers have attached themselves to it like leeches, their thorns silently slurping the blood from its veins. Its limbs are twitching, its heartbeat weakening. It’s dreaming itself to death.

Clara untangles herself from her grandfather’s protective grasp, and creeps towards the edge of the field. Sensing movement, the plants become eager once again.

‘What are you doing?’ hisses Seth.

‘I want to have a closer look,’ says Clara.

‘Why?’

‘Curiosity.’

‘Why would you be curious about –’ Discovering he doesn’t have the words, Seth makes a chomping motion with his hands.

‘Because they’re something new,’ responds Clara. ‘And new is wonderful.’

Even as Seth gathers the words to protest, Clara kneels in front of the plants, making sure to keep her face out of spore distance.

She lowers her index finger until it’s an inch above one of the pink flowers. Its head tips up and rustles, the petals peeling back eagerly. Clear liquid drips from its thorns.

‘Careful, love,’ warns Emory softly, coming up behind her, ready to drag her away.

Clara ignores the warning, moving her finger to the left, where it hovers over a purple flower.

‘It’s not doing anything,’ mutters Clara, sharing an excited glance with her mother.

She flicks it with her fingertip, then snatches her hand back out of striking range. Once again, it doesn’t react.

‘The purple ones are harmless,’ says Clara, blowing out a long breath. ‘I noticed they didn’t go for me when the pink ones did.’

Emory laughs, delighted by her daughter’s cleverness. ‘There’s a trail of them leading all the way to the lighthouse,’ she points out. ‘They’re sort of disguised, but they’re there. Niema left a path for herself.’

‘And us,’ says Clara.