The Last Murder at the end of the World

FIFTY-EIGHT

It only takes a few minutes for Emory, Clara and Seth to walk through the carnivorous flowers, but they would swear that civilisations rise and fall while they’re doing it. They can feel every twitch of every muscle holding them upright, as the pink flowers twist on their stems, watching them pass, waiting eagerly for any slip.

Clearing the field, the family immediately double over, blowing out long breaths of relief.

‘Let’s not do that again,’ says Seth weakly. ‘Once in a lifetime was quite enough.’

‘Twice, for you, Dad,’ corrects Emory, pointing to the bandage on his ankle. ‘That circular gouge on your leg is the same pattern as the ring of thorns the flowers use to latch onto their prey.’

Seth reaches down, gingerly touching the wound.

‘I must have followed Niema up here the night she died,’ he says, confused. ‘Why would I do that? She told me to wait in the boat.’

Clara wipes the sweat from her brow, then wanders over to the lighthouse.

The tower is built on a small, square cottage with arched windows covered in wrought-iron bars. The shutters are painted blue and the walls white. There’s enough heat coming off them to bake bread. The fading sun is hoisted on the tip of the lighthouse, the blue sky empty around it. Even the clouds won’t come here uninvited.

‘This isn’t like the other pre-apocalypse buildings I’ve seen,’ says Clara, running her hand over the brickwork. ‘It isn’t crumbling, or being consumed by vines. The shutters haven’t rotted, and the paint could have gone on yesterday.’

‘There’s a door here,’ says Emory, pushing it open.

Clara follows her mother inside. She was expecting to walk into a damp, empty room, not a brightly lit laboratory. There are nine pieces of equipment on tables, arranged in rows of three, endless streams of information pouring across their black screens, conveyed in words and symbols, equations and graphs.

Clara roams between them, her eyes snatching greedily at the miracles.

A strange white liquid is floating in the air, where it’s being stretched and contorted by invisible forces. Purple dust forms itself into a snake and a mouse, only for the mouse to leap on the snake, digging its teeth into its back. They collapse into dust, and are replaced by a rabbit hunting a fox. One of the pink flowers from outside is being dissected by rippling light, then put back together, while another machine weaves balls of gel from absolutely nothing.

This technology is so far beyond the equipment used in Thea’s lab that it might as well be made of starlight.

‘Thea definitely came here last night,’ calls out Clara, as she peers at a dog made of plant matter, which has a root system growing out of its stomach. ‘I recognise this place from the shattered memory stone we found in Hephaestus’s bunker. This is the room where she argued with Niema.’

There’s a medical screen at the far end of the lab, and Emory’s about to pull it back when Hephaestus emerges from an adjoining room, wiping his bleary eyes.

He stops, startled by their presence. They’re sopping wet, their clothes tattered, and their hair wild.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demands.

‘Investigating Niema’s murder,’ says Emory.

Thea descends a wrought-iron circular staircase at the centre of the room.

‘I checked the storerooms, but –’ She stops dead at seeing the three of them. She’s red-eyed and dishevelled. ‘What are you doing here? How did you get past the security systems?’

‘Security?’ repeats Emory. ‘Is that what the flowers are? And the rough water?’

‘That’s what they’re supposed to be, but they’re clearly not very effective if you three can just stroll in whenever you want,’ replies Hephaestus.

‘We think Niema activated them the night she died,’ says Thea, coming the rest of the way down the staircase, while clapping dust from her hands. ‘Do you have any news? Have you uncovered the killer?’

‘Adil blamed you,’ replies Emory blandly.

Thea’s body stiffens, the colour running out of her face. She straightens her back and shoulders, trying to face down this nothing woman, with her bright eyes, innocent face, and that great head of curly brown hair.

‘Does he have evidence?’ she asks, keeping her voice cool.

‘He has a grudge,’ interrupts Hephaestus loyally. ‘The accusation’s ridiculous. We’ve been on this island together for ninety years. Why would Thea suddenly decide to kill her?’

‘Because Niema’s been lying to Thea for forty of them,’ declares Emory, studying Thea’s face the way a fisherman watches still water.

‘Blackheath isn’t overrun by fog, is it? Niema sent me, Clara and my father out there last night. You probably overheard our conversation. It makes sense that in a flash of anger you snatched the knife out of Clara’s hand, then used it to stab Niema.’

Thea’s eyes narrow, and Emory realises immediately that she’s pushed too hard.

‘Are you telling me the murder weapon belonged to Clara?’

‘It did, but anybody could have taken it from her. Adil says you found a fragment of your fingernail in Niema’s cheek during the post-mortem, which you burned. He also gave me a T-shirt, which he claims is covered in Niema’s blood. He says you tried to hide it. Is that true?’

Thea glares at her silently.

‘Is it true?’ presses Hephaestus, stunned.

Nobody breathes. Even if they wanted to, they couldn’t. The oxygen has fled the lighthouse, terrified of what’s coming next.

Emory’s eyes are locked on Thea, while Hephaestus studies the side of his friend’s face, a new-found suspicion bubbling in his thoughts like butter in a hot pan.

Clara shares a nervous glance with Seth.

They’re frozen in place, unsure of what they should be doing. Nobody’s ever talked to elders the way Emory’s doing. Every one of their genetically engineered cells is demanding they apologise on her behalf and drag her from the room.

‘Adil is lying,’ says Thea, at last. ‘There was no fingernail, and I simply changed my clothes. I wasn’t trying to hide anything.’

Hephaestus’s gaze snaps to Emory. His fists are clenched, a red flush of rage running up his neck, as if he’s just discovered she’s deceiving him. ‘It was your people who killed my mother,’ he growls. ‘Stop trying to shift the blame.’

‘Then why did Niema put her defence system up?’ asks Emory, who’s working hard to keep her voice steady. ‘If Niema was worried about the villagers, she could have ordered Abi to lock us down.’

Thea offers Emory a slow handclap, startling everybody.

‘You were right to let her investigate,’ she says to Hephaestus. ‘You’ve done well, Emory, even if your efforts are misplaced. Yes, Niema betrayed me. And, yes, I would have been angry about it, but you saw the damage to her skull. I don’t have that kind of brutality in me. If I killed somebody it would bloodless and efficient and everybody would mistake it for an accident.’

Her tone is matter-of-fact, but her eyes are boring into Emory’s. She wants this young woman to feel as fragile as she suddenly does. She wants her to feel as exposed.

Emory stares back, calmly.

‘It was intended to look like an accident,’ she says. ‘A fire was meant to burn the body and destroy the evidence. If it hadn’t rained, we’d have nothing to go on.’

‘Do you truly believe I would have been stupid enough to trust my plan to the vagaries of the weather, especially during storm season,’ scoffs Thea. ‘I’m not that clumsy and you know it.’

Emory wavers, forced to concede the point. For as long as she’s known Thea, she’s been meticulous and precise. This murder is a piece of clothing she’d wear, but in entirely the wrong size.

‘If these facts pointed at a villager, you’d already be threatening them with the memory extractor,’ says Emory, trying to regain a foothold in the conversation.

Thea’s eyes are glittering with malice.

‘You’re right. Those denials wouldn’t be enough to save a villager, but that’s because your people are disposable. Bring proof of my guilt, rather than insinuations, and I’ll gladly put the memory extractor on. Until then, keep your accusations to yourself.’