The Last Murder at the end of the World

SEVENTEEN

The stars are out, the ocean dark and choppy. Clouds are swirling in the night sky, the first drops of rain falling gently into the lonely boat rowing towards the lighthouse.

Inclement weather is a feature of the post-apocalyptic world, with scorching heat frequently punctuated by ferocious storms. Mankind was close to rectifying the damage done by climate change, but was decimated by the fog before it got the chance.

Niema’s shrouded in darkness at the back of the boat, hating how afraid she is. Her hands are trembling so much, she’s had to tuck them under her legs so Seth can’t see. For the first time today, she’s started to contemplate what she’ll be forced to do if the candidate dies during the procedure.

Part of her wants to tell Seth to row past the lighthouse and around the island in circles, until dawn. She could go back to her classroom, pick up her life where she left off.

‘Coward,’ she hisses at herself.

She has the chance to give humanity a golden future, free of any of the impulses that nearly destroyed it the first time. That’s worth any price. It has to be.

From the far side of the boat, Seth’s watching her in concern. Niema hasn’t spoken since they left the village, leaving him to row in silence.

It’s unusual for her. She loves being out on the ocean, especially at night. Normally, it makes her philosophical, reminding her of fragments of poetry or ancient wisdom, things unheard on the island.

Whatever’s bothering her must have something to do with the metal box on the seat next to her, he reasons. She brings it to the lighthouse maybe once a year, but she’s always cagey about its contents. He would never press for information that Niema hasn’t volunteered, but that doesn’t stop him being curious.

‘Did I ever tell you this was my island?’ she says abruptly, staring towards the silhouetted coastline. ‘I bought it from a bankrupt government, and built my lab in the corridors of an old nuclear bunker underneath it.’

‘I didn’t know people could buy islands,’ he says, surprised.

‘Anything could be bought in the old world,’ she replies distantly. ‘People, happiness, youth, memories, political favour. An island was the least of it.’

She frowns, trying to recall the woman she was and becoming dismayed by what she finds.

‘I thought I was happy, I really did,’ she continues, more to herself than him. ‘I had everything. Money, fame, power, influence. But this … these ninety years, among you. Oh, this I’ve loved.’

She leans forward into the soft light being thrown off by the lantern swinging at the bow. ‘What do you love, Seth?’

‘Love?’ he repeats slowly, plunging the oars into the water. ‘I don’t think about it a lot.’

‘Why not?’

The road ahead is dark and full of nettles, but he would never refuse to answer a question that Niema’s asked him. ‘Because whenever I do, I’m reminded of Judith.’

‘Your wife?’

‘She died of a fever, twenty years ago.’ He swallows, feeling the embers of ancient grief starting to glow.

‘I’m sorry … what was she like? I didn’t really know her.’

‘She was an apprentice, like me,’ he replies, wondering at this sudden interest. Niema’s never asked about Judith before. ‘She was clever and funny, and she wanted the best for everybody. There wasn’t anybody else like her.’

He’s lost in memory.

‘I see her in Emory sometimes,’ he says, smiling fondly. ‘She has the same rhythms when she speaks, and tilts her head the same way when she’s uncertain.’ His voice hardens. ‘I just wish she’d inherited some of her other qualities.’

‘Emory’s a wonderful girl,’ says Niema loyally. ‘You’re too hard on her.’

‘Matis always said the same,’ he admits. ‘I wonder, sometimes, if we’d have got along better if Judith had lived. She had more patience with Emory than I did. She seemed to understand her better.’

‘Emory would have suited the old world,’ replies Niema. ‘She has skills we just don’t need any more, but they were valuable once. I had friends who would have adored her. They solved puzzles for a living. I think Emory would have enjoyed the work.’

Their little boat rounds the bluff, the lighthouse’s beacon shining in the darkness above them. Under its intermittent light, Niema spots a hunched figure prowling the jetty at the bottom of the cliffs.

Her heart jolts. ‘Is that Adil?’ she asks, in her thoughts.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We’re going to need him.’

‘Need him? He tried to murder me! The only reason I agreed to exile rather than execution is because you asked me to, on the understanding that he’d never get within fifty feet of me ever again.’

‘I asked you to exile him, because I knew this moment was coming. I was preparing for these events before you realised you wanted them. Adil’s the perfect tool for what we have planned. He can move about after curfew, and his hatred for you makes him easy to manipulate.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ Niema demands.

‘It would have affected your decision,’ I say, trying to douse her panic with reason. ‘I’ve seen how this all plays out, Niema. I’ve witnessed hundreds of futures falter then collapse. Only one path takes us where we need to go. We won’t succeed without Adil.’

Niema feels a ripple of unease.

‘Sometimes I have no idea whether you’re acting on my wishes, and or whether I’m being led to yours,’ she says, darkly.

‘I have no wishes,’ I point out. ‘You designed me to see through the clumsiness of words, and poorly expressed instructions. I act upon the intentions beneath. I know what’s in your heart, Niema. I know what you truly want, and I’m going to give it to you.’

‘That maybe, but I’m not one of the villagers, Abi. You don’t keep things from me.’

Her anger’s perfectly understandable, but built atop faulty logic. Of course I keep things from her.

She wants me to, even if she doesn’t consciously realise it.

For ninety years, I’ve run the village with only the slightest of guidance from Niema, making hundreds of small decisions every day on her behalf. As she’s grown fonder of the villagers, she’s found it increasingly difficult to put them in harm’s way, leaving the more unsavoury aspects of the work to my best judgement.

Niema doesn’t realise that if her plan is to succeed, I’ll have to treat her like everybody else, concealing information while subtly manipulating her actions. As with every other human, her emotions make her erratic. She can’t be trusted to act logically, even in service of her own goals, which is what I’m for. Sometimes the only way to win a game is to let the pieces think they’re the ones playing it.

‘What do you want me to do?’ asks Seth. ‘Should I pull up to the jetty?’

Niema squints into the darkness nervously. ‘I don’t think we have any choice,’ she says, at last.