The Last Murder at the end of the World

FORTY-SEVEN

Seth limps into the lab to find Clara hunched over the microsampler, alone with the equipment.

She glances up from the display, as if surprised to see him. He’s rooted to the spot, staring around the lab in wonder. The last time he was in this place was a few days after his wife died. They’d been working at world’s end with a frequency detector, trying to learn how the insects in the fog communicated. They’d had a bad day, which seemed determined to get worse. After getting soaked in a storm, they became caught in a current, which had almost dragged them into the fog before they pulled clear. They ate a disappointing picnic in the boat, took turns at the oars and came back to watch a play Judith had written.

She’d been congested all day, shivering with cold, but she didn’t look too bad, and she wasn’t one for complaining. At curfew, they fell asleep in each other’s arms. The next morning she was dead, carried away without any sort of fuss.

Thea quarantined Seth in case of plague, but it was just one of those things. The village houses them, protects them, and occasionally it kills them. That night it killed his wife.

Thea wanted him back as an apprentice, but every time he walked into the lab, he saw an experiment Judith had been working on. He saw a report she’d written, or the flowers she’d picked. After a few days of trying, he made an excuse and never went back. Far as he can recall, Thea didn’t speak to him again, which he always considered entirely fair. He’d abandoned his duty, and given up a sacred act of service. He sometimes wonders if his disappointment in his daughter is magnified by his disappointment in himself.

Emory appears at the door, sagging in relief when she finds the lab empty.

Seeing her father lost in thought, she quickly grabs a pair of scissors and slices a scrap of material from his sleeve, handing it to Clara.

‘What are you doing!?’ he demands.

‘Seeing whose blood is on your clothes,’ she replies cheerfully. ‘Hopefully, we can work out what you did after curfew, before Hephaestus kills you for the same information.’

Clara puts the material under the sampler, while Seth pulls back the sheet covering Niema’s body. Even if most of her head wasn’t missing, it would still be a dreadful sight. She’s been stitched up after her post-mortem like a patchwork blanket.

He hurriedly covers her face again, before slumping into a chair. It’s impossible to believe that something so awful could have happened to somebody so wonderful. Despite everything Emory’s told him, he’s convinced it has to have been an accident, or a terrible misunderstanding.

Clara brings over bandages, antiseptic and a powdered painkiller. She pours a little of the powder into a glass of boiled water, handing it to her grandfather. While he drinks, she drags over a stool and props his leg up, inspecting the circular gouge above his ankle. It’s badly swollen and oozing yellow puss.

‘It’s infected,’ she says. ‘How’d you do it?’

‘No idea,’ he replies, struggling to take his boot off. ‘I woke up with it. Hopefully, the memory extractor will be able to dig out an explanation.’

‘You aren’t really going to let Hephaestus use it on you?’ says Clara aghast, dabbing the wound. ‘The elders aren’t what we thought they were, and they’re not always right. I’ve seen it myself. They’re violent, and selfish. They hurt people. You can’t trust them.’

‘We were made to serve them,’ adds Emory, who’s inspecting the memory extractor. ‘They created us to do the jobs they didn’t want to do for themselves.’

‘You say it like it matters,’ he counters, wincing as Clara peels away some mangled flesh. ‘The highest honour in the village is living a life in service. We care for other people, before caring for ourselves. Sounds to me like what you discovered is what we already know.’

‘Shouldn’t we be free to choose those qualities?’ asks Emory, frustrated by his refusal to be angry.

‘Can you guarantee we would?’ he asks, working to free his foot from his other boot. ‘I don’t care whether I’m human, or not. It doesn’t change who I am, or what I want. My back itches, same as it did before you told me. My neck aches. I like the sea. I don’t like boiled potatoes. And this morning I woke up covered in blood, without my best friend.’

He tugs the boot off with a grunt, placing it neatly beside his chair. ‘If my forgotten memories can help the village I’ll offer them freely, and be proud to do it.’

‘You’ve got Shilpa’s boots,’ says Emory, picking it up.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘The heel’s missing a corner,’ she says, showing him the proof. ‘You took them off Shilpa’s feet last night, while she slept.’

‘Why would I take her boots?’ he demands.

‘Because the terrain past the farm is rocky,’ supplies Clara, smearing the gouge on his ankle with antiseptic. ‘You, me and Mum went out to Adil’s shack last night, pulling a cart. You had to change out of your sandals on the way.’

‘But I was at the lighthouse with Niema last night,’ he protests.

‘You must have brought her back to the village.’

‘But I woke up out there,’ he splutters. ‘Why would I row all the way back?’

The microsampler beeps, completing its scan of the blood on his clothes. Clara finishes wrapping the bandage around his leg, then gets to her feet, going over to the machine.

‘Whose is it?’ asks Seth, turning in his seat to see her, obviously afraid of the answer. ‘Is it Niema’s?’

‘No,’ says Clara, her voice shaking. ‘It’s Hui’s.’