The Last Murder at the end of the World

FIFTY-SIX

The rowboat rounds the bluff, bringing the lighthouse into sight. It’s shimmering atop high white cliffs, a light burning at its summit, despite there being no ships to guide.

‘There’s a jetty underneath it,’ says Seth, driving the oars into the water.

Emory’s staring towards the fog, alarmed by how close to the island it’s come. At one point, she saw an overconfident seagull swoop inside, only to be immediately swarmed. For a second, the insects were so tightly packed around the poor bird that they formed a perfect golden copy of it, only to scatter when its bloody carcass dropped into the ocean.

‘How are you doing that?’ asks Clara, watching her grandfather’s technique admiringly. ‘I rowed Mum around for about an hour yesterday, and my hands are raw.’

‘You need to pee on them,’ he says.

‘Huh?’

‘Your hands,’ he says. ‘They get like that if you’ve been rowing for too long. You need to pee on them. They’ll toughen up.’

‘Urgh, no.’

He shrugs. ‘Maritime life isn’t for everybody.’

‘Why would Thea have been rowing the night Niema was killed?’ wonders Emory, who’s only been vaguely listening to their conversation.

‘It must have been important,’ states Seth, grimacing as he rows them through a current. ‘I’ve never seen an elder row themselves anywhere. They either get me to take them, or they don’t go.’

‘You couldn’t take her,’ supplies Clara. ‘You were on your way to Blackheath with me and Mum.’

‘I think Thea came out here,’ says Emory, staring at the lighthouse. ‘Her hands were really torn up, much worse than yours, Clara. I can’t think of anywhere else she could have gone that would have caused that amount of damage.’

‘Maybe she was helping Niema with her mysterious experiment,’ ventures Clara.

‘I don’t think they were friendly enough. They –’

The rowboat jolts, knocking Emory onto the deck. Clara manages to hold on, but Seth yelps in surprise, almost dropping the oars.

The ocean is white-tipped and furious, thrashing furiously beneath them, as though they’ve been overtaken by a storm, but every other patch of water is perfectly calm, and the sky is clear.

Seth grimaces, fighting a whirlpool, which seems determined to fling them onto the jagged rocks.

‘What’s happening?’ screams Emory, over the crashing water, as she clings desperately to the bucking boat. Huge swells are emerging from the still ocean, slamming over the side, drenching them.

‘I’ve never seen it like this before,’ yells Seth, as he tries to point the boat directly at the swells, ribbons of muscle pulling taut on his powerful arms.

A wave pummels them, almost capsizing the boat.

‘Another one of those and we’re done for,’ he screams, as an oar is ripped out of his hand.

‘There! There!’ hollers Emory, pointing to a gravel bay.

‘There’s no way out of there!’

‘It’s better than –’

A powerful wave smashes into the boat, flipping it into the air and sending them flying into the water.

Emory lands on her belly, the wind knocked out of her as she’s dragged underneath by the current.

She’s slammed into the shallow seabed, then against the rocks, before being thrust back to the surface. Somewhere distant, she hears Clara crying out for her, but she’s dragged back beneath the waves before she can respond.

Unable to hold her breath any longer, she opens her mouth, sucking in great lungfuls of water.

Her vision clouds, as she thrashes for breath.

Finally, it goes dark.