The Last Murder at the end of the World

SEVENTY-FIVE

The fog is curling in through the front windows of the carriage, and crawling across the floor. The spores are burning bright, eager for their prize.

‘On the roof,’ demands Clara, intertwining her hands to form a step.

Her mother glances up nervously. ‘I don’t like heights very much,’ she says.

‘Of everything to be afraid of today, that’s probably at the bottom of the list,’ replies Seth.

Steeling herself, Emory scrambles up onto the roof, only for the cable car to lurch in the wind, causing her to almost slide off the edge, before she grabs hold of the hook.

‘Mum!’ cries out Clara.

‘I’m okay,’ she calls down from the roof, extending a hand to help Clara up.

Clara swings herself up nimbly, and the two of them pull Seth onto the roof only seconds ahead of the encroaching fog. The rain’s swirling in great sheets around them, while thunder tries to tear the sky in half. Forks of lightning are striking everywhere at once, carrying the storm clouds across the island like a millipede.

‘We were so close,’ says Seth, staring wretchedly at the distant shape of the cauldron station above them.

Emory’s eyes are squeezed shut, reliving a forgotten memory, imagining things she never knew. She’s thinking about boats and blood and a night nobody can remember, its pieces scattered everywhere, waiting to be found. She’s raking over the details of the last few days, trying to see things overlooked, things she thought unimportant.

Clara wraps her arms around her. ‘I love you, Mum.’

Emory doesn’t hug her back. She’s sunk in herself. What does she know? And what does she only suspect?

‘There were no signs of restraint,’ she mutters, under her breath. ‘No bruises, no injuries beyond the wounds.’

‘Mum, please,’ pleads Clara, watching the fog rise past the windows of the carriage. She’s desperate for a comforting word, anything to ease her fear.

Seth places the memory extractor on his head, immediately drawing Clara’s attention.

‘What are you doing, Grandfather?’

‘We know there’s a route from Blackheath to the lighthouse,’ he says. ‘I could have gone there and killed Niema after we put Hui in that bed. That would explain why the plant was able to take a chunk out of my ankle. Niema wasn’t alive to warn me about the defences when I left the lighthouse.’

‘Then how did you end up back at sea?’ demands Clara desperately.

‘I don’t know,’ he declares. ‘I don’t even know if I was capable of murdering Niema, but I had a reason. I was there, and that’s the best we’ve got.’

Before she can argue any further, he reaches for the switch.