The Last Murder at the end of the World

SEVENTY-SEVEN

The carriage jerks into life, only to stop again abruptly, sweeping Seth’s legs from underneath him, sending him sliding towards the edge.

Clara catches his hand.

His feet are dangling inches above the burning glow of insects.

She drags him back up to the centre of the roof, as tendrils of fog feel their way over the sides. His hand reaches for the memory extractor once again.

‘Grandfather,’ pleads Clara.

‘If I’m guilty, my death will end this,’ he says. His fingers have just touched the memory extractor, when Emory knocks his hand away.

‘Don’t,’ she cries.

‘There isn’t time for sentiment, Emory. We know I was there that night. I’ve got the bite on my ankle to prove it.’

‘This isn’t sentiment,’ she says sternly. ‘Don’t do it.’

‘Emory –’

‘For once, in your life, believe that I’m good at something,’ she says imploringly. ‘After you helped us take Hui to Blackheath, you probably rowed back to check on Niema. The defences were up and you got bitten by one of the flowers. You staggered back to your boat and fell asleep.’

‘You can’t prove any of that!’

‘There’s only one person who could have killed Niema, and it wasn’t you,’ she declares confidently. ‘Your death won’t accomplish anything.’

Seth stares at his daughter. Under all of that brown hair, she’s tiny and filthy, vibrant and alive. Her eyes are glittering, a small smile playing at the edge of her lips.

He knows that smile. It’s been the same since she was a child. She’s crossed off a question in her notebook.

He drops his hand from the switch.

‘Mum,’ whimpers Clara, squeezing her eyes shut.

‘I’m here,’ says Emory, pulling her close as the thunder rocks the mountains. ‘I’ll always be here.’

The fog swallows them.