‘Yes,’ replies Clara faintly.
‘Good,’ says Thea. ‘Bad news hunts in packs, so work quickly. My suspicion is that our misfortunes are only just beginning.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Adil wanders through the exercise yard, tossing a glass ball in the air and catching it again, while humming a little tune. He has Niema’s blood on his hands and tunic, but between the warehouse fire and the spate of injuries afflicting the villagers, his appearance isn’t that out of place.
Amid the unease of the morning, he’s a strangely joyful presence, his head swivelling this way and that, trying to take everything in.
He hasn’t seen the village in daylight since he was exiled five years ago and he’s surprised by how little’s changed. The walls of the barracks have a few more cracks than when he left, and the painting of the jungle is flaking, but otherwise it’s identical.
He loves this place. Maybe more than anybody. He’s missed the rhythms of it. The farm work in the mornings and the personal projects in the afternoons. The communal dinner, and the performances afterwards. Saturday night tributes and the Sunday feast. He’s missed the clamour of voices, and the laughter that always follows. He’s missed the community, and the love they have for one another.
Most of all he’s missed his granddaughter, Magdalene.
‘You’re being reckless,’ I say to him.
‘And it feels wonderful,’ he agrees.
‘If Thea or Hephaestus see you, or that key –’
‘I’m trusting that you’ll warn me before that becomes a worry,’ he states testily. ‘I know what’s at stake. I just have to see Niema’s body, one last time.’
The words burble out of him; his happiness so intense he has to rest his weight against the old radar dish they use as a bird bath, lest he fall. His hate is extinguished, its weight evaporated. He’s a kite with wind beneath it for the first time.
His exuberance is dangerous. I can’t control Adil, as events last night proved. I’m trying to play chess, but Adil’s walking around with a cricket bat. If I don’t handle him carefully, this entire plan could collapse.
I’ll confess: I lied to Thea about my ability to recall events after curfew. The truth would only muddy the waters, and it’s clarity we need now – though not for everybody. It’s important that people see exactly as much as I want them to see.
‘Just put the key away,’ I urge.
He looks at the glass ball in his palm, which has a red hue and is about the size of an eyeball. ‘As you like,’ he agrees pleasantly, dropping it into his pocket.
The warehouse is doused and dripping by the time he arrives in the rear yard, the hosepipe discarded on the floor like a slain snake, a pool of damp earth spreading out from its body. Normally, it would be put away immediately, but everybody’s packed tight around the bodies, trying to come to terms with this tragedy.
Adil avoids the crowd by dragging himself up the barracks staircase to a top floor balcony, using what little energy remains to him. He worked all night and he wasn’t in the best of health to start with. He’s looking forward to a long rest.
‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘We still have a lot to do.’
‘I know,’ he replies irritably.
He lets his legs dangle, the way he did when he’d come up here with Matis as a child. It still makes him angry that he wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral of his best friend. Such are the rules of the village, he thinks. They were created to benefit those who’d never need to follow them.
He’s looking forward to changing that. He’s going to knock down every lie this place is built upon, pillar by pillar, and elder by elder. Hephaestus will die next. Then Thea. He’ll not let this blind servitude continue for any longer than it has to.
From high above the crowd, he can see the seven bodies laid out side by side outside the cable-car station, each one under a sheet. Thea’s climbing the steps to address the villagers, her expression as implacable as always. She’s taller than most of the villagers anyway, and the additional height of the stairs is making her look enormous. The villagers are having to crane their necks upwards.
‘How hard is she finding it not to smile?’ Adil asks me.
‘Kindness first, always,’ I say, reminding him of the village’s unofficial law.
‘Come on, Abi,’ he replies. ‘She hated Niema almost as much as I did. Any minute now, she’s going to break into song.’
‘A terrible tragedy has befallen us this day,’ says Thea, oblivious to Adil’s delighted commentary. ‘We think the warehouse caught fire last night after curfew. Our beloved Niema woke six of our friends from their sleep, obviously hoping they could help her tackle the blaze. Unfortunately, they were killed by smoke inhalation, while Niema was crushed by a falling beam.’
There are gasps of shock from the crowd, then howls of anguish.
‘That’s a pretty story,’ murmurs Adil appreciatively.
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ I reply. ‘It’s mine.’
Thea tolerates the displays of sorrow for thirty seconds, before beckoning for quiet.
‘We’ll hold the funeral this evening, but, for the moment, we all have duties to perform. I expect to see you out on the farms within the hour –’
Harsh coughing disrupts the solemnity, as Emory comes staggering out of the smouldering warehouse, her face and dress covered in soot.
‘Thea,’ she calls out, in a hoarse voice. ‘Thea!’
Blinking away the smoke in her eyes, she realises that the entire village is standing between her and the elder. She considers them, then starts wriggling her way through the crush of sweat-slick bodies, ignoring their judgemental faces and accusing stares.
‘She hasn’t changed a bit,’ mutters Adil, watching her break into the space near the steps where Thea’s waiting.
‘What is it, Emory?’ demands Thea. ‘This is a time for reverence, and respect.’
‘Something doesn’t make sense,’ says Emory, ignoring her.
The hairs on the exile’s arms prickle.
‘Niema has a wound in her chest about this wide,’ explains Emory, holding her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. ‘It matches the thickness of a blade, maybe a knife.’
‘Now’s not the time,’ hisses Thea, glancing at the crowd.
‘There’s nothing in the warehouse that could have caused it,’ continues Emory, perplexed. She’s standing at the bottom of the steps in Thea’s long shadow. She looks like a little bush next to a full-grown pine tree.
‘Don’t be foolish,’ replies Thea. ‘Whatever caused the injury likely burned up in the fire.’
‘The fire didn’t reach Niema,’ counters Emory. ‘It was kept towards the rear of the warehouse by the rain.’
Adil is leaning forward, barely breathing.
‘Then she injured herself elsewhere in the village and staggered into the warehouse,’ suggests Thea, clearly desperate for this dialogue to end.
‘Wouldn’t there be a blood trail?’
‘Not if she bandaged it first.’
‘There was no bandage on the body when I found it.’
Murmurs of displeasure are running around the crowd. This isn’t how you talk to one of the elders, and you certainly shouldn’t be doing it over the dead body of another.
Thea is staring at Emory with such utter loathing that even the people standing nearby are edging away. Emory’s staring back defiantly, refusing to be cowed. The exile would be enjoying this display if he wasn’t so worried for her. He knows what happens to villagers who don’t bend the knee.
‘Have you put the question to Abi?’ demands Thea.
‘She told me the injury was made by the rubble which fell on her.’
‘There you go, then.’