They walk to the kitchen, Adil’s eyes skirting the long queue of sleeping people waiting for the cable car.
‘They go up in shifts,’ he says, waving a finger at them. ‘I’ve been watching them for years. Everybody does one week a month. This lot will be tending the plants in the cauldron garden, or servicing the cable car. The ones heading out the gate will be going to repair the wave generators and solar panels. There’s so many jobs, and barely any of them benefit our people.’
Arriving at the kitchen, he places a palm against the pot hanging above the stove, finding it still hot. From the shelf he takes two wooden mugs, and slices some ginger into them. He ladles the boiled water in, then scrapes in a little honey. Everything’s done with the practised motions of somebody who performs this act every night.
He’s about to hand her a cup when a hacking cough bursts out of him, drops of blood splattering the pot.
He waits for it to pass, then mumbles an embarrassed apology, wiping away the blood with his sleeve.
‘You need a doctor,’ she says.
‘I need a doctor who’ll treat me,’ he corrects her. ‘Unfortunately, there aren’t any of those on the island.’
He gives her the drink and she notices that his fingernails are stained with ash, exactly as hers are. It’s from the warehouse fire.
Emory sips her tea, searching his face through the steam. He’s working at a splinter in his cup, offended at finding something out of place.
His story’s the same, she thinks.
He’s worked on it methodically, going over every sentence until it’s completely smooth. He’s lying about something, she’s sure of it. The truth is bumpier, darker. Far less elegant.
‘What did Niema do after you talked?’ she asks, following him to one of the communal dining tables.
They’re completely empty, but he sits down at the far end of the fourth table, she notices. His old seat. This place is in his bones.
‘She told me I could row back with them, if I was happy to wait. She had something important to do in the lighthouse first,’ he replies.
‘What was that?’
‘I’m not sure, but there was another woman in there,’ he says. ‘I heard her when Niema opened the door to go in. She was talking to Hephaestus. It sounded friendly enough, but then the woman started screaming.’
‘Screaming?’
‘The worst pain you’ve ever heard,’ he says, blanching at the memory. ‘I didn’t want to give Niema any reason to exile me again, so I set off for the village. I got caught in some rough water, which wrecked my boat. I got back just in time to see Niema being murdered.’
He says this in an offhand way, but Emory can hear the eagerness in his voice. He’s been waiting to deliver this information since the conversation started.
Even so, she puts her cup down and leans across the table. Her voice is tight. ‘You saw who did it?’
‘I did.’
‘Who?’
Adil sips his tea, peering at Emory. ‘It was Thea.’
FIFTY-TWO
‘Thea!?’ exclaims Emory.
‘She was kneeling over the body with a knife in her hand, covered in blood,’ he says, slurping his tea. ‘She was screaming something about this being Niema’s fault, and how she should have known what would happen.’
Emory remembers the memory gem she saw in Hephaestus’s bunker. One of Niema’s last memories was a violent argument with Thea.
Adil reaches down, opening his knapsack. From inside, he removes a T-shirt that’s crusty with blood, which he places on the table in front of her.
‘Recognise it?’ he asks.
‘It’s Thea’s,’ she says. ‘She was wearing it the day Niema died.’
‘That’s Niema’s blood all over it,’ he remarks. ‘Thea was planning to burn it, the way she burned a piece of her fingernail she found lodged in Niema’s cheek.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I watched her do it,’ he replies. ‘I hid at the back of the lab, while she conducted the post-mortem. I wanted to see how she’d react.’ He pushes the T-shirt towards Emory with a long finger. ‘This is for you. Test it, if you like. You’ll see that I’m right.’
‘I will,’ says Emory, pushing it to one side. ‘But first I want to hear more about last night. Did you see what happened to Hui? She’s a musician?’
Adil’s features flicker irritably. His eyes flash to the T-shirt, then up to her face, trying to understand why she isn’t immediately rushing at Thea, clutching this evidence in her hand.
‘She was lying near Niema,’ he says grudgingly, taking a glass ball out of his pocket to roll around under his thumb. ‘She’d been stabbed, as well. Your daughter was with her, trying to keep pressure on the wound. I assume that was Thea’s work too, but whatever caused it happened before I got there.’
‘What was everybody else doing? The entire village was awake.’
‘I didn’t see,’ he says shortly. ‘They weren’t in the exercise yard.’
He’s sulking, she realises. He never imagined the conversation going any further than his accusation, and the reveal of the T-shirt. He hasn’t rehearsed any of this. If she’s careful, she might finally be able to catch him out.
‘What did you do after you saw Thea stab Niema?’
‘I ran.’
‘You ran?’
‘I was exiled from the village, Emory. I was told if I interacted with anybody, they’d be killed. Niema had welcomed me back, but she was dead. I was worried about what Thea or Hephaestus would do if they caught me there, so I went back to my shack before they saw me.’
Finishing his tea, he takes his empty cup over to the sink and starts washing it. Emory stares at his back, thoughtfully.
He’s a good liar, she’ll give him that. She’s been served fragments of the truth, and there’s almost enough of them to disguise the fact that they don’t really fit together. It’s impressive, and irritating.
‘How did you burn your hands?’ she asks, gratified to see his shoulders momentarily tense.
‘I can’t remember,’ he replies.
‘Did it happen when you set the warehouse alight?’ presses Emory. ‘I noticed the ash under your fingernails and I found one of Magdalene’s paintings in your shack. It used to be stored in the warehouse, and had bloody fingerprints on the frame, suggesting you saved it from the fire. Was that Niema’s blood? Did you cave her head in, then set fire to the warehouse, only to realise you were about to burn your beloved granddaughter’s art?’
Adil wrings the dishcloth in his hands.
‘I’ve given you the clothes,’ he says, struggling to hold on to his temper. ‘I’ve told you about the fingernail. Why are you still asking me questions? If you check Thea’s hand, you’ll see I’m right.’
‘Do you know what you and the elders have in common?’ says Emory sharply. ‘You only answer questions you want to answer, and you think the rest of us are stupid enough not to notice. You were in the warehouse, last night, and I think you drew the code to the morgue on Clara’s wrist. You wanted us to find those bodies. What are you up to?’
A tense pause stretches between them and Emory realises she’s holding her breath. She feels like she’s standing at the entrance of a dark cave, hearing something stirring inside. She doesn’t know whether to press on, or back away.
‘Do you know why I was exiled, Emory?’ he asks, at last.
‘You attacked Niema with a scalpel.’
‘That wasn’t why,’ he says, finally turning around, his face in shadow. ‘I was exiled because I started to remember things I wasn’t supposed to.’
‘Such as?’