There are 125 people at the end of the world, and one of them is dead. In the more dystopian apocalyptic narratives, that loss might be primarily one of capacity: losing the only remaining doctor, or the one person left who can keep the power plant running. Niema’s murder does rob the remaining community of its leader and one of its only scientists, but the other loss is almost more profound.
These survivors of apocalypse, confined to a Greek island due to a surrounding fog that eats human flesh and which cannot be dispersed or crossed, live in a society of peace and sustainable prosperity. Niema’s murder is not just the loss of someone valuable. It’s the loss of innocence, and the knowledge that a friend or neighbour is certainly responsible. To make things worse, not only are there a limited number of culprits, but also there’s a deadline. The last remnants of the human race have only 91 hours to live: the mechanism that keeps the fog away is linked to Niema’s life, and the only way to restore the barrier is to solve the murder.
While the concept is fun, the part of the premise that links species survival to a dead woman’s switch does initially seem a little thin. It’s designed to, however, and as the mystery unfolds, the reasoning behind Niema’s choices – alternately altruistic and viciously cruel as those choices are – becomes plain.
Emory, who is tasked with investigating the murder (she is certainly the most suitable option, given her unusually sceptical nature), is left to uncover layers of lies and questions of identity – her own, and the identity of everyone she knows. It’s a fantastic puzzle box of a book, as motivations, manipulations and memory loss come together in increasingly sinister ways.
The Last Murder at the End of the World is a science-fiction novel, and beyond that apocalyptic premise is the threat and possibility of extinction. Sci-fi fans may pick up on one of the plot twists early, simply from the likely etymology of the pejorative “crum”, aimed as it is at bulk of the island’s inhabitants. The presence of Abi, an artificial intelligence in constant communication with the islanders and capable of controlling their actions at will, is another element of genre, and Abi is an increasingly unreliable narrator.
Unreliability, I’ve come to think, is one of the hallmarks of apocalyptic fiction, as is moral complexity. Abi comments that “adults are allergic to complication”, and the desire to find a safe, simple path to surviving the end of the world is, the novel argues, an element of prolonged immaturity: the desire of people who have yet to really grow up.
Part of the appeal of apocalypse stories is that they ask us to examine the things that, in extremis, we value – as well as the things we are willing to bargain away. One of those things is pride. What does it mean to be human in this new and challenging environment? How do we compromise ourselves, and our communities, in our efforts to survive? What happens when the better elements of human nature – its compassion and altruism – are mapped so completely on to a race that is different to our own? When two populations compete for the same limited resources, how bad does it have to get before we want the other side to win? These are leading questions, and the novel ends, as it begins, with the possibility of extinction. At that point, your own preference will be telling.
The Last Murder at the End of the World by Stuart Turton (Raven Books, $34.99) is out now.
