Sister Agatha is a colossal 118 years of age, whose vim and vigour would put the most robust athletes to shame. During a routine check-up, however, her doctor claims she has just a week to live, news that proves to be quite inconvenient, seeing as the beloved sister has one ambition in life: to be the oldest person in the world. At last count, she was the fifth.
However, never one to admit defeat, Sister Agatha concocts a bold Plan B. Dusting off her passport, she decides to leave Irish shores for the first time in her very long life, and using the few days remaining, plans to travel across three continents and meet the only four people whose birthday cakes boast more candles than hers.
And then, one by one, she intends on killing them.
SISTER AGATHA
The World's Oldest Serial Killer
Domhnall O'Dohoghue
Published by Tirgearr Publishing
Author Copyright 2016 Domhnall O'Dohoghue
Cover Art: Alicia Stucky (http://stucky.portfoliobox.me) and Cora Graphics (www.coragrpahics.it)
Editor: Sharon Pickrel
Proofreader: Christine McPherson
A Smashwords Edition
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This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
DEDICATION
For those who believe that life has no Best Before date.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
I would like to thank:
My darling agent and friend, Lorraine Brennan, for her unrelenting support and love over the years.
Alexander, for telling me that I could, in fact, write, then giving me the opportunity to do so in Irish Tatler Man.
My marvellous publishers, Tírgearr, for taking a punt.
The many National Tourist Offices who hosted me and thus provided me with such excellent material for this, my first attempt.
My Italian lover, JC, who bribed me with prosecco and gelato as a way of ensuring that I met my daily deadlines. And his parents, for welcoming me into their gorgeous home in Venice.
To those friends who I forced to read early drafts of the manuscript – Eamonn, Vanessa and Gayle – I owe you all new red pens.
And, above all, my parents, who made more sacrifices than any saint in heaven in order to afford my siblings and me every opportunity in life. The helicopter pad might still be a pipe dream but at least I can pay for lunch now.
Go raibh míle maith agaibh.
SISTER AGATHA
The World's Oldest Serial Killer
Domhnall O'Dohoghue
Prologue
THE MEATH CHRONICLE, 06 FEBRUARY, 1898
There was cause for both celebration and commiseration in the usually peaceful village of Kilberry this week.
Yesterday, cigars were passed around following the arrival of a new bonnie baby, Butsy Miller. While her proud parents, farmers Seán and Máire, were not available to speak to The Meath Chronicle—likely too distracted fawning over the latest member of their family—a loose-lipped neighbour happily made up for their silence, explaining that it was a busy day on the Millers’ farm. He exclusively revealed that the couple’s diminutive bundle of joy arrived just seconds after one of their prized cows had also given birth.
“One weighed a fine eight pounds,” the knowledgeable neighbour explained, “while the scales showed the other to be a mighty eighty!”
For the sake of Mrs Miller, we only hope the poor woman delivered the lighter of the two.
“With all these happy and healthy additions,” the neighbour added, with a mischievous glint in his eye, “I’d wager the Millers are over the moo-n!”
Indeed. Additionally, if this jokester’s memory is trustworthy, the infant will be pleased to learn that she comes from an almost imperishable clan: rather impressively, her two great-grandmothers did not relinquish life until they had both passed the century mark. To that end, we trust that little Butsy will have the sense to squirrel away as many hours of sleep as possible—while she can—for it appears to be written that a long and venturesome road lies ahead of the youngster.
It wasn’t only little Butsy who was crying in the village this week, however. Tears cascaded from the eyes of the local community football team which was, to put it mildly, annihilated by the Seneschalstown lads in a charity event. Over the course of the ninety minutes, the hosts managed to score no more than a single point, while the visitors put a whopping thirty of them over the bar with a further six goals under it.
The local club organised the game in an attempt to raise funds to replace the “Welcome to Kilberry” sign that mysteriously vanished in December of last year. Incidentally, this rather juvenile act of vandalism occurred on the same night in which the local police station’s annual Christmas party took place. To date, no one has been held accountable for the crime.
If the Kilberry footballers keep up this miserable form, they would be best served to follow in the footsteps of the aforementioned sign and disappear into the night!
Chapter One
Sister Agatha had been wearing tinted glasses for many years, a snappy and stylish accessory that added a splash of definition to her soft, bulbous face. She wasn’t sensitive to the sun, however; in fact, the nun had always enjoyed lolling about in the convent’s ample grounds on a summer’s day. No, the real reason this much-loved figure armed herself with such distinctive and flattering eyewear was less to do with her eagerness to be on trend, but more on account of their ability to give people the impression that she was listening to them when, in reality, she was doing like Rip Van Winkle and catching forty winks. Having graced God’s earth for one hundred and eighteen years, she had, understandably, long since tired of having to give counsel to people’s many pickles and predicaments.
In terms of subject matter, not only had this reluctant sounding board been privy to the humdrum, she had also been exposed to the hardcore. Indeed, had she been a lady of letters, Sister Agatha could have furnished an entire library with scandalous novels bursting with content that would put a blush on the cheeks of even the most progressive free-thinkers.
“If I reported to the world the many anecdotes that I’ve gathered over the years, amorous men and women would be so inspired by this roguery that we wouldn’t see them for dust again!” she firmly decided many years previously, thereby putting paid to any inclinations of becoming the next best-selling, saucy scribe.
Certainly, she was aware that some might argue it was in her professional remit to provide a sympathetic ear to those in need, and while she was in agreement, some days the old doll had neither the interest nor the energy.
Such as this morning.
As she sat in the waiting room of the doctor’s surgery, located on Navan’s busy Abbey Road, Sister Agatha thanked the good Lord above that she had come equipped with her invaluable glasses; after all, nothing encouraged sleep like a conversation about someone’s furry friend.
Doreen Cooney, the town bore, had made a beeline for Sister Agatha when she spotted her on arrival. Despite the fact that she had claimed to be in the throes of a brutal battle with tonsillitis, the gabby school principal appeared to be in full voice as she waxed lyrical about her new adorable cat, Lolita, and the crazy escapades they got up to toget
her. (It was no wonder Mr Cooney had recently accepted a job on the oil rigs off the coast of Scotland; the constant sound of drilling was sure to be an excellent tonic to his wife’s relentless chatter.)
“Sister, I could honestly spend the whole day long just squeezing and tickling and kissing the little cutey pie!” Doreen readily confessed. “You should hear the adorable sounds Lolita makes when she’s indigestion!”
Luckily, within seconds of the new arrival launching into her diatribe about her darling playmate, Sister Agatha had hightailed it to the land of nod and, thanks to her extremely helpful spectacles, nobody knew any better. And that is where she remained until the rugged Doctor McManus emerged from his surgery some ten minutes later.
“My appointment book tells me that it’s time to give my star patient her monthly once-over,” he heartily announced from his door, resisting the urge to give the proud and self-sufficient, super-centenarian a helping hand, as he had been previously instructed.
On the subject of time, Sister Agatha had noted that the handsome, unmarried doctor was unusually behind schedule today. When she had first arrived half an hour earlier, he had promised that he would be as quick as a wink. Either he was exaggerating or was, like the late Sister Veronica, held to ransom by Bell's palsy and having difficulties closing his peepers because thirty minutes certainly didn’t constitute a wink, in her eyes. She contemplated bringing this to his attention in case he was blind to the situation but then dismissed the idea straight away, seeing as a doctor of all people should be aware of such symptoms.
Besides, she wasn’t there to worry about the lovely Doctor McManus’ health; she had kept her appointment today so that her own hardy form could be scrutinised and given the proverbial two thumbs up. And so, with impressive agility, Sister Agatha shook off her slumber and got to her feet. She bade Mrs Cooney goodbye (while secretly thanking her for the rather pleasant catnap) and walked in the direction of the surgery.
“And, I was just about to show you some of our homemade videos,” Doreen lamented. “I suppose I could just wait until you’re finished?”
Sister Agatha’s reply to this horrid suggestion was a blunt shutting of the surgery door behind her.
Every first Wednesday of the month, the formidable nun rocked up to the Abbey Road premises for a straightforward, on-the-off-chance examination. Each and every time, Doctor McManus would probe her from head to toe then praise her extraordinary robustness to the high heavens—a place the one-hundred-and-eighteen-year-old had no interest in frequenting anytime in the near future.
Sister Agatha felt confident today would be no different.
* * *
Sister Agatha had been the proud owner of a whole different name before she became a Bride of Christ. Born in early February 1898—the same year C.S. Lewis and George Gershwin also took their first breaths—Butsy Miller was the most adorable baby in the whole county of Meath, thanks to the precious little curl with which she had entered the world.
Her parents, Seán and Máire Miller, were simple farmers in the small village of Kilberry, a parish that stood about a country mile north of Navan. The couple had tried desperately to fall pregnant for as long as they both remembered, but as they fast approached their mid-forties, it seemed the good Lord had other ideas for them.
However, the seeds of Butsy Miller were miraculously sown just as Mr Miller was about to throw in the towel. (quite literally at that—Mrs Miller firmly believed that cleanliness was next to godliness so always insisted that her poor husband washed thoroughly before each and every attempt to generate offspring. Farming was a hard slog, one that didn’t promote pleasant bodily odours, she rightly argued.)
On the first day of spring, Kilberry saw the rain fall but its population rise—from two hundred and four to two hundred and five. Neighbours and relatives gathered around, all of whom had high hopes for the youngest member of the community.
“What a charming wife she will make someday—look at her beauty!”
“What a first-class curl!”
“Notice how large and sturdy her hands are—she is sure to follow in her parents’ footsteps and become a farmer one day!”
The initial excitement soon petered out when the busy stork brought Philomena O’Shea a set of twins a week later, not only stealing Butsy’s thunder but also sending Kilberry’s population skyrocketing to a hefty two hundred and seven.
Mr and Mrs Miller were thankful for the distraction because it meant that they had their little cherub all to themselves. They had no idea who she might marry or what she might become in the future; for now, they just wanted to enjoy their daughter’s company.
And how they marvelled at the fact that thanks to her colourful, chubby cheeks combined with the single curl that always stood upright no matter how much they tinkered with it, their little Butsy Miller bore an uncanny resemblance to a Hallowe’en pumpkin.
* * *
Perched on top of a plinth inside Doctor McManus’ examination room, Sister Agatha’s veil was now removed, revealing a shock of white, curly hair. Her habit was also cast aside; the simple slip that she wore perfectly showcased her fine, sinewy arms—the sight of which would probably have left most people half her age green with envy.
Completely under Doctor McManus’ spell, Sister Agatha was being, as always, identical to an obedient schoolgirl, doing everything the dashing medic demanded of her with extra zeal and added enthusiasm.
“Would my favourite patient mind sticking out her tongue for me?”
His favourite patient most certainly would not mind; in fact, Sister Agatha outstretched it so far a light aircraft could have landed on it.
“Excellent,” he gushed, tickled by her spirit. “And now, could you say ‘Awww’ for me, Sister?”
Upon hearing this command, she imagined she was on the stage of the Sydney Opera House and basically belted out an aria—almost deafening the poor man in the process.
“Sounds good to me!” he noted, while also hoping that the ringing in his ears would soon subside.
“One last thing and then I’ll send you on your merry way, Sister. Could you gently breathe into this stethoscope for me?”
Having little interest in doing anything in moderation, the venerable dame inhaled so much oxygen into her lungs, Doctor McManus became worried that they would suffer the same fate as the Hindenburg airship. Yes, Sister Agatha was as fit as the proverbial fiddle, and each month she desperately wanted to remind the doctor of that very fact.
It wasn’t only Sister Agatha who was a creature of habit, however. Without fail, at the end of each consultation, Doctor McManus would playfully pinch her sunken cheeks and say in his gloriously thick Navan accent: “Ye couldn’t knock a bother outta ye, Sister!” (And, just like a lovesick teenager, she would laugh coquettishly, swat his hand away, and make some comment of the garden variety, like: “Sure, how could you, Doctor? Amn’t I only forty years young next birthday!” or “Still time to run the marathon, do you think, Doctor?” or “The perfect girl to take home to your mother, so?”)
Today, however, he failed to utter his well-rehearsed line about being unable to knock a bother out of her. Even more alarming, Doctor McManus, ever the gentleman, would also normally assist his star pupil onto the floor, help her get dressed, then lead her to the seat in front of his desk where he would proceed to praise her to the hilt. But this morning, for some reason, he ignored this age-old custom and, instead, excused himself, promising to return in a few minutes as he had to “double-check something”.
“Don’t worry, Sister, I’ll send in a nurse to help put you back together!” he quipped, trying to make light of the sudden change to the script.
This time, Sister Agatha didn’t laugh at his joke. She felt a knot in her stomach, convinced that the good doctor had discovered something untoward and the prognosis wasn’t positive. Had he popped outside for a cigarette or a drop of brandy, as a way of working up the courage to tell her the jig was up? Maybe he was trying to convince a co
lleague to do his dirty work for him? Or had he taken to the hills just like the fearful Sister Mary Bernadette once did after she’d accidentally left a bath running, resulting in a significant portion of the convent’s second floor caving in—and almost killing poor Sister Zina in the process?
A nurse, whom she had not seen in the clinic before, sauntered in, briefly preventing the nun from indulging in her morbidity. Judging by the new arrival’s unhurried, nonchalant demeanor, Sister Agatha deduced that this young woman found herself at the clinic on a temporary basis and clearly had little interest in developing relationships with those who frequented the building. Either that or she was just plain rude. Additionally, by the lack of grace with which she assisted Sister Agatha into her habit, the hundred-and-eighteen-year-old wagered that ballet wasn't something this youngster had ever practised.
Speaking of habits, shouting was a common one most people had gotten themselves into when communicating with the elderly nun, on account of the glorious amount of candles on her birthday cake (though treats and delicacies of that nature were regrettably rare within the convent, even for such auspicious occasions). Sister Agatha boasted a fine set of ears that worked perfectly well, which meant that roaring—like this nurse was currently doing—was rather unnecessary.
“Lift your arms for me, will ye?” she barked at full volume.
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