Sister Agatha

by Domhnall O'Donoghue

  As his captor shouted towards some Rita person in the room and demanded that she leave her husband and return to him, where she belonged, Porter started reflecting on his life and suddenly became extremely grateful that he had experienced so much happiness over the years. While his first two wives had turned out to be somewhat disagreeable, it proved to be a case of third-time lucky when he had met Vondra, the woman who had stolen his heart but who, in return, had given him the greatest gift imaginable—their daughters, Kadisha and Kiandra.

  If he had any regrets, it was that he hadn’t spent enough time with the loves of his life. Instead, his other love, music, had come first, and it was only after they had died that he realised how foolish he had been, and he had then spent each day since begging for one more chance.

  Every morning, he visited their graves. Every morning, he brought them all flowers. Every morning, he talked to them but never played—he had done far too much of that when they were alive. He told them what he had eaten for breakfast, what the weather was like, what his plans were for the day—innocuous things that were rarely mentioned face-to-face. He told them that he loved them and that he was counting down the days until they were reunited.

  And as this madman continued to point the gun at his head (during which, the glass admirably continued to keep them both aloft), Porter felt happy for the first time in decades. At long last, he was going to be able to tell Vondra, Kadisha, and Kiandra to their faces what he had had for breakfast that morning: a poached egg, a tumbler of orange juice (anything more was too acidic for his delicate stomach), a single slice of dry bread, as well as a handful of prunes to keep everything moving.

  Although, the fear that this crazed, roly-poly bloke was currently instilling in him had made those prunes somewhat unnecessary.

  * * *

  What the neighbours said was imperative to Paul Flood, an outlook that he inherited from his now-deceased parents. It was of the utmost importance that people saw his family in the best light possible: the successful lawyer wanted others to look up to the Floods; to aspire to be like them. Whatever happened behind those picketed fences, stayed behind those picketed fences.

  His hugely successful wife, Rita, was rarely at home on account of her work, so it was left to Paul to run a tight ship. When their eldest son, Paul Junior, had announced that he was gay, Paul responded by giving him a black eye. (He was seventeen—how could he possibly know, anyway?)

  The following morning, he dragged him to the parish priest, who then subjected Paul Junior to a four-hour, turn-away-from-sin rant, and the only possible way to bring the misery to an end was by promising that he would never act on such heinous urges.

  Paul Junior ran away that very evening.

  “He’s gone to join the army and serve his country,” Paul told Mr and Mrs Victors and all the other residents on the street. “If he dies in combat, then it’s God’s will.”

  Paul had always been aware that his wife of twenty years was a two-timing strumpet, but it only became an issue when one of her toyboys refused to accept that the affair was over and had subsequently become nothing short of a nuisance. Every evening, when Paul drew the curtains, he would see the sallow-skinned lothario sitting in his car outside, a pair of binoculars in hand.

  Taking out a restraining order had only exacerbated matters, and Jamel, as it turned out he was called, continued to pursue his stalking endeavours with commendable zeal. He would ring the phone every few minutes and shout graphic obscenities. Parcels, filled with bodily fluids, were delivered to the door. Clothes were stolen from the washing line and later returned, boasting stab marks and blood. As much as Paul was impressed by Jamel’s commitment, this tomfoolery had gotten out of hand, and it had to end.

  Paul was of the opinion that Jamel would find a way of being present at the Saint Patrick’s Day celebrations in the Willis Tower, so along with a bunch of shamrocks attached to his new Ralph Lauren jacket, the devoted husband and father placed a pistol into his pocket.

  As they would say in Ireland, the jig was well and truly up.

  * * *

  Sister Agatha watched as the scene played out. She was too long in the tooth to get frightened by such matters, but she certainly felt uncomfortable. The pot of gold was clearly distressed, and it seemed that love was at the root of the problem, and love’s name was Rita. As he held the gun on poor Porter (who remained admirably composed, if somewhat reflective), the pot of gold detailed the various highs of his relationship with Rita—and it was a good job that there were no children present, as some of the anecdotes being shared were of an intimate nature.

  In an attempt to diffuse the situation, Rita cautiously approached the pot of gold and his hostage, beseeching him to put the gun down and promised that everything would be okay.

  “Will you leave that bastard of a husband of yours? Will you?”

  “I will. I swear to you that I will, so long as you put the gun away.”

  Her words seemed to resonate with the transgressor, and he slowly lowered the gun. But the very second Rita stepped onto the Ledge, another gun triggered and a series of shots followed. Some of these bullets hit Jamel, although the majority of them missed their target. It was said that the Ledge was able to hold four tons of weight, but that figure hadn't factored in the glass being shattered by a Glock pistol at close range.

  And so, Porter Williams, Rita Flood and the elephantine pot of gold all went crashing through it, falling an irremediable one hundred and three floors.

  Sister Agatha entered the Willis Towers as the fourth-oldest person in the world. With the assistance of a certain gun-toting Paul Flood, she left being the third.

  Chapter Eight

  You are cordially invited to celebrate the wedding of

  Edyta Balinski

  and

  Pawel Dragon

  at

  Lazienki Park, Warsaw

  on

  Sunday, 13 March 2016 at four o’clock

  The couple requests that any gifts should take the form of donations to the Warsaw War Memorial, of which Edyta’s great-grandmother, Benedykta, is a patron.

  There will be maximum security on the day and entrance to the venue shall only be permitted by the wristbands, enclosed.

  The happy couple asks that guests bring their dancing shoes because music will be played until the early hours of the morning!

  Istniejemy na tyle, na ile kochamyv (We exist only when we love).

  * * *

  Marie Curie, the two-time Nobel Prize winner, was born in Warsaw, Poland’s capital city. After a nine-and-a-half-hour flight from Chicago, followed by a brisk taxi ride from the Chopin Airport, Sister Agatha finally arrived in the centre and hoped that she, too, could be as innovative as the great scientist when it came to dispatching of Benedykta Balinski, the world's second oldest person.

  The city’s newest visitor was let out just in front of the rather unpopular yet magnificent Palace of Culture and Sciences, an unwelcome gift from a certain Joseph Stalin and a glaring reminder of Soviet domination in the city. The Order of Saint Aloysius had once received a present from one of Navan’s most ardent and devout churchgoers, when a referendum was passed in 1995 to finally allow divorce to be an option for unhappy couples in Ireland. The spinster had rocked up to the convent one wet Wednesday morning and presented them with a handmade ornament made from hundreds of matchsticks, crammed onto a large sponge. One Matchstick had a speech bubble attached to its head, asking, “Where’s Daddy?” It didn’t prove popular with anybody in the convent, apart from the short-sighted Sister Annunciata, who thought it was a hedgehog made by one of the children. It was stored away in a cupboard and only brought out again when the aforementioned parishioner called around. Looking up at the building today, Sister Agatha thought it was unfortunate that the Polish people could not take a similar approach on account of its size.

  Up until now, Sister Agatha had been remarkably successful in obtaining information about her targets by simply asking the lo
cals, as it seemed that those over the age of a hundred were (rightly) considered royalty and their every move recorded. Luckily, this had also been the case when she had questioned Kacper, the friendly air steward who had taken such good care of her on the journey over.

  As he gave her a second helping of sernik, a delicious Polish cheesecake that just melted in her mouth, he had revealed that Benedykta Balinski was due to celebrate the marriage of her great-granddaughter to one of the country's most successful rock stars, Pawel Dragon. Apparently, the city was at a standstill and the excitement was electric. The pair had erected an enormous marquee in the famous Lazienki Park, and anyone who was anyone would be there, including a certain one-hundred-and-twenty-one-year-old.

  On one hand, Sister Agatha was delighted she had established Benedykta's whereabouts; on the other, she had a hunch that the place would be swarming with not only family but security, keeping any unsavoriness at arm's length.

  Standing in front of the Palace of Culture and Sciences, which, on further inspection, was an even more remarkable architectural achievement than she had initially thought, Sister Agatha wondered if she had the astuteness to overcome such obstacles.

  “Three days ago, you were the fifth-oldest person in the world,” she reminded herself. “Today, you are the third. Do not underestimate your skill, Butsy Miller!”

  So, she popped over to a street vendor to nab herself a zapiekanka, a delicious sandwich complete with sautéed mushrooms, cheese, and ketchup. Refueled, Sister Agatha then set off in the direction of the Lazienki Park by foot (last-minute airfares, even economy seats, carried exorbitant price tags, so she had to be extremely mindful of every cent—or, as it were, every grosz). Besides, after the snack she had just devoured, as well as the feast that her darling Kacper had conjured up thousands of feet in the air, she was long overdue some exercise. Sister Priscilla, one of the very few new recruits to the Order in recent years, had told everyone as they were getting a photograph taken beside the newly-installed recycling bins that the camera adds ten pounds, and seeing as Sister Agatha was soon to be the world’s oldest person, thereby being in high demand from the media far and wide, she didn’t want to let herself down by being rough around the edges. No, if she was bestowed such a prestigious honour, she was adamant that she would look the part, so off she walked to the wedding, hoping to burn a few calories in the interim.

  Sister Agatha hadn't realised that the fine Lazienki Park was as big as it was, but both she and her newly blistered feet soon discovered that it was over seventy-six hectares. Despite the pain, she was forced to concede that the ample space was required to house all its magnificent palaces, theatres and temples, as well as its many towering monuments of such luminaries as Chopin, the city's most famous son. Sister Agatha hobbled past all of those striking architectural masterpieces, full of admiration, before finally stumbling across the wedding marquee, which was so enormous, she thought it could house over a dozen circuses.

  As suspected, the giant tent was surrounded by seemingly impenetrable railings as well as an army of hard-nosed, muscly security guards, who were busy intimidating the numerous well-wishers who had arrived ahead of the nuptials. Amongst the masses, Sister Agatha even thought she recognised a troupe of can-can dancers from her stopover at Paris a few days previously, though she wouldn’t have been confident standing up in front of a judge and admitting the same, she confessed.

  She stood behind one of the many large trees that dotted the park and observed the situation from afar. Her options were limited. The guests who were beginning to arrive (and who were beautifully turned out, she also noted) appeared to have some sort of wristband that was being scanned at the entrance. Short of clobbering one of them over the head with some of the many apples being carted into the back of the marquee, Sister Agatha wasn't optimistic about her chances of getting her mitts on such a thing.

  Poland was amongst the largest suppliers of the fruit in the world, and as Sister Agatha looked at the overflowing carts lined up outside and waiting to go in, she wished that she really was a guest. Not only would it afford her the opportunity to murder Benedykta Balinski, but it would also allow her to chomp down on one of those delicious Gala Royals. Sister Agatha was a living testament to an apple a day keeps the doctor away and, sometimes, if she felt giddy, she would indulge and have two! Looking at them now, she wanted to dive into one of those carts and bathe in their deliciousness!

  Then, an idea started to form in her mind. As she worked out the sketchy details, she could see that the plan was flawed, but after four days of travelling the length and breadth of the world, it was the best she could come up with. In fact, it was just so ridiculous, it might work, particularly if she took a similar approach to ripping off a bandage: she just needed to close her eyes and do the deed!

  And so, as brazen as you like, Sister Agatha strolled over to a second tree that stood behind the long line of carts and waited for the workers to become distracted. The arrival of some well-known, scantily-clad celebrities did the trick, and without giving too much thought to the shortcomings of this hare-brained idea, she took a deep breath, blessed herself, and dived into the cart.

  As she battled to conceal herself within, she cursed the length of her habit, but following a little toing and froing, she was confident that she had adequately covered herself beneath all the apples. What followed was a seemingly eternal waiting game, made all the worse by the fact that she was at loggerheads with herself, trying to resist temptation and not devour her camouflage.

  Some moments later, she heard voices edging towards her. A group of men surrounded the cart and, judging by their tone, they did not appear to be the friendliest of people. How and ever, she wasn’t there to make new chums, so they could be as gruff as they liked so long as they played their part and brought her to where she needed to go.

  No sooner had that thought crossed her mind, she felt the cart being moved and, at long last, it was en route into the marquee where, should luck continue to be her ally, she would soon become the second-oldest person in the world.

  While spatial awareness wouldn’t have been one of Sister Agatha’s strongest points (the other sisters often joked that she should ask Santa Claus for a guide dog, such was her tendency to bump into things), she was dogmatic that the journey to the marquee was quite a short one yet it felt like the cart had been on the move for an age.

  “Maybe we’re going in through another entrance,” she reassured herself, trying to ignore the niggling doubt that something was amiss.

  When the cart did stop, the stowaway breathed a (silent) sigh of relief. However, any such delight was premature because just as it came to rest, it started moving again. Although, this time, it appeared that the cart was now mounting a ramp into what, she suspected, was not the marquee.

  When an engine sounded, she was certain it wasn’t.

  * * *

  Benedykta Balinski had been a famous Olympic skier before she became one of Poland's most revered spies during the Second World War. Her father actually hailed from Annecy, a lakeside city in the south-east of France, but when his first wife had died from complications following childbirth, the widower, in need of a woman’s touch around the house, immediately began a courtship with their Polish nanny. Keen to start afresh, they decided to up sticks and head east.

  Once married, the new couple had their first and only child together, Benedykta. While French was spoken at home, the mechanic’s youngest daughter had loyalty to one country alone, and that was Poland. When she played such a pivotal role in emancipating the war-torn nation years later, it was absolutely no surprise to anyone.

  In recent years, Poland’s media ensured that they were ready for Benedykta’s inevitable death, preparing numerous news bulletins and articles, seeing as her legacy was so vast and no editor wanted to miss a beat. The focus of this sporting champion’s tributes was always the extraordinary patriotism and the life-threatening situations in which she had found herself time and time again—
all so that her fellow countrymen and women could be free from German occupation.

  Few were aware, however, that their golden girl, the one-hundred-and-twenty-one-year-old national treasure, had not only jumped horses in the latter part of the war but had also killed on behalf of the Nazis.

  It had started off so promisingly for Benedykta. After joining the intelligence services in 1939, the then forty-four-year-old had used her experience as a skier to escort various agents and resistance groups from Hungary into Poland by way of the snow-capped Tatra Mountains, which boasted rather chilly temperatures of minus thirty degrees Celsius.

  One such agent, a rather stout and bearded Englishman, had been so impressed by her fearlessness (and fluent French) that he brought her to London, where she was invited to join the Special Operations Executive who, only recently, had the smarts to accept the fairer sex into their ranks.

  There, success blossomed and a short time later, Benedykta had the distinction of being one of the first female agents to parachute into France, where the raven-haired beauty wasted no time in organising the transportation of arms from Britain, which she then distributed amongst resistance members. If that weren’t enough, under the guise of an amateur archaeologist, she had even managed to gather a multitude of crucial geographical information for future landings.

  Then, things started to fall apart at the seams. Benedykta had been instructed to attend a party at the Gestapo Headquarters in the French capital, and with the flutter of an eye, she was expected to seduce the chief, the notorious ladies’ man, Herr Freudenberger, and then extract some vital information from him about this and that.

  Except, there was only one small problem: she fell head over heels in love with the brute and, despite having a loyal and adoring husband at home, a passionate affair began.