“It’s… Thank… I don’t…”
“No need to thank me,” the kindly porter said before revealing that it was the Americans, forced to pull out of the trip at the last minute, who were actually due any gratitude. On account of their sensitive dispositions, they were all left bedbound in Tunis, meaning that the three healthy guests were almost being given the run of the place, along with the very best rooms.
“And to think of all the criticism salmonella has faced over the years,” she joked, although her efforts were met with a blank face.
Alone, she continued to explore her glorious new residence. Large enough to shelter a football team along with all their lairy supporters, the suite, with its marble floors and king-sized bed, was the most luxurious space in which she had ever set foot. And it didn’t stop there. The en-suite, with its two sinks (two!), ginormous bathtub and an endless supply of toiletries, not to mention the mountain of fresh towels that almost reached the ceiling, was so spotless that she dared not disturb a thing!
But, out on the balcony, lay the pièce de resistance: when she looked down, an adorable courtyard, bedecked with palm trees, terracotta benches, and a central ornamental fountain, greeted her; when she looked up, a million little stars filled the night’s sky, and all of them appeared to be winking at her alone.
At that moment, this Irish lass felt like Queen Agatha of the Sahara—and how she wished that her reign would never end.
That evening, after feasting on some delicious kosksi bil ghalmi (or lamb couscous, as her waiter explained to her), Sister Agatha decided to skip the evening entertainment by the pool. Instead, she thought it best to make her way back to her room—not only because she was concerned that the spicy food would make a reappearance (the embarrassing incident in Charles de Gaulle Airport earlier was more than enough for any gal to handle in one day), but also because she had yet to hatch a plan for the following morning's main event: the killing of Tayri Chakchouk. She had to keep reminding herself that no matter how much she would have enjoyed listening to the funky-looking band and watching the exciting magic show that was scheduled, this holiday was a working one and there was no time for conviviality.
Sister Agatha knew that her first target lived in a mud hut just a few miles from where her hotel stood. Even though the nun firmly believed in there being no time like the present, she felt that that oft-used idiom was trumped by the one that talked about preparation being key. And seeing as she had been preoccupied with merely reaching her destination—as well as being distracted by the many jewels that Tunisia possessed—she hadn’t had sufficient time to investigate the most efficient way of ending another person’s life.
Until now, that is.
Back in the suite, she wrapped herself in one of the ridiculously comfortable bath robes that hung in the wardrobe and took the pencil and pad from the bedside locker to jot down some possibilities.
“They really think of everything here,” she mused, while admiring the luxurious texture of the paper.
Just as she set to work, the sound of the lively band playing outside proved a little too distracting and inviting (they were even playing Don McLean’s Vincent—her favourite song!), so in order to stay focused on the task at hand, with steel determination, she marched over to the balcony and went to close the doors in the hope of drowning out all the tempting joviality. As she did this, she spotted Dougie sitting alone in the courtyard, staring straight ahead of him and deep in thought—a sight that was in stark contrast to the similarly-aged men nearby who were having the time of their lives, dancing with their wives and girlfriends or enjoying a cheeky nightcap.
There had been the occasional moment or two during the day when Sister Agatha could see the dying embers of a fire struggling valiantly to stay alight in Dougie’s eyes, which was a good sign, she decided—at least they hadn’t been extinguished for good. He may be at the beck and call of a certain disagreeable taskmaster, but there was still hope for him, of that she was sure.
What’s more, she was extremely fond of him and was convinced that as soon as he escaped from his mother’s ever-tightening claws, he would make the loveliest husband for someone someday. Yes, just like Sister Anna-Maria, who, since childhood, had always wanted to jump into the swimming pool but fear prevented her from doing so; a little encouragement was all that was needed for a successful outcome. At that moment, she decided that tomorrow would not only be about ending one person’s life, it would also be about helping another starts theirs. After all, if Sister Anna-Maria could cross the Irish Sea at the ripe age of sixty-five, anything was possible.
The very instant that Sister Agatha returned to her bed, she fell backwards and into a deep slumber. And who could blame her? Being such a philanthropic do-gooder was tiring work, after all.
Chapter Five
Sister Agatha was extremely impressed by the courtesy shown by the Tunisian people, and was especially grateful that one of the hotel staff members obliged her by drawing a map to Tayri's house after breakfast. Apparently, the one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old enjoyed a national celebrity status and Sister Agatha wasn't the first person who wanted to pay her a visit to pass on their congratulations (the reason she fabricated for her interest in the woman).
In the end, the plan itself unfolded with much ease—at least the initial part of it. Sister Agatha would travel with the others to the nearby oasis where everyone would be treated to camel rides. From there, she was going to give whoever was in charge a few dinars to stray briefly from the group and make a short detour to Tayri's humble abode (so long as he was of the brown envelope persuasion).
What happened next was still up for grabs, but this criminal newcomer knew that for her lawlessness to go unnoticed, she must act expertly and swiftly. Her guide would be waiting outside the hut and, regardless of how obliging he ended up being, Sister Agatha knew that he would not be too supportive of such a villainous venture, particularly seeing as it meant the death knell for someone as revered and admired as Tayri Chakchouk.
As she took her seat on the bus, Sister Agatha's active mind went into overdrive, weighing up the pros and cons of the various methods that were available to her. She was prepared to have blood on her hands but only in the figurative sense, so she decided that she wasn't going to concern herself with anything as crude as stabbing or shooting.
She then questioned if she had the energy for a strangulation, and while few would ever describe her as a defeatist, Sister Agatha admitted that she did not. Even though she refused to give in to her arthritis, she was the first to acknowledge that anything that deviated from basic movements, such as lifting a bag or dressing, was something of an ordeal.
To go down the route of poisoning would require actual poison, which she would have to either purchase—and if her years on this earth had taught her anything, it's that people were held to ransom by suspicions, something she had no interest in rousing—or steal, an act Sister Agatha was not prepared to do: one crime a day was more than enough, she felt.
She then briefly toyed with the idea of using one of Tayri’s medical instruments as a weapon, but feared that this might deprive others of some life-saving elixir if it broke in the scuffle. Her options were running out, she reluctantly conceded.
“Good morning, everyone,” a breezy Mehdi said, as he joined the others on the bus. “I hope you all had a good night’s sleep because we have a busy day ahead of us, isn’t that right, Firas?”
Firas might have been an asset to the tour operator on account of his fine motoring skills, but when it came to his people skills, he was about as engaging as a bell pepper. As such, he didn’t even attempt to reply.
“Now, before we set off,” Mehdi continued, “I have a little suggestion that I would like your opinion on. What would you think about a little restructuring of the day's itinerary?”
Sister Agatha bolted upright—this wasn’t the sort of talk she was hoping to hear.
“What type of restructuring?” she questioned, dreading tha
t something might come in the way of her perfect plan.
“Well, I know someone was left a little disappointed yesterday because we didn’t manage to visit Matmata,” he acknowledged, leading Mrs McGregor to release a long, dramatic sigh.
“I hope ye never have tae contend wit’ angina,” she quipped.
“Of course, it was nobody’s fault,” Mehdi added, trying to be as diplomatic as possible, “but there might be a way to fix the problem.”
“What is it you’re suggesting?” Sister Agatha piped up, praying that her recently constructed house of cards wasn’t on the verge of falling apart.
“As magnificent as it is, the visit to the salt lake of Chott El Jerid never requires the full two hours that we allocate for it, so if we take some of that time, have lunch on the go, and skip visiting the carpet factory (they’re extremely overpriced anyway), I think we should just have enough time to head back to Matmata for a brief walkabout. What do you say?”
Dougie closed his eyes and held his breath.
“All these changes are taking place after the camel rides, am I right?” Sister Agatha asked.
“Exactly.”
“Then, it’s fine with me!”
Tears of joy started to roll down Dougie's cheeks. Was it possible that all of his prayers were, at long last, going to be answered? He turned to his mother, his face filled with hope and longing. Mrs McGregor looked out the window, giving the impression that she was mulling it over when, instead, she was savouring every minute of her son’s agony.
“I appreciate your kind offer, Mehdi, I really do,” she finally responded, “but I think it’s best if we stick tae the plan, as arranged.”
“But—”
“That’s me final word, Mehdi. Dougie, apologise tae the group for being so troublesome.”
“He wasn’t—” Sister Agatha interjected.
“Say you’re sorry, son!”
Following an uncomfortable silence, her fifty-two-year-old son bowed his head and mumbled an apology.
“Louder and clearer!” Mrs McGregor barked.
“I’m sorry, everybody.”
“That’s better. Now, are we goin’ tae get a move on? I can hardly wait for tha’ camel ride we’ve been promised.”
Admitting defeat, Mehdi nodded to Firas, who turned on the engine, and with that, their road trip continued as planned.
Sister Agatha looked over at Mrs McGregor who happily relaxed in her seat—a smug, self-satisfied smile etched across her face. The one-hundred-and-eighteen-year-old was left wondering if maybe she could kill two birds with one stone today.
The evening before, the trio had gotten nothing more than a mere taste of the Sahara Desert; it had been far too dark to fully appreciate its immensity and splendour. Today, they were in for a treat.
Stretching the whole breath of Africa, from the Atlantic Ocean in the west to the Mediterranean and Red Sea in the east, and taking in ten countries along the way, the Sahara had no qualms about making its presence known. And, just like every other visitor who wandered around this neck of the woods, it was love at first sight for Sister Agatha. When she looked in one direction, the sand appeared golden; in another, brown; and in another, white. More than anything, she felt it had the appearance of a page in some children’s storybook, almost a figment of the illustrator’s imagination.
Completely seduced by the sight before her, Sister Agatha was just short of crashing through the window, throwing off her sandals and racing across the never-ending expanse of sand dunes. But that would hardly be fair on poor Faris—he might not be the friendliest of chaps, but the curmudgeon didn’t deserve to spend the afternoon in some shoddy garage getting the pane replaced, particularly seeing as the temperatures were whizzing past thirty degrees.
The bus, with its windows still intact, soon pulled into a make-shift car park where a rickety shed stood somewhat apologetically in the middle. From the rumbling growls that Sister Agatha could hear, she assumed that her new mode of transport—and unwitting accessory to murder—waited within.
Mehdi ushered his three charges out of the bus and led them towards the man who appeared to be supervising proceedings. Sister Agatha noticed that his shoulders were quite broad, indicative of someone who was dependable and trustworthy, she felt—not the typical characteristics of a crooked accomplice. Fortunately, his duties were limited to greeting the tour buses and collecting their money, and soon she was allocated one of his colleagues as her guide. He was a young man whose thin body was in need of a good feeding—something that cost money—something that Sister Agatha was prepared to offer in return for his assistance.
Perfect.
Following a rudimentary “Hello”, and “You’re very welcome” (his English accent was quite impressive, Sister Agatha acknowledged), the guide handed her a sizeable black barracan robe, along with a headscarf. She was delighted with the costume change, especially as this new attire would afford her an air of anonymity a little later in the morning—an elderly lady in a nun's habit fleeing from a murder scene might give the game away, she feared.
The camels, complete with their single humps, finally made their much-anticipated appearance and Sister Agatha, Dougie, and Mrs McGregor were designated one each. In a movement that was almost synchronised, the three striking animals politely lowered their behinds to the sand to allow their passengers to mount them with ease. Sister Agatha refused to indulge in any trepidation—she was a farmer’s girl, after all. So without any assistance from her guide, she deftly perched herself on the camel’s back, and as he stood upright again, she felt a marvellous sense of exhilaration. Not since her childhood days had she been on top of an animal, but despite such a long interval, she felt completely at home sitting behind the hump.
Speaking of humps, however, Mrs McGregor was currently in one as she was having the most terrible time mounting her camel. Sister Agatha took great pleasure in watching the tyrant show a little vulnerability for a change.
Those glimpses of fragility were fleeting, and rather than endure the embarrassment any further, Mrs McGregor decided to forego the ride.
“Sod this, I’m goin’ for a tipple instead,” she announced before heading in the direction of a nearby café for a glass of wine.
She was about to demand her son to accompany her but, much to her annoyance, he was perched proudly on top of his camel and already on the move.
“He’ll pay for that later,” she mumbled to herself as she disappeared up some dusty road.
Sister Agatha wasted no time either and followed closely behind Dougie. She noticed that even in the brief moment that he was out of his tormentor’s shadow, he seemed taller and stronger: for the first time, he looked alive.
“Isn’t it only mind-blowing, Sister?” he exclaimed, his enthusiasm infectious.
Sister Agatha nodded, and it wasn’t just the vista that was magnificent; so, too, was Dougie’s remarkable transformation.
“It most definitely is, dear heart,” she replied and in that moment, she realised that the poor chap had to go it alone, and the only way to make this happen was to give him (or the animal on which he sat) a good, old-fashioned kick up the bottom.
“Sometimes, it’s the only language people understand,” she told herself, as she prepared for her first daring deed of the day.
Taking advantage of the fact that her guide was distracted swatting a mosquito away from his face, Sister Agatha grabbed the whip from his hand and, battling through the pain her arthritis caused, she lashed the derrière of Dougie’s camel with all her might! The stunned animal released a long, loud groan before darting across the desert; Dougie, utterly bewildered by this sudden and abrupt turn of events, grabbed the grips and held onto them for dear life!
It is said that, on sand, a camel can beat a horse in a race, and the impressive speed in which that particular one went, even with a middle-aged chap on his back, only endorsed that claim. The faces of the two guides filled with horror (how would they explain this to their broad-s
houldered boss?) and they valiantly dashed after them, even though they both knew it was a fruitless endeavour.
Left alone, Sister Agatha cheered Dougie on, which she did with the same level of enthusiasm Sister Fidelma had shown all those years ago when cheering on French Fancy at Navan Racecourse.
“Go and have an adventure!” she shouted after him, thrilled that she was now no longer obliged to murder his mother—one killing a day was more than enough.
While the power of the sun prevented her from watching Dougie disappear into the distance, she heard him roaring with delight. If those deep, guttural sounds he released received a translation, they might have said: Free at long last!
After the initial euphoria of Dougie’s emancipation had passed, Sister Agatha was forced to revise her plan. She had suffered some collateral damage in liberating the vexed and miserable child, in that she’d also lost her guide. Yet, the more she mulled over it, the more convinced she became that his desertion might actually be to her advantage; the way in which he became so distressed by that harmless mosquito suggested that he probably wasn’t the right man for the job. Besides, this fearless explorer was equipped with dogged determination as well as her hand-drawn map, and the kind waiter at the Sahara Star assured her that Tayri’s hut was only a hop, skip and a jump away from the car park.
“I can handle this myself,” she confidently declared, before she and her camel powered forward.
Sister Agatha was grateful for the temporary peace and quiet as it afforded her some invaluable time to contemplate her strategy for how best to carry out Tayri's murder. Seeing as she shared a name with the maestro of crime fiction, Sister Agatha chided herself for struggling to put together an adequate plan of action. If only she had been able to finish reading Murder on the Orient Express, she would surely be alive with ideas, but a two-day thunderstorm in the mid-thirties had resulted in the convent suffering a leaking roof, and the blasted deluge of rain that unapologetically made its way through the cracks damaged, amongst other things, her extensive Agatha Christie book collection.
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