Rather than berating herself for the books she hadn’t read, she decided to focus instead on those she had read, most notably, the Bible. If ever a text existed that documented the full gamut of gruesome murders, it was the scriptures: Jesus’ crucifixion; Cain and Abel; Herod and John the Baptist; Judith and Holofernes; Noah's Ark; Sodom and Gomorrah. In fact, as she scanned through the pages in her mind, she thought that it was, in places, no better than some top-shelf Penny Dreadful!
Just as she started making a shortlist of some possible ways to approach the undertaking (would it be excessive to serve Tayri’s head on a platter, she questioned?), the nun noticed something strange in the distance. While her eyesight had certainly passed its heyday, she was sure that she could see Dougie in the far distance, returning towards her! Except, it seemed as if he had since disposed of his camel and replaced it with an enormous elephant! What's more, he was now surrounded by a tribe of nomadic people who were enthusiastically playing a broad range of stringed and percussion instruments. What a fantastic transformation, Sister Agatha thought to herself!
Just as she was about to indulge in a little self-praising for assisting this apparent metamorphosis, her eyes battened down, and she slumped forward. A barracan and a headscarf—on top of a habit and veil—in thirty-five degrees heat would prove a little too overwhelming for most people, particularly if that person was a so-called delicate one-hundred-and-eighteen-year-old.
* * *
Illi was only ten years old, but she could play football better than any adult in Fatnassa. She may have been a little too young to experience her hero Zinedine Zidane at his zenith, but she still believed the famous star was the most wonderful ambassador imaginable for her fellow Berber people. She vowed that one day, she would follow in his well-travelled footsteps and lift the World Cup Trophy. If ever anyone was looking for Illi, they simply had to listen to the sound of a football being hit against some wall and, sure enough, there she would be, proudly wearing the Number 10 French jersey.
When she wasn’t practising her beloved sport on some street somewhere (and usually on her own; girls and football weren’t a well-received combination in Fatnassa), Illi threw herself into her schoolwork. The diligent pupil was well aware of the traditional expectations that her village had for its female population. However, she was convinced that, with a good education under her belt, she could break free from such restrictions and get a job in Tunis where she was certain a long and successful career in football awaited her.
As such, it was not just the Djerbi language that Illi spoke, but also fluent French and Spanish. If that weren’t enough, her English was on a par with anyone who had it as their mother tongue, something that proved extremely useful when the girl happened upon an elderly woman, slouched over a wandering camel, unconscious and in desperate need of medical attention.
Illi cut her football practice short and led the two unexpected visitors to the home of her great-great-grandmother, which was just a short stroll from where they now were. If anyone knew how best to rejuvenate this poor traveller, it was she; after all, Illi’s great-great-grandmother had a remedy for everything, having been around for so many years.
In fact, she was the fourth oldest person in the world.
* * *
A kaleidoscope of vibrant colours greeted Sister Agatha when she finally came back around. Disorientated and fragile, she wondered if Doctor McManus’ original week’s prognosis had been a little bit optimistic and questioned if she had already made the transition from one world to the next.
“Ah, you're awake,” a young girl gently said. “Here, have some more of this—it will give you strength.”
She lifted Sister Agatha’s head a little and placed a glass, filled with some potent drink, to her mouth. Even though her tastebuds were somewhat hostile to the experience, almost instantly the invalid felt the colour return to her cheeks. Slowly, and with the help of her little guardian angel, she made her way to an upright position.
“You speak English, yes?”
Sister Agatha nodded. Around her, sparkling materials and fabrics adorned the large space, all of which hung from the thin beams above. An array of cushions and rugs lay strewn across the floor. While Sister Agatha was extremely impressed by the calm and tranquil sanctuary in which she had found herself, she was at a complete loss as to who this sweet little girl was and how she had ended up here.
“You might be so good as to tell me who you are, my dear?”
“My name is Illi, and you are lucky that I found you, or you might not be alive. It is dangerous to travel across the desert unless you are used to it.”
So, that’s what happened.
Before Sister Agatha could rustle up an excuse for doing such a silly thing, a voice sounded from the corner. Even if its owner wasn’t surrounded by a wealth of ornate and decorative jars and decanters, Sister Agatha knew at once that she was in the presence of health practitioner, Tayri Chakchouk.
Granted, Sister Agatha was still a bit groggy from her recent spell of sickliness; even so, she was of the opinion that the image printed in Le Temps didn’t do her hostess any justice. Sitting on a wooden chair, Tayri wore a striking mango and lime-coloured wrapper. Her face, free of any veils or headscarves, was delicate but well-preserved; the numerous lines it boasted were beautiful, triumphant, and to be admired—a celebration of the long life she had lived. Sister Agatha then noticed a continuous stream of brightly-coloured stones lining the base of the hut and wondered if they had some sort of purpose. Almost reading her mind, Tayri picked up one of them and handed it to the unexpected caller.
“Each stone represents a member of her family,” Illi explained. “Her late husband, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren. There are one hundred and ninety-five in total.”
Sister Agatha thought it was a charming sentiment, and as she was handing it back to the lady of the house, Tayri shook her head and in a soft, delicate voice said something to her guest. (Unlike her great-great-granddaughter, the one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old hadn’t managed to find the time over the decades to expand on her linguistic skills.)
“She said that she wants you to keep it.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”
“She insists. By taking the stone home with you, her family will be able to travel far and wide and see the world.”
Tayri smiled, rather excitedly, making it impossible for Sister Agatha to refuse.
“Besides,” Illi continued in a hush, “that particular one represents my uncle Jamel, who brought shame upon our family by having a relationship with a married woman in America. The farther away you take that stone, the better.”
Sister Agatha gave a say-no-more nod and placed it into her pocket. She then decided to test the effectiveness of Tayri’s home-made medicine by getting to her feet, which she did with surprising ease.
“Is it any wonder that this lady has lived as long as she has, necking back a tumbler of those tonics each day,” she mused.
Now fully revived, it was time to park such sentimental pleasantries to one side and return to the matter at hand: the killing of Tayri Chakchouk.
Indeed, it was a smidge ungrateful to contemplate carrying out such an act on the very person who had just saved your own skin but needs must, after all. With only a few more days to live, Sister Agatha wasn’t wanting a new penpal with whom she could exchange correspondences and reminisce about their chance encounter. No, it was too late in the day for such gaiety, even if Tayri had proven herself to be quite an exemplary hostess.
Just as the up-and-coming executioner busily ransacked her mind for the best approach to take (stoning her to death with her one-hundred-and-ninety-five relatives was a little vulgar and unnecessary, she concluded), Sister Agatha spotted her camel recharging his own batteries at an oasis just metres in front of Tayri’s hut, a sight that left her having something of a Eureka moment. After spending the past twenty-four hours frantically searching the dark recesses
of her mind for the most suitable method, the answer came to her so quickly, Sister Agatha could hardly believe she didn’t think of it sooner.
“I fear it’s time to get back to my group; that’s if they haven’t already sent out a search party,” Sister Agatha calmly told Illi.
“I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea,” the young girl replied, not seeming in the slightest bit game for such a misguided move, particularly if it meant that she was going to have to pick up the pieces later on. ”It’s almost afternoon, and it’s only going to get hotter out there.”
“Now that I am refreshed, thanks to your great-great-grandmother’s miracle remedy, I could travel all the way to Egypt, I’m certain!” she assured her.
Not wanting to argue with her elders, Illi relented. “If that’s the case, I will accompany you.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” was the firm response. “You have both done more than enough. If it weren't too much trouble, though, it would be lovely if Tayri would accompany me to my camel outside.”
Tayri was long overdue her afternoon nap at that stage, but her exemplary hospitality forbade her from revealing as much. With a little help from Illi, she stood up and started walking with her guest towards the oasis outside.
The plan had unraveled in Sister Agatha’s mind instantaneously. As soon as they were at the edge of the oasis, the soon-to-be assassin would sadly succumb to the power of the Saharan climate once again, resulting in her falling to the ground. This time, however, her unfortunate stumble would see her accidentally knocking over Tayri who, in turn, would go headfirst into the oasis pool, never to surface again.
Yes, it was absolutely fool proof and even though Sister Agatha was not one for tooting her own horn, she felt the plan was also rather genius! She couldn’t resist breaking into a cheeky smile—if she had realised that this murdering lark was so easy (and so much fun!), she would have kick-started her career years ago. Some of her former Mother Superiors might have thought twice about how they ruled the roost if that were the case.
* * *
When Mehdi was seventeen, his father, an extremely accomplished architect, got offered a job in Copenhagen. It was such a wonderful opportunity, both financially and professionally, turning it down was never an option. The only problem was, young Mehdi had just been accepted into an extremely prestigious pilot-training programme in Tunis, due to start at the end of the summer.
“I have dreamt about flying my entire life—how could you possibly stand in the way of that? You must let me stay!” Mehdi argued, tears threatening to hijack his face.
As it turned out, there was little need for convincing; his parents were well aware that their eldest son was nothing short of an aviation fanatic, obsessed with planes ever since his grandfather had gifted him a toy one as a toddler. How could they ever forget the fact that every Sunday for almost fifteen years, Mehdi insisted on being brought to the airport to watch the many planes come and go, mesmerised?
Of course, Mehdi was allowed to stay put.
Within a month, his parents and three younger siblings had gone northbound and Mehdi, having the house to himself, was the newly-appointed king of the castle. Nonetheless, the newfound freedom that the teenager—and the soon-to-be-world’s-best-pilot—had been afforded wasn’t something he was going to take for granted; he refused to succumb to the pressure his friends placed on him to throw parties every other night. While they were welcome to come over and share a few Celtia beers now and again, it was only his beloved girlfriend Nadine who was invited to stay over. (Her own parents were such heavy sleepers, an earthquake wouldn’t have generated so much as a stir, and so, sneaking out of her window after dark was child’s play for the girl.)
Two months passed and Mehdi prepared himself for the first day of the rest of his life. The excitement was electric! The week before enrolment, the new recruit was asked to undertake a medical examination, something Mehdi was sure that he would easily pass.
Except, it emerged that he was colour-blind.
When Mehdi read the words printed in black and white in the letter he received from the academy (or was it blue and white?), a hundred gunshots to the heart would have been less painful. Naturally, he called them immediately—hoping that it was some sort of joke or prank.
It wasn’t.
Unlike the many planes by which he had always been mesmerised, his lifelong dream to become a pilot did not seem destined to take off.
Unable to make sense of what had just happened on any rational level, Mehdi took every last plate, cup and glass from the cupboards and blasted them against the wall. Still unsatisfied, Mehdi opened his parents’ drinks’ cabinet to smash its contents, but just as he was about to hurl a bottle of boukha through the window, he stopped: wouldn’t it be more satisfying if he drank it instead?
And that was how Mehdi became an alcoholic of the non-functioning variety. Within months, he had dumped Nadine, put on three stone, and had become an angry, bitter loner. The only person he engaged with was the man who sold him liquor at the local store.
Simply put, to avoid a crash landing, Mehdi needed a parachute. Fast.
The lost soul was thrown a lifeline when his father’s contract suddenly ended and they returned unexpectedly to Tunis. After the initial shock of seeing their son’s dramatic fall from grace, they started to implement a series of tough-love strategies, the most successful of which was the inspirational psychologist they introduced him to, and after a long, difficult year of healing, Mehdi was just about ready to return to the real world again.
Having finally and reluctantly accepted that flying wasn’t meant for him, Mehdi focused on another aspect of travel instead and became a tour guide. Being on the move and surrounded with other people seemed to the perfect antidote to his broken dreams, so long as everything ran smoothly and free from conflict.
When the news broke that not one, but two of his guests had disappeared into the Sahara Desert—one of them being close to a hundred if a day—Mehdi couldn’t handle the situation and the inevitable fall-out. He ran to the bus, threw his rude colleague Faris out on his ear, turned the ignition on and vanished across the sand dunes.
His third and only remaining guest, Mrs McGregor, slightly intoxicated from her time sampling the local wine, was not impressed when she discovered what had transpired that morning. In fact, it wasn’t just Faris who sported one of the black eyes she dished out; it was every sinner who was unfortunate enough to cross her path that day.
* * *
Energised by the fact that she was on the verge of becoming the world’s fourth oldest person, Sister Agatha was taken aback by how sprightly she felt as she neared the oasis. Thanks to her daily diet of exotic concoctions, Tayri didn’t lag too far behind either.
As she tried to focus on the task ahead, Illi, who had been so helpful earlier, now proved to be a bit of a chore. Clearly proud that her great-great-grandmother had been alive across three centuries, the youngster was adamant that Sister Agatha knew all about her many accomplishments. And so, not for the first time since leaving Navan, the nun was left with no other choice but to insert her earplugs into their rightful place to quieten the roar of the young girl’s braggadocios.
To Sister Agatha’s untrained eye, this section of the oasis, which was now only metres away from them, consisted of just a couple of palm trees that were surrounded by what could best be described as a small pond—almost unworthy of hosting such a sensational event as a juicy murder, she felt. It was a good job Tayri was so petite, otherwise the measly level of water would not have been sufficient for the enterprise.
The three finally arrived at the edge of the oasis. The young chatterbox continued to praise her great-great-grandmother to the high heavens (a place where Tayri would soon be visiting, all going well), but on account of the fact that Sister Agatha wanted all her senses to be sharp and alert for the big moment, she reluctantly removed the little buds from her ears—now, she was busy trying to drown not only her rival but al
so the sound of this girl’s seemingly endless soliloquy.
“Who would have thought that the baby born on 29 February, 1896, would live to her current age?” Illi continued.
Sister Agatha didn't even bother to pretend to be interested in what was being said; she was far too preoccupied with the preparation for her big theatrical moment. She aligned herself just inches behind her target, placed her hand on the emerald ring that dutifully remained in place under her habit and took a deep breath.
“Lord, give me the strength to carry out this somewhat questionable deed,” she prayed. “There is no way back. It is my only option.”
But, just as she was about to conclude her private exchange with God before executing her plan, Sister Agatha made an extraordinary realisation. She stopped cold.
What words did the little girl just utter?
Shocked and confused, she quickly turned to Illi.
“What did you say your great-great-grandmother’s date of birth was?”
“29 February 1896,” the girl repeated, unable to hide her pride.
Sister Agatha couldn't believe what she heard. How had nobody cottoned onto this before? How had nobody exposed this back-alley quack for the fraudster that she was? How dare she attempt to fool the world into believing that she was one-hundred-and-twenty-years-old when she had, in fact, just turned thirty!
Up until now, Sister Agatha had always thought that leap years were an absolute nuisance; in that very moment, she was of the persuasion that they deserved a Nobel Prize for Peace, for they had just saved the life of the upstart standing next to her.
“I knew there was something about you that I didn’t trust,” she brazenly said to Tayri, and while the exact meaning of her words mightn’t have been fully understood, the sentiment came across loud and clear.
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