Sibling rivalry predates the wheel. Whether it’s Cain and Abel, Olivia de Havilland and Joan Fontaine or Noel and Liam Gallagher, sharing a parent does not automatically guarantee happy families. In my case, the misery began even before I’d a chance to take my first breath – a full month beforehand, in fact.
My soon-to-be brother, Déaglán, might have been small in size but big in personality. With just a year and a half under his tiny belt, he’d already developed a reputation in our hometown of Navan for being an out-and-out rascal. When he wasn’t pulling up the garden’s roses, he was calling anyone who attempted to coo over him a “smelly pig”. When he wasn’t yanking the clean clothes from the washing line, he was, with the help of his baby formula, replicating the Sistine Chapel on the kitchen ceiling. Even from inside the womb, I’d a sense of the chaos the brute was creating outside.
One afternoon, our darling mother, who was eight months pregnant with me at the time, had just finished giving her spirited son a bath – an event that usually boasted as much drama as a three-act opera. As they started to descend the stairs, job complete, Déaglán decided that it was high time the world was introduced to his wicked ways, and so, despite being just a mere two foot tall, the fearless little nipper broke away from my mother’s grip and with the help of a window ledge, he impressively scaled the porch’s walls before prising open the front door. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he’d disappeared down the driveway.
Given her limited mobility, my mother was forced to watch on in terror – her frantic screams falling on deaf ears. With a busy road nearby – one that was notorious for hosting a large volume of speeding trucks – she feared the absolute worst, forcing her to make a split-second decision that no heavily-pregnant woman would ever want to make: to race after her 18-month-old son or stay and protect her unborn child.
Needless to say – and much to my mock-annoyance after being told about the incident as a teenager – our petrified mother chose my brother and bolted out of the house (“I knew him,” she later reasoned with me by way of defence, “I had to take the risk.”) Except, her desperation, distressed state and expectant condition proved too much and within seconds, the poor woman had tripped, landing bang on her stomach – ie me.
As the unconscious 34-year-old lay sprawled out on the footpath, my brother had, blessedly, avoided an untimely demise thanks to the quick reflexes of a passing truck driver, although it would be several hours before it was revealed that the enfant terrible hadn’t, in fact, committed the God-awful act of fratricide. However, it remained unclear whether the accident would leave me with disabilities, mental or physical. When I finally made my anticipated entrance that October, my parents breathed the proverbial sigh of relief: I was fine.
Thirty-three years later, when I ponder over the origins of my unhealthy obsession with mortality and my tendency towards hypochondria, rightly or wrongly, I place the blame on this early, near-death experience. To this day, I view a new freckle as a cancer mole. A dry cough as tuberculosis. A sore toe as the first step towards gangrene and amputation.
Additionally, every time I find myself in a cemetery or reading an obituary in the newspaper, I calculate the age at which the deceased relinquished life before allocating them a grade, similar to those given to students during exam season – those who lived to be over 55 receive a C; over 70, a B; over 85, a gold-starred A.
Therefore, the Holy Grail in my eyes is reaching the glorious age of 100 – what an achievement! Of course, it’s overly simplistic of me to believe that a birthday cake awash with so many candles automatically equates to happiness and rude health; nonetheless, it continues to be my personal Everest.
Another life goal I’d set myself was writing a book and, last year, I decided to carry it out. I stumbled across an article about the death of the world’s oldest person – a sassy dame who marvellously waited until being a ripe 117 before making her exit. When I discovered that this super-centenarian’s successor had sadly passed away within days of inheriting the coveted title, something stirred in me. Of course, these two stalwarts had died as a result of natural causes but a mischievous thought crossed my mind: imagine there was someone killing this elderly community and, if so, for what reason?
Sister Agatha: The World’s Oldest Serial Killer follows an 118-year-old nun whose vim and vigour would put the most robust athletes to shame. During a routine check-up, however, her doctor claims that 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 world’s most senior citizen. At last count, she was the fifth.
Never one to admit defeat, the old dear concocts a bold Plan B. Dusting off her passport, Sister Agatha decides to leave Irish shores for the first time in her very long life, and using the few days remaining, she plans to travel across three continents and meet the only four people older than her. And then, one by one, she intends on killing them.
After receiving his copy, my brother – who has admirably quietened down since those aforementioned hell-raising days – questioned why he wasn’t listed in the acknowledgements. Upon reflection, that was clearly something of an oversight; after all, had he not attempted to bump me off in 1982, rendering me smitten with the grim reaper, my naughty nun might never have been created. So, big brother, thank you.
Just don’t try it again.
