Kildare Street
by
Michael Delfay
by
Michael Delfay
CONTEST
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Fiona adored her native Dublin. In the years since Oliver Cromwell’s sweeping Irish tour she
had become increasingly smitten with the architectural grandeur achieved within her
domicile. Bold spires and tranquil parks were woven in seamless order and beauty. The very
citizenry had grown proportionately more attractive, vibrant and eloquent. If Fiona’s own
history shared tragedy correspondent to that of her beloved isle, such unpleasantness was
easily outpaced by more recent, positive considerations.
As she lingered vaguely opposite the entrance to 30 Kildare Street, Fiona imagined yet greater
wonders and her place in them. If only little Louise Brady might join her in beholding these
forthcoming miracles.
As if Fiona had willed it, little Louise sprang forth from number 30, kite dangling and scraping
September turf. Fiona exited her reverie and focused. Mrs. Brady watched blankly after
bounding Louise for a block, then turned inwards to embrace thoughts and words she had
suppressed in her daughter’s company.
The pleasing scent of imminent pubescence wafted about Fiona as she glided in Louise’s
wake, expectant yet patient. After such prolonged gestation, their union was close at hand.
A lecherous tramp, one Paddy McCabe, joined Louise at St. Stephen’s Green, proffering
treats and suggestively patting her red locks. Louise withdrew in immediate recognitory fear
of his intentions.
Fiona sensed an imminent threat to her charge. She tensed her nerves in vexation.
Distracted by something unseen, McCabe abandoned his design, ducking into the Merrion
Row.
Louise met her tow-headed comrade Damon Thompson within the Green where they
commenced to sport with youthful vigor. The two shared an obvious affection, but in this
instance Fiona detected no threat, no rival. The Thompson boy would enrich Louise’s soul,
not abscond with it.
Fiona sought to keep vigil but the children’s combined enthusiasm conspired to overwhelm
her. As Louise and Damon romped, the scent struck Fiona again, stronger and more acrid
then it had been an hour earlier. Might this be the very night? She would address McCabe’s
indiscretion then repair to Kildare Street.
***
Louise returned from her simple adventures, as if by internal timepiece, just as dinner was
served. Mrs. Brady and Louise supped alone, or so they supposed. Mrs. Brady queried
Louise as to whether she had heard the talk of Paddy McCabe, the vagrant just found slain at
Christ Church. Louise had not.
Mr. Brady entered abruptly, shouted something incomprehensible about bastard vagrants and
why didn’t they just kill all of them while they were at it then smashed his fist on the dinner
table and collapsed in immediate repose upon the divan. Louise and Mrs. Brady, unfazed by
this performance, knowingly smiled and continued to dine in silence.
***
Louise read her catechism then shut the light. Fiona, malignant and abiding, watched with
carefully suppressed longing. The scent was now overwhelming. This will indeed be the
culmination - tonight the rapturous indoctrination. Fiona’s solitude will become forgotten,
obsolete.
An anticipatory, briny, metallic sensation bristled upon Fiona’s palette. Louise tossed about in
apparent discomfort, as if in the throes of an unsavory dream. Fiona swooned, relishing this
first of many monthly assignations with Louise.
Fiona drew back suddenly. The door to Louise’s bedroom had been broached. Mr. Brady
entered with stealth impressive even to Fiona, locking the door quietly behind him and relaxing
his belt. And she could not watch and she would not intervene and it is only as she turned
away that Fiona began to weep openly.
***
At Christ Church Cathedral a modest funeral service was held for the vagrant McCabe whose
disfigured, emaciated corpse had been recently discovered in the bowels of the cathedral.
Father Donnelly, who had made the grim discovery, related a strange anecdote to the
detectives.
Whilst below stairs retrieving fresh candles the Father reported hearing an odd, sustained
squeal emanate from the crypt. A fuse had apparently failed as the crypt luminaries were
unresponsive. The sensible Father lit a candle and immediately spied what remained of
McCabe strewn across the crypt floor.
As if this were not enough to unnerve him, Father Donnelly next claimed to see two red
points of light fixed upon him from the far corner of the crypt. His curiosity trumping his
considerable fear, the brave Father stepped forward and directed his candle toward the corner
in question. He described seeing a young girl staring back at him, benign in appearance save
for those eyes and the viscera about her mouth. The girl regarded Donnelly for a moment
then casually stepped behind a column and disappeared through an exit of which the Father
was unaware.
Father Donnelly buttressed the veracity of his account, claiming to have on several previous
occasions, during his long tenure, seen the same girl at various locations throughout the
Cathedral. Indeed, worshippers and tourists alike had often reported similar encounters.
Donnelly’s predecessor had forewarned him of such visitations, claiming the specter of a
child who had taken her own life at the Cathedral still resided. The unfortunate child had seen
her feverishly Catholic family liquidated by Cromwell’s Protestant army in the Year of Our
Lord 1652. The girl, at the cusp of womanhood, had been violated by a band of Cromwell’s
enforcers and left for dead in the Cathedral, where she remained a tenant.
The detectives traded bemused glances and promised to investigate this phenomenon. Father
Donnelly, visibly more aged and grey, resigned his post the following morning.
***
Fiona, considerably distanced in time from the events previously related, drifted about
Phoenix Park in her doomed search for familial contentment. She turned her attentions
across the Channel to London, long since reconstructed and in the throes of its own glorious
renaissance. It had been too long, how might she fare afield? Was the stock of comparable
beauty and purity to that on which she had grown dependent? She might adventure.
And yet Fiona would remain that year and many beyond, wandering her glorious Dublin, but
never again stalking the narrow, modest passage dubbed Kildare Street.
(998 words)
had become increasingly smitten with the architectural grandeur achieved within her
domicile. Bold spires and tranquil parks were woven in seamless order and beauty. The very
citizenry had grown proportionately more attractive, vibrant and eloquent. If Fiona’s own
history shared tragedy correspondent to that of her beloved isle, such unpleasantness was
easily outpaced by more recent, positive considerations.
As she lingered vaguely opposite the entrance to 30 Kildare Street, Fiona imagined yet greater
wonders and her place in them. If only little Louise Brady might join her in beholding these
forthcoming miracles.
As if Fiona had willed it, little Louise sprang forth from number 30, kite dangling and scraping
September turf. Fiona exited her reverie and focused. Mrs. Brady watched blankly after
bounding Louise for a block, then turned inwards to embrace thoughts and words she had
suppressed in her daughter’s company.
The pleasing scent of imminent pubescence wafted about Fiona as she glided in Louise’s
wake, expectant yet patient. After such prolonged gestation, their union was close at hand.
A lecherous tramp, one Paddy McCabe, joined Louise at St. Stephen’s Green, proffering
treats and suggestively patting her red locks. Louise withdrew in immediate recognitory fear
of his intentions.
Fiona sensed an imminent threat to her charge. She tensed her nerves in vexation.
Distracted by something unseen, McCabe abandoned his design, ducking into the Merrion
Row.
Louise met her tow-headed comrade Damon Thompson within the Green where they
commenced to sport with youthful vigor. The two shared an obvious affection, but in this
instance Fiona detected no threat, no rival. The Thompson boy would enrich Louise’s soul,
not abscond with it.
Fiona sought to keep vigil but the children’s combined enthusiasm conspired to overwhelm
her. As Louise and Damon romped, the scent struck Fiona again, stronger and more acrid
then it had been an hour earlier. Might this be the very night? She would address McCabe’s
indiscretion then repair to Kildare Street.
***
Louise returned from her simple adventures, as if by internal timepiece, just as dinner was
served. Mrs. Brady and Louise supped alone, or so they supposed. Mrs. Brady queried
Louise as to whether she had heard the talk of Paddy McCabe, the vagrant just found slain at
Christ Church. Louise had not.
Mr. Brady entered abruptly, shouted something incomprehensible about bastard vagrants and
why didn’t they just kill all of them while they were at it then smashed his fist on the dinner
table and collapsed in immediate repose upon the divan. Louise and Mrs. Brady, unfazed by
this performance, knowingly smiled and continued to dine in silence.
***
Louise read her catechism then shut the light. Fiona, malignant and abiding, watched with
carefully suppressed longing. The scent was now overwhelming. This will indeed be the
culmination - tonight the rapturous indoctrination. Fiona’s solitude will become forgotten,
obsolete.
An anticipatory, briny, metallic sensation bristled upon Fiona’s palette. Louise tossed about in
apparent discomfort, as if in the throes of an unsavory dream. Fiona swooned, relishing this
first of many monthly assignations with Louise.
Fiona drew back suddenly. The door to Louise’s bedroom had been broached. Mr. Brady
entered with stealth impressive even to Fiona, locking the door quietly behind him and relaxing
his belt. And she could not watch and she would not intervene and it is only as she turned
away that Fiona began to weep openly.
***
At Christ Church Cathedral a modest funeral service was held for the vagrant McCabe whose
disfigured, emaciated corpse had been recently discovered in the bowels of the cathedral.
Father Donnelly, who had made the grim discovery, related a strange anecdote to the
detectives.
Whilst below stairs retrieving fresh candles the Father reported hearing an odd, sustained
squeal emanate from the crypt. A fuse had apparently failed as the crypt luminaries were
unresponsive. The sensible Father lit a candle and immediately spied what remained of
McCabe strewn across the crypt floor.
As if this were not enough to unnerve him, Father Donnelly next claimed to see two red
points of light fixed upon him from the far corner of the crypt. His curiosity trumping his
considerable fear, the brave Father stepped forward and directed his candle toward the corner
in question. He described seeing a young girl staring back at him, benign in appearance save
for those eyes and the viscera about her mouth. The girl regarded Donnelly for a moment
then casually stepped behind a column and disappeared through an exit of which the Father
was unaware.
Father Donnelly buttressed the veracity of his account, claiming to have on several previous
occasions, during his long tenure, seen the same girl at various locations throughout the
Cathedral. Indeed, worshippers and tourists alike had often reported similar encounters.
Donnelly’s predecessor had forewarned him of such visitations, claiming the specter of a
child who had taken her own life at the Cathedral still resided. The unfortunate child had seen
her feverishly Catholic family liquidated by Cromwell’s Protestant army in the Year of Our
Lord 1652. The girl, at the cusp of womanhood, had been violated by a band of Cromwell’s
enforcers and left for dead in the Cathedral, where she remained a tenant.
The detectives traded bemused glances and promised to investigate this phenomenon. Father
Donnelly, visibly more aged and grey, resigned his post the following morning.
***
Fiona, considerably distanced in time from the events previously related, drifted about
Phoenix Park in her doomed search for familial contentment. She turned her attentions
across the Channel to London, long since reconstructed and in the throes of its own glorious
renaissance. It had been too long, how might she fare afield? Was the stock of comparable
beauty and purity to that on which she had grown dependent? She might adventure.
And yet Fiona would remain that year and many beyond, wandering her glorious Dublin, but
never again stalking the narrow, modest passage dubbed Kildare Street.
(998 words)