She is no more than twelve years old, O’Keefe reckons. He feels a hard bolt of anger in his gut, which fades only when he realises—taking in the apron and the damp rag in the girl’s hand—that she is merely a serving maid or cleaner in the brothel. He cannot imagine his father owing anything to a woman who would employ so young a girl in such a place, though God knows there are enough girls of this age working in other knocking shops and in the lanes or on the quays. ‘I’m here to see Mrs Dolan, if you please,’ he says, smiling at the girl. ‘My name is Seán O’Keefe. Dan O’Keefe’s son, you can tell her.’ The girl nods, saying nothing, and holds the door open wider for him to enter. The house is quiet, like the street outside, and smells of stale smoke, perfume and whiskey. The scents invoke memory, and O’Keefe wonders has he been in this house before. He follows the girl through the short front hallway, down a flight of stairs and into a bright kitchen, then outside again, crossing a garden past an outdoor privy, a henhouse, a pigeon loft and small kitchen crop of vegetables.
