‘You’d better go down the yard and tell the chief what’s after happening here,’ he said slowly.

He fumbled in his pocket and handed the man a half-crown.

‘And before you come back, slip across the street to Brogan’s and get me a naggin of whiskey to save me life.’

Friday November 9th, 1888

Chapter 18

The night shifts at the Dublin Gas Company’s furnaces on Sir John Rogerson’s Quay were timed so that the men who had been labouring in the burning heat since the afternoon could have time to cool themselves with drink before the public houses shut down. It was an arrangement that suited the company, the men and most of all the proprietors of the public houses in the streets around the great industrial complex that stretched back to Hanover Quay on the Grand Canal Dock. This was said to be the unhealthiest square mile in Dublin. The air was heavy with sulphur. The canal water was the colour of rust from the chemicals that leached from the plant. It was popularly believed that a scientist from Trinity College had lowered a cage with three salmon into the dock water some years previously. They all died within five minutes.

At ten o’clock, 200 stokers, pump men, loaders, furnace attendants and miscellaneous general labourers handed over their tasks to the incoming shift. Tired, dehydrated and stinking of coke, they dispersed to the rough but functional licensed premises along the Liffey quayside or in the maze of streets behind.

Two furnace men whose tenement homes were situated close together on Great Brunswick Street habitually made their way to Duggan’s on the corner of Misery Hill and Cardiff Lane to slake their thirst. The cold of the November night had quickly sucked the heat of the gasworks from their hands and faces and they eagerly anticipated the comfort of high stools at Duggan’s counter and the yeasty sustenance of their pints.

‘Oh, Jesus, Jesus help me . . . help me.’

They both heard the faint cry from a darkened corner of the junction where the gas light scarcely penetrated the darkness. One, then the other, saw a movement, dark stirring upon dark, a shadow moving on a shadow where the pavement met the street. Then a hand raised, faint and weak, and another cry.

‘Jesus, help me someone . . . for pity’s sake.’

They stepped past the pool of light and saw a bundle lying against the wall that bounded Cardiff Lane. It moved, just a little, then shuddered in the half-darkness. One of the men struck a match that showed a woman on the ground, her face striped with blood, eyes open in terror. She was young, maybe in her twenties. Dark unkempt hair fell loosely over the cheap shawl around her shoulders. She was barefoot.

‘Can . . . you . . . help me?’

One of the furnace men took off his jacket, leaned down and placed it around her upper body. She shuddered.

‘What happened, miss? Are you hurt?’