‘Is he . . . gone?’ There was terror in the whispered question.

‘There’s no one here but us, miss. We’re no harm to you. Can you stand now?’

They raised her slowly from the ground, each holding a trembling arm. Then they walked her slowly to the doorway of Duggan’s and into the warmth of the public bar. The line of men at the counter turned almost as one and the hubbub of conversation tailed off.

‘Drag over a couple of forms,’ one of the furnace men shouted at the startled barkeeper. ‘We’ve a woman here . . . she’s hurt, hurt bad.’

Two benches were put together to form a makeshift trestle. The score or so patrons, mainly dockers and labourers, gathered around. The first furnace man took off his jacket and placed it under her head. Her face contorted in pain.

‘Oh Jesus . . . I’m hurted . . . I’m hurted terrible.’

One elderly patron put his pint glass onto the counter and stepped forward.

‘I did me time as a surgeon’s orderly in Crimea. Let me see.’

He leaned over the trestle and gently traced the lacerations on her face. Then he probed her torso. When he touched her ribs, she grimaced. When he sought to straighten her right arm, which seemed out of place, she screamed.

‘She’s been beaten bad,’ he said. ‘There’s broken bones in the face and in the ribs. A broken arm too, I’d say. She needs the hospital. We can get an ambulance from Baggot Street. And someone needs to call the polis.’

The barman indicated to his assistant.

‘Get up to the fire brigade station on Brunswick Street and tell them to get an ambulance down here quick. And go into the police station or find a bobby on the beat. Tell them what’s after happenin’ here.’

He pushed his way through the group with a measure of brandy and put it to her lips. She sipped a little of the spirit, coughing and hacking as it went down her gullet. He wiped the blood from her face with a damp towel.

‘Jesus, it’s young Debbie Dunne. I didn’t recognise her.’

‘You know her?’ one of the furnace men asked.

‘Sure, of course. She sells fish from Ringsend when the boats come in. Along the street outside. Like her mother and all the Dunne women before her.’

‘Well, it must be a bloody dangerous business, sellin’ fish,’ the furnace man countered. ‘She’s far from bein’ a well woman tonight.’

There was a muttered chorus of agreement from the clientele. The barman put the brandy glass to her mouth again, but she refused it. They waited, trying awkward, soothing words around the girl, who groaned and cried for a full half-hour, until a clattering of hooves in the street outside told them that the ambulance had arrived.

Saturday November 10th, 1888

Chapter 19

‘Another one in London last night.’