She opened her mouth to shriek these facts to the spectators, but a filthy hand closed over her mouth and she was dragged struggling inside the cabin. The men watching all went on their way, the pretty young girl gone from their minds already. A prostitute being beaten by her pimp was an everyday occurrence here, part and parcel of dockside life.

Inside the cabin it was dim. Ginelle registered first the smell, the deep scent of molasses, and underneath another of dankness and dirt, that brought back the filth and squalor she had been brought up in. It was a slum smell, a sweet, bitter, cloying smell that stuck to the clothes and never entirely left the nostrils.

Sitting behind a small wooden crate was a man whose face was lost in layers of fat. His eyes were like slits. Ginelle felt a final sinking of her heart as she realised who he was.

Willy Bolger was a pimp with a reputation for nastiness, violence and his perverted sense of humour. He was obese, his arms and legs looking too short and feeble to be any use, yet he was surprisingly fast with a knife. His teeth were pristine white, small and pointed as if he had chiselled them into shape. Now he smiled at Ginelle, who shuddered.

He shook his head slowly, languidly, as if he had known her for years, as if she was a recalcitrant child. The smile even displayed a sort of affection.

‘Please, sit down.’ He looked at the big man. ‘Get the lady a chair!’ The word ‘lady’ was said with exaggerated politeness. The big man dragged up a small three-legged stool and slammed Ginelle down on to it hard, jarring her already bruised spine.

‘Forgive Seamus, he’s no manners at all, my dear.’

Ginelle sat there, her hands icy cold, even in the foetid warmth of the cabin.

‘What do you want with me?’ Her voice was small. She sounded like the child she was for all her expensive clothes and make-up. Willy linked his fingers together on the crate in front of him and grinned again.

‘I am going to hurt you, my dear. Nothing personal, believe me. But I want to get a little message over to a certain lady, and you, so to speak, are going to be my messenger. Hold her there, Seamus.’

He held Ginelle’s shoulders in his vice-like grip, but there was no need. She had collapsed with fright, her body held up only by Seamus, because as Willy had spoken he had unlaced his fat fingers and picked up a large knife.

Willy walked towards her and tutted. He had hoped she would have stayed conscious long enough for him to hear her scream at least once. Sighing hard with disappointment, he picked up a wooden pail which was used by the night watchmen to relieve themselves and threw it into her face.