I stepped on at the rear of the train, watching my daughter as she chose a seat near the front. I pulled out my phone, sent her a text message.

Where are you?

Ahead of me, at the far end of the carriageless train, in a dress a size too large, Vee bent forward. A pause, then my phone vibrated in my hand.

Julie’s.

I watched Vee for a while. Had it come easily, to lie to me?

When the train pulled into Majorstuen, I waited until I was certain Vee was off before stepping onto the platform and heading for the main road.

People from the bars were spilling onto the street. Vee was walking swiftly now. I followed from the other side of the road. People hung about on the sidewalks in twos and threes, called out to each other across the traffic. A man leaned on the hood of an idling car, stood swaying, then bent over and vomited into the gutter. Vee clasped her hands tightly around herself as she passed him.

A bus crossed between us, then another, and when they cleared I thought I had lost her, that she had slipped down a side street, but she was there, her face lit up by the windows of the Broker winebar. Men in suits watched her as she walked, swiftly, arms folded across her chest. There was something in the air, something heavy and salacious and adult in the way they looked at her, then looked at each other.

She’s fifteen, you fucks.

From a doorway someone spoke to her. Vee hovered, uncertain. I should intervene, but I wanted to know where she was going, why she had lied. I stood, sinews tensed, planning my route through the traffic, but Vee walked on, and the man did not follow.

Twice more Vee turned to look about her. I hung back, let her pass out of sight. The sidewalks down here were emptier; she would see me if I followed too close. I took out my phone. There she was, a white dot passing down the right-hand sidewalk, gliding into Magnussons vei, coming to rest outside number four. I enlarged the map, clicked on the wineglass icon next to Vee’s. A bar. Mikrokosmos. And as I watched, Vee’s white dot seemed to enter the bar.

The air smelled of spilled beer. Pine-Sol soap too, and the tang of old men’s kidneys.

“What can I get you?” asked a barwoman, smiling.

I picked up the beer card, pretended to look at it. The barwoman moved away.

The bar had three sides, with lines of beer taps all the way along. It was late. Men swayed in their seats in front of rows of empty glasses, or stared furtively at women, who stared candidly back. From the far corner came the thock-thock-thock of darts.