Page 5 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

“They made us do it,” she says, pronouncing they as if it had a z at the start as she kneels to lay on the floor.

“We’re here to help you,” announces Fergus. “Is there anyone else here?”

“There are more girls,” she says, lifting her head to the doors behind her.

Fergus’s head is swivelling around the room. “Where are the customers, the managers, the security?” he asks.

“Ze were downstairs,” says the girl.

“But why would the customers be downstairs?” Asks Ferg, his eleven’s turning to four hardened lines between his eyes.

The girl raises her chin with a confused look.

“Are there any girls with customers here?” Ferg asks.

“Three months ago, a man came. He said only customers now are Mr Charlie and Mrs Molly.” Says the girl.

“What did this man look like?” I ask.

“Oh, very good looking.” She says, smiling enthusiastically. “He very muscled and dresses like old school gangster. Always wears a waistcoat with a satin back. Very nice man.”

I’d seen so many of Liam’s waistcoats at the club, never the same one twice, but they all had a satin back.

Footsteps follow up the stairs.

“Claire, Go with the boys through the rest of this place,” says Fergus.

I nod following the three men.

The first room I open has been setup into a factory line. Girls cling to each other, taking a break from what had to be mixing, cutting and bagging cocaine.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, pointing to the garda logo on my vest. “Just put your arms behind your head and lay on the floor.” I say demonstrating the action with a free hand.

My colleague rushes forward with a bunch of cable ties. I hated treating the girls like this during raids, but you could never be sure who was a collaborator, willing to wield a knife or gun for a cash reward.

I spotted one last door at the end of the corridor.

I leave the three officers to deal with the girls and move down the corridor to the last room. It’s eerily silent as I open the door, pointing my gun. The room is sparse, apart from one king-size wooden framed bed and one old brown mahogany wardrobe, where it became clear someone was hiding.

“It’s the garda. Come out. I’m here to help you.” The door tentatively opens and a girl with a topknot, who couldn’t have been older than sixteen, steps out. She, too, is in a simple black cotton bra and knickers.

“I can’t go to prison,” she says, shaking, gripping her lithe pale arms, “I just can’t.” She has this beautiful Cork lilt.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“My stepda is a bastard, that’s what I’m doing here,” she says, trying to pull more fabric than exists from her knickers up to her hips.

“If you take me in and I go to prison. That’s it, I will never be able to go to college and I’ll be back with my step da. I would rather die than go back to him.” She begins to sob, hugging her waist.

“Are there any clothes you can put on?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “We’re not allowed to have clothes up here in case we steal product.”

I unbuckle my bullet-proof vest so I can give her my shirt. I’m wearing a sports bra underneath, but the cargo garda pants are so high-waisted no one will notice my missing shirt, especially with my vest back on. I place the bullet-proof vest on the bed and unbutton my short-sleeved shirt.

“It probably smells a bit.” I say, handling it to her.

“Thanks,” she says, pulling it up her arms and buttoning it quickly. “Please don’t send me to prison, anything but that,” she begs. “I’ve no one to pay for a lawyer or anything like that. I know cutting drugs is bad. I was just desperate after my first night on the streets. But I swear...”

---