She had never seen him before. He was in his midtwenties, dressed in a green bomber jacket and jeans with his hair greased back off his face. He was standing casually at the door, contrapposto, looking directly at the spy hole, as if he knew she was there looking out at him.

Her hand was on the latch when the letter box opened slowly.

"Maureen," he whispered, his voice a smug, nasal drawl. "I know you're there, Maureen, I can hear you moving."

Suddenly terrified, she flattened herself against the wall and slid away from the door.

"I can still hear you moving," he said. "Are you going to open the door?"

"Who are you?" breathed Maureen, a thin film of sweat forming on her upper lip.

"Open the door and I'll tell you." He tried the handle.

"Fuck off."

"Go on."

She heard him stand back and snort. He must be able to hear every move she made: the door was very thin. He tiptoed down the stairs and out of the close. Maureen tried to breathe in properly. She heard steps in the close and he tiptoed back up the stairs.

He leaned into the letter box again. "Still there?" he whispered.

She looked around the bare hall for a weapon and lifted a framed photograph off the wall. She could smash it and shove a bit of glass through the letter box, into his face, into his eye maybe, and then she could phone the police.

"Are you still there?" He tittered and let the letter box snap shut. Maureen dropped the picture. It landed corner down on the carpet and the glass fell out of the frame intact. It was Perspex. "Carol Brady sent me here."

The name took a minute to register.

"She wants to meet you tomorrow."

"Where?"

"Anywhere you like. Why not make it over lunch? That's nice and civilized."

Maureen thought for a moment.

"The DiPrano," she said. It was an expensive seafood restaurant in town. She'd look like an idiot if she suggested somewhere small-time.

The letter box opened again. "What time?"

Maureen didn't know what time it opened. She didn't want to be in the middle of lunchtime rush.

"Two o'clock."

The letter box slid shut.

Maureen could hear him walking lightly down the stairs. She waited in the hall in case he came back. She waited for a long time.

Moving very slowly, she made up the settee bed and climbed in, closing her eyes and pretending to be asleep. It was only after Benny had come home, made himself something to eat and gone to bed that Maureen moved. The right side of her body was numb.

She dreamed of breakfast served after Sunday mass. It always felt like a treat because they were hungry: they couldn't eat before taking Communion. Hot, sweet tea, back in the days when everyone took sugar, bacon-egg rolls and the short-worded papers the children could read, the ones with the sex scandals in them. The family were sitting around the front room the way they used to, half-dressed for mass, with the fragile and uncomfortable bits of clothing taken off and put in their rooms: velvet jackets that would stain with the bacon fat, itchy tights and stiff shoes. They were all adults now, except for her father, who was just as she remembered him, thirty-four years old and twice as big as any of them, sitting in the best armchair, next to the window.

Maureen was lying on her back by the side of his chair. Only Michael knew she was there and he didn't look at her. She was wearing a prim flannelette nightie with a high neck, buttoned right up, tight around her throat. It had been rolled up carefully from the hem, leaving her naked from the waist down. She couldn't get up because her back was stuck to the floor. Without taking his eyes off the paper he reached down to touch her. She tried to get up, flailing her arms and legs wildly like a dying spider, but then her gut split open and a pain seared through her abdomen, making her lie still and shut her eyes.

She woke up at eleven-thirty feeling more tired than when she had fallen asleep, threw on her jeans and the Anti Dynamos T-shirt and went to the newsagent's to buy some cigarettes. A blurry photograph of Liz was on the front page of a dirty Sunday. She was looking straight into the camera and pulling a face. Maureen's name was underneath the picture. She could see herself, from the neck down, in the background, reaching over to pull down the blind.

She made her way back along the short road to the close mouth, reading the front page of the paper as she walked. Both doors of a shiny red hatchback opened simultaneously and two men stepped toward her. They wore dark suits and raincoats. One was tall, balding, chubby-faced, and looked seedy. The shorter of the two stepped toward her and flipped some ID. "Miss O'Donnell?"

"No," said Maureen, folding the paper the wrong way and wondering where the camera was. "My name's McQuigan. Katrine McQuigan."

The men looked at each other. If she bolted now they'd know for sure she was O'Donnell.

"Miss O'Donnell, I know it's you," the short man said. "I've met you before. I was at the locus."

"Where's 'The Locus'?"

"I was at your house when you were taken to the police station."

"I beg your pardon," said Maureen. "I've never been taken to a police station in my life."

The men looked at each other, puzzled at her lie. The tall man stepped forward and wrapped his fat hand around her upper arm. "Joe McEwan wants to see you," he said, and squeezed hard, letting her know that he wasn't going to be fucked about.

"Oh, you're policemen," said Maureen. "I thought you were journalists. I didn't see your badge properly."

They didn't believe her. The seedy fat man capped his hand over the top of her head, pushed her down roughly, shoved her into the back of the car and got in beside her. The other officer got into the driver's seat and caught her eye in the rearview mirror. They definitely didn't believe her.

"I did think you were journalists," she said, addressing no one in particular.

They parked on the curb outside the Stewart Street station. The seedy man held her arm as they led her up to the front door. She noticed that the other man was walking on the outside, boxing her in from the main road in case she tried to leg it. Inness, the mustachioed policeman she'd vomited on, was standing by the desk.

"Hello," he said. He had a triumphant gleam in his eye and she guessed that this interview was not going to be an easy one. The raincoat men led her through the now-familiar series of staircases and corridors to the interview room on the second floor.

Joe McEwan was not pleased to see her. The seedy officer sat her down at the table and whispered something into his ear. Without looking at her McEwan sat down, turned on the tape recorder and told it who was there. He looked at her with overt disgust. "Right, Miss O'Donnell. On Thursday you told me that you had never been to the Rainbow Clinic for any kind of treatment, is that correct?"

"Yes, I did say that."

"You 'did say that.' Was it true?"

"How do you mean?" she said, fishing for clues.

"I think the meaning's quite clear. Did you tell me the truth when you said you hadn't been to the Rainbow for treatment?"

Maureen tried to look sad. If she didn't look sorry they'd know she was trying to be clever. She thought about the dream. "No," she said, picking it over for the painful element. "It wasn't true. I lied to you."

"Why did you lie, Miss O'Donnell?"

"Because I was ashamed."

"You were ashamed of having an affair with your psychiatrist?"

It was being stuck on her back, it was the feeling of being so small and being trapped. She remembered the sensation and her eyes filled up. "I was ashamed because of the reason I went there."