WHEN SHE HEARD THE TELEPHONE RINGING PHOEBE SOMEHOW knew the call was for her. Although the house was divided into four flats there was only one, public phone, down in the front hall, and access to it was a constant source of competitiveness and strife among the tenants. She had been living here for six months. The house was gaunt and shabby, much less nice than the place where she had been before, in Harcourt Street, but after all that had happened there she could not have stayed on. She had her things with her here, of course, her photographs and ornaments, her raggedy, one-eyed teddy bear, and even some of her own furniture that the landlord had let her bring with her, but still she pined for the old flat. There, she had felt herself to be in the busy heart of the city; here, in Haddington Road, it was almost suburbia. There were days when, turning the corner from Baggot Street bridge, she would look down the long, deserted sweep towards Ringsend and feel the loneliness of her life opening under her like a chasm. She was, she knew, too much alone, which was another reason not to lose a friend like April Latimer.

When she came out onto the landing the fat young man from the ground-floor flat was standing at the foot of the stairs glaring up at her. He was always the first to get to the phone, but none of the calls ever seemed to be for him. “I shouted up,” he said crossly. “Did you not hear?” She had heard nothing; she was sure he was lying. She hurried down the stairs as the young man went back into his flat and slammed the door behind him.