In photos on surviving message boards you could see volunteers tending to the wounded in what looked like a mosque, padding around in socks, oxygen cylinders and plasma bags set up between stone arches. People had formed human chains in front of Semey’s police station, while solidarity protests erupted in three other cities. This was it: the point of no turning back. I felt that dizzying, glorious fascination of being there; seeing what happens when the limits of what is possible are breached. Spring again. I used to hear the chants in my dreams: The people demand the fall of the regime. It was slicker in Arabic but still had something wistful about it, even when there was hope – something measured and legalistic. Chanted by people who hadn’t chanted before, spreading across Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, carried by a shared language, the language of the Koran, suddenly become a vehicle for this democratic virus.

News of Stevenson’s death had gained a note of caution: Question marks over intelligence officer’s murder. That would turn the heat up. One Astana news site had reported an incident at Khan Shatyr’s indoor beach before the story was taken down.

Sirens outside.

For the sake of not keeping still, I went for a drive.

I drove past the Kiber Sports café. There were police vehicles parked outside. It looked like it had been broken into. So we’d been beaten to it, I thought. I wondered who had the data. That was a precious lead gone.

I continued past the places you might expect protests in Astana: the main square, government buildings, Bayterek. In the long, landscaped park that stretched from Bayterek to Khan Shatyr, the committed had turned up, in clusters of eight or nine, wrapped against the cold. I recognised a handful of individuals from Elena Yussopova’s flat. They held up handwritten signs and two laminated prints showing a man and woman’s faces. Riot police stood across the road, hands behind their backs. No sign of Yussopova herself.

But it only made the absence of other protests conspicuous. A city without a past does not really have a population; everyone is dependent on keeping the fantasy alive. It felt like being swaddled in one man’s dream, which was a generous way to describe dictatorship but had some truth here.

When I logged in to Aliya’s phone, I could see her also searching for protests. She’d caught the bug. Where and when are people meeting?

I logged out, sent a text message:

Awful news about Semey.

Really awful. Did you get back ok last night?

Yes. Can I see you later?

Of course.

Will be in touch. Stay safe. I wrote: Keep clear of crowds, then deleted it. A message came in from Stefan. He was still stuck in the St Regis waiting for a flight. He had something I might be interested in.