We’d taken a cross-country route to avoid the checkpoints dotted along what passed for main roads. Without the right paperwork, Marcel had explained, the government officials – or vigilantes – who manned those posts wouldn’t let us pass. I hoped that by dropping my uncle’s name hard enough at the mine itself I’d be able to get a meeting with the head guy or those close to him, anyone who might know something about my parents’ visit. But I hoped wrong. We hadn’t even made it to the perimeter fence which ran round the southern edge of the settlement – which on approach seemed actually the size of a small town – to the main entrance, when a guy with a gun materialised on the path ahead of us and started yelling in French. We were wheeling the bikes at this point, though the clanking, grinding noise of machinery in the mine would have masked them. Marcel kicked down his stand and put his hands above his head. I didn’t need Amelia to interpret, just followed suit. Marcel started to say something in his most soothing voice, but he stopped pretty quickly when the guy yelled ‘Ferme ta gueule!’ and swung his rifle onto his hip.

The end of the gun’s muzzle was as unblinking as the guard’s eyes. He waved it at us lazily, motioning us on. Something wasn’t right with him. Was he drunk, or high on something? I don’t know, but everything about him unnerved me. He ushered us along the fence-line. I tried to remain calm by focusing on the track ahead of us, overgrown with weeds, but couldn’t stop myself glancing sideways at every now and then. I noticed that although the guard had a uniform – of sorts, it was filthy and his shirt and trousers were different shades of khaki – he wore no shoes. Marcel tried talking to him again; I heard the words Monsieur Langdon Courtney more than once, but the guard didn’t reply. Presumably he was taking us to his boss. That would make sense. We could explain ourselves to him and get back on track, surely?