They take in the room in one swift look round. An old-style bedroom with an ancient-looking brass-framed bed against a wall that has had the worst plastering job ever seen. Lumps and bumps everywhere. Streaks of brown damp too, and the room smells musty. The blankets on the bed are rough wool and covered with stains. An old set of drawers, broken and leaning at an angle against another wall. Bare wooden floorboards. An old-style wooden-framed push-open window of single-paned glass is in the wall, through which natural daylight streams and catches particles of dust, which glint and hang in the air.

The smells hit them next. The scents of people, cooking, fires, horse manure, smoke, soot and a dozen other things all at the same time. The sounds of people talking nearby and a street outside full of life. The distinctive clip-clop of horse hooves and a man shouting out in a language they do not understand but recognise to be French. Ben recognises everything visually. The bed is a bed, for instance. The drawers are drawers. Everything is old yet it doesn’t feel old in here.

‘Ben.’ Safa calls his name having gone to the window to stare out in silence with Harry at her side.

‘Please do not stay at the window for long,’ Roland whispers. ‘And speak quietly.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Safa whispers, complying instantly with his request. ‘Look.’ She nods as he steps over. The window looks down from the third or fourth floor of a building to a busy street crammed with people. It’s so familiar yet so jarring at the same time. Ben and Safa have seen this in movies many times, but not like this. This is olden times and instantly recognisable from thousands of photos and Hollywood movies with elaborate sets dressed to perfection. Horses everywhere. Pulling carts or old-fashioned enclosed carriages that range from falling apart to gleaming clean with smartly uniformed drivers at the front in a riot of colours. Bright blues, reds, yellows and shades of gold. Some of the people walking are dressed in filthy brown and grey clothes. Others in vibrant colours and styles. Market-style stalls selling food, fish, meats, breads and other things they don’t recognise. Smells waft in and this time they gain directional awareness and see cooking pots on glowing coals and an old woman spooning liquid from a pot into a bowl that she hands to a man, who starts eating it on the spot. It feels like spring or early summer with a clear blue sky overhead and that buzz you get when winter is finally over and the days become warmer and longer.

‘Over there.’ Safa nudges him. Ben follows her finger and reels back from the shock.

‘Fuck me . . .’