‘Spot on,’ he says to Konrad. ‘We’re in an alleyway behind some buildings . . . the main road is directly ahead with the procession going past. It’s very noisy and very bright,’ he adds. ‘Right, well, indeed. I shall go first.’ He steps through without another word.

‘Miss?’ Malcolm asks politely, looking at Safa. She ignores him and walks through the light, stepping instantly into a back alley filled with sound and light reflected from the main road a hundred metres down the alley. Rubbish strewn everywhere. Hot, humid air thick with smells that once again contrast so sharply with the purity of the bunker. Drums booming. Beats sounding from samba bands. Music everywhere. The fast-paced, distinctive tunes so synonymous with this carnival. Voices. Flashing lights. People walking past the entrance to the alley dressed in increasingly outlandish outfits. Huge plumes of fake feathers ten feet high. Skirts billowing. Scantily dressed men and women gyrating and dancing as they go past. Ben comes through behind her. She moves forward to make space. Harry comes through, then Malcolm at the rear. None of them speak but simply stare out at the noise and lights and feel the heat and humidity. An instant transition from a sterile environment to one filled with sensations.

‘We need to go up,’ Ben shouts to be heard over the immense noise. He needs convincing properly. He needs to know this is fact. This is happening and this is nineteen ninety-nine.

Safa nods back and starts off down the alley. That she takes the lead again, despite both Roland and Harry being present, is not questioned. The natural authority she exudes is organic but very strong. Harry’s competence is overt and strong too, but different to Safa’s aura.

She reaches the mouth of the alley and stares out in wonder at the flotilla of vehicles, floats and human forms going slowly by. The music is incredible. Hundreds of drums. Hundreds of instruments. All fast. All frantic. The energy pulsates through them. An army of white-clad men and women dancing past. Giant headdresses, flowing capes and feathers on legs. All of them in time to the beat and singing out. Bystanders thick in number line both sides of the street. Thousands of people just in this one street. Safa’s heart races. Not from fear or panic but simply in reaction to the transit from the bunker to this. The spectacle of it. The noises. The smells. The others get to her and stand each side watching with mouths open. Harry especially. Never before has he seen such a thing. Never before has he even imagined such a thing. The colours. The vibrancy. The clothing and the lack of clothing. The music and the dancing. His lips twitch with a tight smile at first that slowly spreads wide across his face, showing absolute delight.