As I approach the town, the roads are so clogged with abandoned cars that I leave ours on a grass verge. Music is pumping from the hill, and bright lights, fluorescent green and orange, illuminate the fortress walls. Fireworks explode across the sky, chrysanthemums of incandescent white and iridescent purple. I walk along the beach: the palm trees are lit up with garish green LEDs, their leaves whip in the wind; the damp sand is cool underfoot and a skim of surf freckles my face. Half-naked teenagers are snogging and splashing in the shallows. The sea is black and choppy, snarled with crosscurrents; I wouldn’t fancy anyone’s chances if they slipped in. I can’t see Bethany.

On the other side of the promenade is the street leading to the supermarket, and on the corner is the stazione di polizia. The windows are sealed with iron shutters. I try the door, but it’s locked, just as Amy said it would be. I head up the hill towards the castle, pressing myself through the throng. The music and the boom of the fireworks rattle in my ribcage. Dark alleyways spiral from the main route up to the top of the fort and I try to peer into them, but I’m carried onwards by the mass of people heading for the square.

The piazza is crowded; there’s a stiff breeze rising from the sea and most of the Italians are seated, on the steps of the fountain, round the bars and cafes or at long trestle tables. There’s a large marquee with a knot of holidaymakers at the entrance; those emerging are carrying plates of chips, roast chillies, focaccia, ciabatta, bowls of shellfish. The air is pungent with fried garlic and there’s the greasy smell of cooking oil, seared meat and hot dogs; my stomach rumbles and I realize that, apart from a slice of chocolate cake, I haven’t eaten since breakfast. The old men we saw previously are still there, sitting by the giant chess set, drinking Grappa, only now small children weave in and out of the pieces, hiding behind pawns and rooks. There’s a carousel with chairs on metal chains swinging out as the ride spins; the children on board scream. Light bulbs above them flash on and off, illuminating the sign on the front: Lasciate ogni speranza o voi che entrate. Whatever the hell that means.

I climb onto the stone wall round the edge of the square, trying to ignore the drop of several feet to the streets below. I scan the crowds slowly. There’s a West African man selling shells and cheap sunglasses from a tray around his neck. I’m looking for my tall, handsome sister, who has long brown hair, but almost everyone here is dark-haired, and the square is packed.