The station names were like charms. Srinidhi, men bent double in the rice fields. Gangasagar, detergent bubbling in a waterfall. Laksam Junction, a goat wandering down the platform. The train rolling on, waved forwards, solemnly, by a stationmaster in a black suit with a green flag. He kept his red flag firmly wrapped up. At lunchtime, a man came down the train, selling the sweet milky coffee that made Casey’s brain fizz. And finally, the buildings grew closer together, and, slowly, so slowly, the train rolled into the suburbs of Chittagong.

The man who met them off the train was a surprise.

‘Dylan.’ He shook Casey’s hand hard, audibly Australian.

He was dark-haired, very tanned, with shocking blue eyes. A Bangladeshi parent, Casey guessed.

‘How was the train?’ he asked curtly. ‘It’s a long way.’

‘We wanted to see the countryside.’ Casey smiled at him. ‘It was fascinating.’

‘I’ve organised a car to take you down to Cox’s right now.’ Dylan was brisk, tough, wasted few words. ‘It’s just outside the station.’

A Rolex gleamed on Dylan’s wrist, as he gestured towards the car. Another black Land Cruiser, again with no markings. A Bangladeshi man hopped out, and rushed towards them. The driver was very nervous around Dylan, Casey saw, quite subservient.

‘It’s about four hours to Cox’s from here.’ Dylan tapped on the roof of the car, as soon as their bags were stowed. ‘You’ve sorted a hotel?’

‘Yes,’ said Ed. ‘It’s all done.’

The car accelerated away.

In a drifting sea mist, Cox’s Bazar was apocalyptic. At some point, years ago, the property developers had rushed here, hoping to make their fortune from the old resort.

They began building high-rise hotels, dozens of them. But then some crisis erupted overnight, and the hotels were left abandoned, half-built.

They looked haunted, now. Some of the buildings had rows and rows of blank dead-eyed windows. Others had just a few concrete storeys completed, and an empty skeleton of steel sagging above. Rubbish piled up along the road.

One hotel, almost finished, had been squatted by dozens of families. Bright clothes fluttered on a balcony, where some architect had probably dreamed once of all-modern-comforts, a-magical-seaview. Children grinned down from the hotel roof as Casey and Ed passed. Hello mister, hello mister.

Here and there, a few labourers worked sporadically, their drills on concrete jagging the air. Further down the street, fishermen paced to and fro in what would have been an huge ornamental lake in the fantasy version of Cox’s Bazar. A curve of hotels, half-built, circled the lake. The fishermen smoked as they hunted. The catch was sold in the market just a few yards from the lakes. All along the road to their hotel, the fish were hung up to dry in long lines. The stink was overpowering.

The NGO signs were everywhere. Save the Children in one hotel, Oxfam in the next.