More than one of the passengers was likely to be an informer and she wondered, if the regime ever fell, how were the informers and those informed on going to shake down together? She turned her head to look out of the window. Revenge? Vendetta? Spilt blood? Fear and loathing?

They were folded into everyone’s luggage.

Alighting at the stop, she joined the stream of people, mostly young, some of whom were clasping flowers, who were making their way across the Kinsky Gardens towards the Štefánik Observatory and she was struck how quiet they were.

Laure cast a look over her shoulder. Who were the watchers here? The girl with the long red hair streaming down her back? The man with a raincoat over his shoulder and the ubiquitous pork-pie hat?

The now familiar rough-and-ready stage had been erected outside the Observatory, dominating a grassy arena over which the electricians scurried like beetles. Rising from the earth were the aromas of grass and dried plants, sweet-smelling, hot-smelling – and unmistakeable.

Her rucksack, which held a precautionary bottle of water, weighed a ton and she slung it over a shoulder and made her way towards the stage, which wasn’t easy. People clung onto their vantage point and did not appreciate a foreigner shouldering past, muttering ‘Excuse me’ in bad Czech. Eventually, she reached the stage and exchanged a grin with Vaclav, the electrician. By and large, their relationship was wordless, but they got on fine. Reaching over a hand, he hauled Laure up.

A sea of bodies was building, lapping over the grass arena up to the shrubs and tall grasses which provided a natural boundary. The stage planking sounded hollow as she trod over it and jumped down at the back.

In a makeshift tent just behind the stage, Tomas was in a huddle with Manicki and Leo. He looked up as she entered. ‘About time.’ His smile was for her alone – and, for the hundredth time, she thought she might die of love.

He reached over for her. ‘Good day, bad day?’

Their manager was hovering, shouting in Czech and pointing at his watch.

Aware that the authorities had only given permission to hold the event provided the time limits were adhered to, she kissed him and said, ‘Go, go, they’re waiting.’

By the time the first chords were struck, the audience had worked itself up – shouts, snatches of singing, a fisticuff – but quietened as the opening numbers were played.

These had been commissioned for this gig: the lyrics written by a poet banned from publishing his work and the music was Tomas’s. Many of the numbers had animal titles. ‘Midnight Bears’, ‘Snake in the Grass’, ‘Dead Fish’.