Shelley emerges from her office on the mezzanine overlooking the college’s study area and is taken aback by silence. The utter lack of noise seems to betray the notion of an institute for further education – no sound means no stimulation; no education, development or progress.

Checking her watch, Shelley realises. Almost five. The students will have left for the prospect of Friday evening drunkenly wandering the winter streets – suddenly the silence doesn’t seem quite so menacing. She feels comforted by the now restful quiet of the college, and closes her eyes, briefly, to accompany the thrall of silence in a final calming of the senses before heading home.

Suddenly, the hush is broken.

Not so much broken perhaps, as interrupted, suspended. Now, the soft strain of strings floats up to the mezzanine. Shelley recognises the protracted B flat as the opening to Barber’s Adagio for Strings, but can’t decide whether in the near-darkness, the music is serene or ominous.

Only following the melody will tell.