I’d never been to an airport, certainly not on a school night. My father had packed a thermos of coffee, telling my mother we were just going for a drive. He always had a tape playing in the car, some endless wailing of guitars and no real tune that I could make out, but tonight, as we drove through the empty city, watching traffic lights change silently for no one but us, I heard something else. No guitars or drums, no verse or chorus, instead something akin to classical music, epic and sweeping, but also repetitive, hypnotic. The sound was cold and metallic, the voice robotic, sometimes menacing, sometimes joyful; I caught a few words that I’d learned in first-year German. As we left the city and turned onto the motorway, I let the music synchronise with the rhythms of the road, each lamp-post arriving with a tinny beep, so that we were sliding through a corridor of sound and light.