The city where I went to university was built on tobacco and slave trade wealth. Vast, lavish and crumbling, it teetered on the edge of a gorge, its curlicued terraces spilling down towards the river and the docks.

Though some insisted that street names such as Whiteladies Road and Black Boy Hill had nothing to do with the slave trade, still just their very existence constantly brought Bristol’s queasy and terrifying history to mind. Some days the angles of the buildings didn’t look quite right. Other days I’d walk down the street in bright sunshine and be sure I heard voices.