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The path Anna Sousa trod on the night of the May Ball was witnessed by dozens of people. Hundreds, in total, from all those present on the street or at the event. So many chances to stop what happened. To step in.

But many of those people barely noticed her. They had no real reason to dwell on a tall young woman in a black-and-silver dress amid so many glamorously dressed young students.

Others did notice. Their paths intersected at moments when the glamour of the evening had worn thin. Tiny points of time when things could have tipped in another direction, if they’d said something.

If they’d stepped forwards.

One of those was a first-year Pembroke Student named Dora Hu. Her boyfriend, a second-year Trinity maths student named Nicky, had bought them a pair of VIP tickets to the May Ball, and she had been nervously excited about this night for the last four months.

Dora spent five hours getting ready and in that time reapplied her make-up twice and took the blue silk dress off once to steam creases out of it. In the end, she felt beautiful enough to go. In fact, she felt more beautiful than she’d ever felt. Which might just be enough.

She walked through streets that had been transformed: between scatters of students wearing tuxedos, cocktail dresses and huge, princess ballgowns, as if a series of ghosts of bygone ages had been resurrected for the evening.

All these fairy-tale figures were walking with an only slightly self-conscious air across flagstones and cobbles, and between eclectic buildings; past sweet shops and bollards, and gargoyles crafted hundreds of years ago.

It seemed to Dora like they didn’t need to touch the ground. Any of them.

Well, any of them except her.

Because although Dora at first felt part of it, she quickly began to feel the tightness of her strappy heeled shoes. Less than halfway to Trinity they were digging into her feet hard enough to hurt and she had to stop and sit on the wall of King’s College to try to loosen them a little.

By the time she’d arrived at the ball, where the VIP queue was ready to enter, Nicky already in place close to the front, she was ready to cry. How could she last a whole night with this pain?

But Nicky was waiting for her with a smile of huge pride, and she couldn’t ruin his night.

So Dora kissed him and moved inside as if she didn’t hurt at all, past the ticket desk and into the wide expanse of the Great Court.

And she nearly forgot her painful feet at the sight of a huge, red-and-gold hot-air balloon sitting stationary at the centre, its basket tied down but with the balloon lifting to strain at the ropes.

The very first students in the queue were being ushered into it to take photographs, and Dora beamed up at Nicky.

‘That is so cool.’

But she was drowned out by another voice close by.

‘Hot-air balloon! Fuck yes,’ a very tall, very muscular red-haired student just ahead of them was yelling. Dora felt Nicky– who was slim and shy– edge towards her a little.

She found herself watching the red-haired student after that, on high alert for signs that he might get rowdy.

She was still, a year into being at this place, heart-thumpingly scared of drunk, boisterous men getting out of control.

The redhead’s little group had that aura.

They’d brought bottles of champagne and were opening them and commenting on everything loudly.

But a little later, as the queue moved on and the redhead decided to throw a cork at another student, the other tall boy with them drew him aside. He seemed to be trying to calm him down. To tell him not to behave like that.

‘Yeah, well,’ the red-haired guy suddenly said, ‘I’m not the one dating a fucking liar.’

Nicky started trying to talk to her then, clearly not listening to the conversation as she was, but Dora put a finger to her lips and leaned in. She caught only a low, intense, snippet: ‘…serious, Ryan… chance to actually talk to her and stop judging her.’

But then one of the others was waving, and the one talking to red-haired Ryan turned and was smiling at a newcomer: a blonde in a dramatic black-and-silver dress, wearing heels much higher than Dora’s but with a pair of hot-pink flats poking out of a handbag slung over her shoulder.

I should have brought some of those , Dora thought, and then she found herself watching, transfixed, as the blonde girl put her arms round the peacemaker and kissed him.

And although the two of them looked beautiful, in a Hollywood-perfect way, Dora saw a drop of sadness on the boy’s face and a look of worry on the girl’s.

Maybe she cheated , Dora thought. And she kept close to them and tried her best to find out if that was true while they slowly moved towards the entrance to the ball itself.

But the group spoke only about plans for the night, and how beautiful the girls looked, and then– at the gateway– they drifted off into the night.

Dora realised that she’d been ignoring Nicky and that his expression was hesitant. Hurt.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought I knew one of them. I don’t think I do.’ And then she slid her arm through his. ‘Let’s go and find something to drink.’

And then there was Patrick Offerly, a part-time psychology student and Bao Bun caterer who might have said something. Might have reached out.

At a little after nine Patrick witnessed a conversation between Anna and the bodyguard, Ned.

The conversation took place right outside Patrick’s Bao Bun van during a quiet patch.

Most of the ball’s attendees were at that point jumping around to the Miley Cyrus tribute act in the main tent, so Patrick had tidied up a bit and was now leaning on the counter to people-watch for a while.

It was the first time Patrick had really had any downtime, but he’d already noticed an older man in Ray-Bans.

The guy had spent the last few minutes standing back watching a group of students on the dodgems, his hands folded in front of him and his head moving back and forth.

He was close to the van, but his back was turned to it.

He was definitely not a student or a fellow, and definitely not interested in food.

He looked, to Patrick, like a security guard, but he wasn’t wearing the black top and radio mic that the security guys were all wearing tonight. Patrick wondered whether he might be there to watch someone in particular.

While Patrick was trying to work him out a student in a striking black-and-silver dress who’d been standing close to the dodgems walked across the black matting in their direction.

She looked relatively sober still. She came to stand alongside the Ray-Bans guy, moving out of his sightline– it was restricted by the serving hatch– but still only a few feet away.

‘How’s it looking, Ned?’ she asked him, clearly audible over the van’s generator.

She was American, he thought. East Coast. It gave him a pang of nostalgia for the gap year he’d spent running youth camps over in Saratoga.

Great kids, time outdoors and no bullshit food van to run. ‘Any murdery people about?’

‘That’s the trouble,’ the Ray-Bans guy– Ned– answered. ‘Murdery people look like anyone, because pretty much anyone could murder.’

Definitely personal security , Patrick thought.

‘Huh,’ the girl with the silver-and-black dress answered. ‘I don’t know about that. I don’t think I could.’

‘You could,’ Ned said, firmly. ‘Given enough of a reason. Nobody finds taking a life easy, but if enough people are depending on you…’

That interested Patrick. It sounded like this guy had served. Didn’t a lot of special forces guys become bodyguards?

He wondered whether he was this girl’s bodyguard, but he seemed to be watching the dodgems still.

‘Oh, I get you,’ the girl said, lightly. ‘I just meant I actually couldn’t. Like, zero competence at fighting and a high likelihood of stabbing myself instead of the target.’

The bodyguard– Ned– sounded like he was smiling as he said, ‘That’s a fair point.’

There was a loud laugh from the students at the dodgems, and something in the security guy’s expression changed. He could see it even from a fragment of his profile.

One of them, then , Patrick thought . He’s looking out for one of them. Is it a celebrity?

‘You like him, don’t you?’ the girl said next.

There was a pause before Ned said, ‘He’s my responsibility, but he’s also easy to like. Which is nice.’

Patrick studied the group on the dodgems. There were three boys, one watching and two riding around who were clearly part of the same group. Patrick found it hard to make their faces out, but he didn’t immediately recognise any of them. Maybe he should take a photo. Ask some people later.

There should be a Shazam for celebrities , he thought. Tap on their face and it tells you what they’ve been in.

He found himself jumping slightly when the girl said, in a suddenly really intense tone, ‘I’m scared something’s going to happen tonight. Nothing feels right. Don’t let him get hurt.’

Patrick could feel his heart in his neck. Was there really some threat? Was this guy Ned here because something might happen?

The dodgems were stopping now, and the girl moved off towards the friends piling out of them. Patrick saw the security guy, Ned, watching her intently.

Three of the other students from the dodgems approached the van, and Patrick realised he needed to straighten up and start serving them. But he could feel sweat on his skin as he filled their orders.

Are the rest of us safe? he thought, looking at the wide-eyed, inebriated faces below him. Should I be telling someone?

But when he tried to spot Ned or the girl again there was no sign of them. They’d moved off somewhere and his queue of customers built steadily after that to the point where he had no time to worry about anything.

By the time he thought of the girl again it was almost dawn and no threat had emerged. None that Patrick had seen, at least.