It's October the 12th, 1984, 250 am in Brighton, England.

Inside a large luxurious suite on the first floor of the famous Grand Hotel,

a 58-year-old woman sits hunched over a desk.

Ed bowed, her face is wrinkled with concentration as she scribbles across a sheet of paper.

Despite the early hour, she is dressed in a long velvet evening-gall,

with pearls at her neck and ears.

She spent last night at a lavish party, but the moment she left, she got back to work.

Later today, she will be giving an important speech, and she wants it to be perfect.

Though she ordinarily gets by on as little as four hours sleep a night,

at just before 3am, she is ready to turn in.

After drawing a line at the bottom of the page,

she puts down her pen, folds the paper in half,

and calls to a member of staff that it's ready.

Her colleague hurries through, and the woman places a finger on her lips,

are warning to be quiet.

She doesn't want to wake her husband, as asleep in the other room.

But moments later, the piece is blown apart.

Out of nowhere, a deafening explosion shakes the entire building.

As the lights go out, the woman is thrown onto the floor,

and plunged into a suffocating cloud of dust.

Beyond the ringing in her ears, all she can hear are distant screams

on the terrifying creeks of claps and brickwork.

...