Within an hour and a half, I’d climbed the gentle rise of the South Downs. I stopped and let my bike drop on to the chalk track. I’d left the low cloud inland behind me, the coastline shimmering in the windless haze of its own weather system. The only sound was the hiss of the A23 snaking below me in the distance, the whiff of petrol fumes rising and blending with the warm salt in the air. I was perhaps five miles from my destination. The cables between pylons sagged in the heat, guiding my eyes across a patchwork of fields to that distinct strip of blueish grey where the land slips into the sea.

Standing there alone, independent and free, I swear I knew it. Something bad was coming.

The memory haunts me. It’s like those vivid opening scenes of nightmares where, despite the innocence of the image, you can feel the threat of what’s going to follow, even though you’ve yet to see it.

Did I really feel like that? That is definitely what I remember.

The Bluesman’s Hat

Last August

It was late afternoon when I rapped on the door of Aunty Kaye’s terraced house in the North Laine. The road was deserted, but the burble and clink of pubs spilling on to streets filled the air in every direction.

The front door of the neighbouring house swung open. ‘Here he is, my partner in crime,’ she said. ‘Summer really has arrived at last.’ She stepped on to the pavement and threw her arms round me. She smelled as expensive as ever. ‘It’s so wonderful to see you,’ she said, squeezing me so tight I could barely breathe. She considered me at arm’s length and tugged at the tuft of man bun I’d just about managed to grow. ‘Love, love, love the hair!’

‘Gramps says it’s not very me.’

‘Hmm.’ She held a thoughtful finger to the corner of her lips. ‘And who do we think knows better about what is you or not. Your gramps? Or you perhaps?’

‘That’s what I told him.’

‘Perhaps we’ll send you back with a tattoo or two, see what he makes of that.’

‘Think you have to be eighteen to get one,’ I said, looking with envy at the stave of musical notes that spiralled round her upper arm and disappeared inside her vest.

‘You’re nearly eighteen.’

‘I’m sixteen next month.’

‘Nearly eighteen. Rules are for those who can’t be trusted to self-regulate,’ she said as if she wasn’t joking at all. ‘They aren’t for us. We’ll do some drawings later.’

‘That’d be awesome,’ I said, grinning.

‘Bring your stuff in,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a town to hit.’

‘You appear to be in the wrong house.’