He took the route across the marshes, beside the railway and beneath the tree where Alfie so nearly took his own life; along the front at Ebbswick, where saltwater swirls above the high tide and sprays the road surface white; past the Martello tower where it all began with April, where they finally got it together for one perfect moment. And now he stands outside his school. That fizzing inside him would once have been dread, but today it’s excitement. Ridiculous as it seems to him, there is nowhere – and no-when – he’d rather be.

These past few days, Will has been oblivious to the presence that follows him around as faithfully as it ever has. No longer does he linger in the darkroom or keep an eye out for the old pram lady. He saved Alfie. He’s done.

At the main entrance he stops and grins at the floor-to-ceiling neon poster on the window. Sold Out! declares a recent addition to it. And right at the bottom, there is the days-to-go countdown. Today – a big, fat zero.

The plans for April’s event have spiralled over the weeks, now involving kids from a number of schools and sponsorship from a dozen local businesses. It’s not just a disco, not even a rave – it’s a festival in miniature. The current total stands at over eight grand, raised for the campaign to save the library, more than triple what they’d aimed for.

Will is ushered out of the way by two guys wheeling a trolley of lighting equipment into reception and onward to the school hall. Behind him, a catering firm’s van pulls up. He stands at the door and thinks how, when he leaves this building tonight, he’ll have done it: become the sort of person who can stand up in front of a crowd, hold their attention and perform.

He takes a lungful of icy air and heads for the hall.

‘Good of you to show your face, Parks,’ Kris Tring says. He stands back from the stage backdrop he’s been painting for days, adding the finishing touches with aerosols of car paint. ‘Some of us have been here since the crack of dawn.’

‘Long story,’ Will says, suppressing the ache of sorrow that’ll take over him again if he lets himself dwell on it. ‘Much rather have been here.’

He scans the unrecognizable space and the hive of activity it’s become. A team of year elevens hang heavy black drapes over the walls. Comically oversized disco balls sway overhead. A couple of volunteers work atop a scaffolding tower, assembling lighting rigs. ‘Loving the mural. What is that, Glastonbury?’

Kris winces. Over his trademark drainpipes and rollneck, he’s wearing a knee-length beige-leather jacket, which he’s rolled to the elbows. ‘Inspired by Jean-Michel Jarre’s concerts in Berlin.’

‘Jean-Michel who?’

‘Only the godfather of electronic music, Parks. The King of Synth.’

‘Right. You been to Berlin?’