Will nods and follows him into the main school corridor. A group of teens swigging from cans of Strongbow bowl past them. He shoves Leavers, pushing him to keep walking when it appears he might tackle them. ‘Pointless,’ Will says. ‘They’re already in. Let’s concentrate on stopping anyone else.’

Leavers grunts and speeds up to a jog, eventually reaching the wide-open fire door at the far end. He slams it shut and cable-ties the push bar. Will heads into the school library. From the big windows he has a good view of the grounds. Groups of teens, most laden with carrier bags of booze, circle the building looking for unsecured ways in. Will hears a noise behind him. The lights are off in the room but it glows in an amber sodium light reflected from the snowy landscape. He turns to see two boys, thirteen at most, locked in an embrace. The pair of them look petrified, clearly having been involved in some intense snogging till they spotted Will.

‘Anyone in there, Parks?’ Leavers shouts from the doorway.

Will holds up a palm to the two boys. ‘There’s a bunch of blokes trying to get in down at the humanities block.’

‘Right!’

‘Have a nice night,’ Will whispers as he steps outside and quietly closes the door. He thinks of April and himself, and how this evening will soon belong to them, too.

He follows Leavers. Together they seal off the last remaining routes into the ECS building.

‘One way in,’ Leavers says. ‘One way out.’

Will’s heart thumps as he begins the walk back to that packed-out hall. This is it now. He’ll be due on stage as soon as he gets there, playing the biggest set of the event. The set that will end the night.

Will Parks’ Big Moment

These are the last moments of the before, the swansong of the normal. These are the times people will talk of with fondness before the story turns to sorrow.

The hall seems quieter than it’s been all night. Sure, a thousand or more people hold their hands in the air and shout themselves hoarse, but it sounds almost serene in this lull in the music. From his vantage point on the stage, Will can see the first two or three rows, no more. Everyone else is lost to the ever-thickening smoke and the orange and purple lights that strobe through it.

An anglepoise lamp glows over the decks and mixer, casting just enough light for Will to work by. His record bag is arranged in order, every mix pre-planned and practised to death. Nothing’s been left to chance. He’s even rehearsed how to make his performance look spontaneous: expressions of surprise when tunes complement each other neatly, a contemplative look to wear when skimming through the records for what’s next.