On the left turntable, he loads Liquid’s ‘Sweet Harmony’, a record that might be close to thirty years old but which has the sort of euphoric piano intro that’ll bring any dance floor to life. On the right, in readiness for the first mix, ‘On a Ragga Tip’. He’s slipping on the headphones when the noise ramps up from the crowd. Next to him, April hurls aerosol-powered air horns off the stage for people to catch. She grimaces as an orchestra of klaxons strikes up.

‘Donated by the hardware place,’ she yells into Will’s ear. ‘Got a hundred of them.’

Will gives her a thumbs up, no point trying to say anything over the racket now.

Half an hour, Will thinks. Maybe forty minutes. Fourteen classic rave records. And then it’ll be over. He’ll have done the thing that’s frightened him to death ever since April first suggested it.

The air horns reach a crescendo. Will turns the master volume on the mixer till it’s almost on the stop. And he drops the needle on the first record.

The kids go wild. The sound system is so loud Will’s eardrums feel as though they’re buzzing against his brain.

Straight away, he starts cueing the next track. It’s near impossible to hear the headphones but he’s familiar enough with these records to get by on the little beat he can detect. The Technics turntables are a pleasure to use, reacting instantly to every tweak of the pitch control, so much easier than the tired equipment in his bedroom. These past few weeks have been plagued by nightmares of him cocking this up, of breaking into his first mix and it being a calamitous clashing of beats. Nothing sounds worse than a bad mix. It’s like a drum kit falling down the stairs. And he’s been worried that these kids will dismiss this music, think themselves too cool for a genre their parents might have raved in a field to. But Will needn’t have worried on either point. He’s nailing this, and the audience are crazy for it.

Straight away, the two tunes are synced and the fader is moved to the centre. Another huge piano intro blasts out over the beat. And, again, a chorus of air horns tears through the place.

He looks across at April. She’s in a world of her own, flailing two glow sticks above her head. Her neon orange vest top rides up, a jewelled ring in her navel twinkling in the coloured lights. She’s oblivious to Will’s gaze, lost to the music. With his set finally under way, the dull sickness that has dogged him all day now gone, Will reflects on the last few minutes before he took to the decks.

We kissed. At last, we kissed again, Will thinks.