The sheer volume, so stirring to begin with, has beaten his eardrums into retreat. As the minutes pass, it becomes more and more of a muddy throb. His next mix might be in, or it might not; he’s fast losing the ability to tell. Although, if Will can’t hear the details, surely this crowd can’t either. If he could see even a single one of them, he might be able to judge a reaction.

Will feels oddly alone now. He knows he’s in a building with a thousand other souls, but what good is that if you can’t see those people, can’t hear them, or touch them? He has a sense of becoming exposed, of everything that exists to protect him being stripped away. Like he’s standing on the very edge of a cliff. One tiny push and he’s going over.

Visibility is so poor he has to use the torch on his phone to see what he’s doing. His next mix, the hardest yet, Will keeps as short as possible. Just a couple of bars of overlapping beats before slamming the fader to one side.

It’s as though he’s no longer quite within himself, as if he floats a few centimetres off the stage, hovering in this dazzling fog. It’s not dissimilar to how he felt in the darkroom, except now his senses are muted through overload rather than deprivation.

A sense of impending doom. He’s heard people use that expression. And that is how he feels. He very definitely senses impending doom.

It’s happening tonight.

Nain’s words come back to him now.

Tell Will it happens tonight.

A certain clarity comes to his thoughts now, as if the peripheral worries of the day are shed, leaving behind just the stuff that matters.

Ms Calloway. How concerned she looked this afternoon.

Stay vigilant … Now’s not the time to stop being aware.

Why would she say that?

The black smoke licks orange and red.

His mixes are becoming an afterthought now, he’s only thinking to cue the next record each time the current track reaches its outro. He flicks hastily to Josh Wink’s ‘Higher State of Consciousness’.

He can’t hear the voice, but Will’s aware of something. Of someone. A presence. Less clear than that night on the boat, much less clear than it was in the darkroom. But still, there’s something. Up above him. In the lights and the smoke. The song reaches its climax, synth screaming through the place.

He can smell something. At first he thinks it’s barbecue smoke. But it’s too synthetic. Like hot plastic. Like overworked electrics.

The song has almost ended before Will has thought to mix the next. He doesn’t bother bringing the two records into sync, just switches from one to the other.