Anyway, the Union were better than most of the bands currently jostling for attention in Sheffield, and they were getting gigs in cities other than their own – small venues, thin crowds, but the buzz was growing by the week, and then they were offered a slot in Manchester at the Mayflower Club, way down the pecking order, but with serious punk and new wave bands that were making it: Joy Division, the Fall, the Distractions, the Frantic Elevators. It was billed as a ‘Stuff the Superstars Special’ and it felt like a big break, but two days before the gig, Mark Vernon was killed in a hit-and-run on Arundel Gate in the city centre, and Steve told Daniel he’d have to step in. There was no emotion, no question of bailing on the gig and Steve brooked no objections; he said Daniel knew the set list, knew the sound, he’d got the look. But his guitar was crap, Daniel told Steve; and he’d never played it anywhere except his own fucking bedroom.

‘Vernon’s dead, but his guitar int,’ Steve said. ‘Have it.’

So Daniel took Mark’s sleek black Gibson from the back of the van and had one night to rehearse with the band, an emergency session in a back room at the miners’ welfare in High Green, where John Spencer’s dad was barman. Daniel felt like an imposter, stepping into a dead man’s shoes, but the guitar felt good, looked great, sounded better than he dared hope.

Alison came along to listen. She put herself way back from the mighty amps, standing in the lee of a hundred stacked metal chairs, and watched the band with a sort of fierce, assessing concentration. They were good together. Steve was better than good. He was brilliant, a proper frontman: hypnotic vocals, and a look all his own, a sort of blue-collar dandy. Daniel was talented enough to appear more talented than he was. Dooley, on bass, was solid, dependable, and John played the drums like a maestro when necessary, like a maniac when he could.

Steve sang every number looking directly, intently, at Alison. Afterwards he stalked across the dusty wooden floor to where she was standing and asked her if she could sing. Steve was tall – well over six feet – and he wore a pristine pair of steelworker’s boots, desert camouflage combat trousers, a canary-yellow T-shirt and a brown twill overcoat. Daniel watched from a distance, Mark Vernon’s classic Gibson still slung across his body. He felt about twelve years old.

‘Y’what?’ Alison said. She screwed up her face, looked sceptical. She hadn’t fallen under Steve’s spell, but he didn’t know it.

‘You look good enough to eat,’ Steve said. ‘Who are you?’

‘Alison Connor,’ she said, and she pointed at Daniel, across the room. ‘I’m with him.’