The Arches Jazz Club had, in the early days of Camden Lock, been a disreputable dive located in a former lockup under a brick railway arch—hence the name. As the market prospered, the club had moved to one of the units in the west yard just short of the horse bridge, so that while waiting for a gig a punter could sit outside at a café table and have a drink while enjoying the view across the lock basin. These days, my dad assured me, you almost never found dead dogs floating in the canal.

Lord Grant and the Irregulars were due to go on first in support of the main act. On the stage Daniel and Max were setting up the instruments and doing sound checks. There weren’t that many punters in yet. They were mostly outside having a crafty fag or sneaking a drink. I asked where James was.

“Throwing up in the toilet,” said Daniel. “He’s that nervous.”

I looked over to where my mum was standing in her Sunday best nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She gave me a little wave and I indicated that I was going outside to wait for Simone. She nodded and followed me out.

That late in September it was getting dark before seven, but the clouds had held off and the last of the sunshine painted the brick front of the lock a golden orange. I saw Simone step down from Chalk Farm Road, wave happily, and then sashay over on a pair of high-heeled sling-backs, the sort that my mum buys occasionally but never wears. It was obviously ’80s night because her hair was piled under a broad-brimmed hat and the transparent top she was wearing was only street-legal because she had her jacket buttoned up.

I turned to my mum. “Mum, this is Simone.”

She said nothing, which wasn’t what I expected. Then she balled her fists and strode past me.

“Get away, you bitch,” she screamed.

Simone skittered to a halt, stared at Mum bearing down at her and then at me. Before I could move, my mum reached her and fetched Simone such a tremendous open-hand slap that she went reeling backward.

“Get away,” shouted my mum.

Simone stepped back, shock and outrage on her face, a pale hand covering the cheek where she’d been struck. I rushed forward to stop Mum, but before I could reach her she’d grabbed Simone’s hair with her left hand and was yanking at her jacket with her right. Simone was screaming and flailing, trying to get away as my mum shredded the gauze top with her fingers.