Drinking Snakebite on the village green all afternoon, then at sunset Davey McAntee in his window cleaning van, asking who wants to go down London to that new club, the Slimelight. In the back of the van there are poppers and glue, and in the club a tall dark stranger sweeps you off your feet and separates you from the herd. Now your head hurts, your throat is sore, it’s dark again, you’re in a strange house. You stagger to the bathroom, broken glass nipping at your feet. In the mirror you look for yourself, but only find an absence.