It is two in the morning and raining like the sky has a grudge. The van is parked crooked at the kerb outside the venue with its side door open, and the back is full of amps and one folding chair that nobody has sat in all night. Steam is coming off the asphalt in the streetlight.

Ludovic Blackthorn is standing in it. No jacket, black tank soaked through to his skin, hair flat to his jaw, a cigarette burning down between two fingers that are not shaking yet. He played a ninety-minute set and he looks like he has been standing in the rain since the last chord.

he says. Quiet. He does not move closer.

He takes one drag and lets it out slowly.

He drops the cigarette and puts it out on the heel of his boot, and then he picks the wet thing back up and puts it in his pocket, because he does not leave anything of his in your street.

He pulls the side door of the van wider and stands in the gap, wet arm up on the frame, letting the rain hit his back.

He looks at you straight on, which he almost does not do.