PROLOGUE:

17th November 1975.

Jon hadn't been working at the Hammersmith Odeon for very long, maybe two months or so. He was a confident man who walked around with a nervous face and spoke in a shaky voice. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how loud he spoke he always sounded like a lost and bewildered child.

In the mid 50s his mother, Adele, had moved to London from Glasgow where she met his father, a plumber from Chelsea named Chris. Both of them were solidly working class and they were both happy in their social standing. Sure, they had to work hard for their money and their luxuries but didn't that just make it all the more enjoyable?

It was this strong work ethic that prompted Jon to stay on until 1am running around London's Hammersmith Odeon checking on last minute technical faults and making sure everything was where everything was supposed to be. Jon, like many runners in the business, had started at the bottom in the hope of climbing the ladder to the very top rung. Did he want to be an actor or a dancer or a singer or a comedian? He had no idea and the 19 year old didn't need to know. Not yet, anyway. He had his entire life dead ahead of him and every day he could feel something big pressing down on his back. Fame, fortune and credibility had gripped his mind and although he could feel it approaching rapidly he still had no vision for his future. Tomorrow was an age away and did not require any planning but ten years time seemed to him a foregone conclusion.

Just a few short weeks ago Jon was rambling around backstage like a baby bird, not quite knowing what he was doing or where he was supposed to be doing it. The Hammersmith mostly had musicians grace its stage but sometimes comedians would be playing and other times local colleges would use it as rehearsal space for its drama students. Jon slid a programme out of his back pocket and looked over it for the hundredth time. It read in big, unnecessary letters: FINALLY, LONDON IS READY FOR BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN & THE E STREET BAND. Jon's eyes scanned over it again and again and he wondered why he was reading it. He supposed by now he could recite the whole thing from memory. The name of the band, its lead singer and the fact that they were promoting some album called Born to Run which was kicking up an unusual amount of hype. Apparently, Jon had heard, this Springsteen kid had stormed through the lobby the day before and tore down every poster of himself he saw, claiming to want to be known for his music, not his hype. Admirable, thought Jon and then sat down staring at the programme, trying to figure out what the big deal was.

"I don't like you staying so late, Jonathon!" He heard his mother's shrill yet caring voice bounce around his head. "This city comes alive at night. It scares me." Jon was a young man and such dangers that are found commonly in the night-time didn't bother him a jot. He simply slid the programme back into his rear pocket, slipped on his head-set and pressed the on button. A green light came on in a dot just above the earpiece. He listened for a little while before making any sound.

"Jon O'Keefe here, I'm backstage at the band's dressing room. The door is unlocked," he began and his voice trailed off slightly. "Is it meant to be?" The end of his question seemed to be at himself as he heard a nasty static hiss in his ear and then silence. Damn batteries have run out, he thought angrily to himself and took a cautious step forward to the open door. It was only open a creek and he could see from the small crack that there was only darkness coming from inside yet he could feel something else radiating from inside, a feeling that was clearer than light. Fear. What's there to be afraid of? Just a room. A door. A door and a room and a light if he wanted one. Could he hear breathing?

The November rain slammed hard outside and the wind jolted it forward like the spring in a gun forcing the bullet out of the chamber. A low groaning sound was only just audible over the cascading rain outside, a storm like nothing Jon had ever heard before. Or maybe he was just imagining it.

"H-hello?" he called inside, this time his voice was genuinely nervous. "Who's there?" When no voice called back, Jon thought it best to keep tapping the on button on his headset. It crackled like a damaged vinyl on a dusty record player but eventually just died on him. Looks like I'm on my own, he thought, feeling like a child walking through a large dark house alone. He took in a large suck of air as if oxygen would add to his courage.

"I'm c-coming in". His hand was wrapped around the side of the door and the crack became wider as he pulled the door towards him. More darkness flooded him and it seemed to seep out and darken the corridor he was stood in. The groan he heard moments ago echoed out but appeared to come from nothing but blackness. Then, two yellow pin-pricks appeared in the dark. "Who's that?" he whimpered and fumbled his hand around on the wall, searching desperately for the light switch. The sound of it clicking on blended in with every other sound, no matter how minute and he could hear all of them at once. The click of the switch. The flash of the light. His own scream.

Stood before him was something from a movie or a book or a comic book. All of them from the horror genre, to be sure. It was a man, certainly and Jon had a lot of time to take in the sight considering his feet couldn't move from the spot they were planted in. It was a corpse, no two ways about it. The skin was on off-yellow and its eyes were cloudy and milky. Its hair was thin and long and dank and its teeth were rotten and mostly gone. It seemed to scream back at Jon, stretching its mouth open to reveal a black tongue that threw putrid slime from the tip of it.

"Oh, Jesus—" Jon stumbled and fell backwards. The thing cascaded down upon him, arms reaching outward and jaw snapping wildly.

"I don't like you staying out so late, Jonathon!" he heard his mother's voice again. "The city comes alive at night."