A municipal swimming pool, opened 1963, drained in 1998 and never refilled. Somebody put a sound system in the deep end. The original public stairs from the street are still how you get in.
A concrete civic frontage with forty years of flyposting on it and one sodium lamp still working. Everything below this is underground.
First turn. Leave your coat, take a ticket. Look back up the flight and you can still see the street light behind you — the last time you can.
Second turn, and somebody standing on it. Arms out. From here the room below stops being a rumour and starts being a low end you can feel.
The old deck, wet underfoot, lit by a colonnade of cold frames receding into the dark. Starting blocks, a lifeguard chair nobody has sat in since the nineties, and a bar in the changing rooms. Stand at the edge and look down the length of it.
Forty-six by ninety metres of cracked blue tile, and it slopes away from you — so the back row stands higher than the front and everyone can see. Twelve hundred people. Near-black between the beams.
A hard step down into the well, and there is still eight centimetres of water in it. The DJ works from the five-metre platform. The whole rig is reflected in the floor.