**Title: *Waves of Change: The Second Dawn of Nicky Knight***

**Part I: The Escape (November 1976)**
The night the GPO raided *Radio Knight’s Dawn*, the Thames mist clung like a shroud. Nicky Knight crouched behind a rusted generator, his heartbeat syncing with the frantic bassline of The Who’s *“Won’t Get Fooled Again”* still sputtering from the seized van. Inspector Greaves barked orders, torch beams slicing the dark. Nicky’s crew—Ziggy, Sal, and poor Pete Mallory—were shoved into a Post Office van, their protests drowned by the whine of police radios. Nicky slid down a chalky embankment, vanishing into the Kent woods. By dawn, he was on a freight train to Glasgow, a fake mustache and a new name (*“Eddie Vale”*) in his pocket.

**Interlude: The Quiet Years (1977)**
For a year, “Eddie” drifted. He DJ’d in Belfast pubs under flickering neon, sold bootleg Bowie cassettes in Manchester markets, and slept on couches of loyal listeners who whispered, *“You’re him, aren’t you?”* He kept his hair dyed jet-black, his voice low. Guilt gnawed at him—Pete lost his IBA job; Ziggy got six months in Wandsworth—but the *music* kept pulling him back. A postcard from London, unsigned, arrived in December 1977: *“RAK needs a rebel. Ask for Mickie. –A Friend.”*

**Part II: The Phoenix of RAK (January 1978)**
Mickie Most’s office smelled of cigar smoke and ambition. RAK Records’ walls gleamed with gold discs: Hot Chocolate, Smokie, Suzi Quatro. Nicky, now clean-shaven and in a borrowed suit, spun a yarn about “promotions work in Belfast.” Mickie, sharp-eyed, cut him off: *“I know who you are. Your station played my records before the BBC even touched ’em. That’s instincts. I want that here.”*

By February, Nicky was Nicky Chinn’s right-hand man—a surreal twist, given Chinn’s Mayfair penthouse and his knack for crafting glitter-rock hooks for Sweet and Mud. Chinn, ever the enigma, didn’t ask questions. *“Just make sure the radio pluggers beg for our tracks,”* he’d say, tossing demos across his desk. Nicky’s pirate past became an asset: he knew which DJs craved exclusives, which stations turned a blind eye to “gifts.” He smuggled RAK’s singles into indie record shops, even rang old pirate contacts—now at “legit” stations—with a wink: *“This one’s a floor-filler, swear down.”*

**Part III: Shadows and Spotlights**
One April night, at a Chinnichap songwriting session, Suzi Quatro rasped, *“You’ve got that pirate swagger, Knight. Ever miss the thrill?”* Nicky laughed, but later, at a Camden dive bar, he stared at a static-riddled transistor. A new pirate, *Radio Phoenix*, crackled on 48 meters. His fingers itched to call them, to warn about detector vans.

Then, disaster: Inspector Greaves walked into RAK’s lobby. Nicky froze—until Greaves nodded curtly, there to discuss a *legal* radio campaign for Smokie’s new single. *“Funny, Mr. Vale,”* Greaves muttered, *“you remind me of someone… who vanished.”* Nicky handed him a whiskey. *“Lot of ghosts in this business, Inspector.”*

**Epilogue: Legacy on Wax**
By 1979, RAK ruled the charts. Nicky’s knack for spotting hits helped launch Racey’s *“Lay Your Love on Me”* into the stratosphere. Yet, in quiet moments, he’d slip into a Soho basement, where a kid with a homemade transmitter played Sex Pistols B-sides. *“Ever hear of Radio Knight’s Dawn?”* the kid asked. Nicky smiled, dropping a stack of RAK promos on the table. *“Rumors, mate. But keep this station alive… and play track three. It’s dynamite.”*

As he stepped into the night, a familiar riff buzzed from the basement—Sweet’s *“Ballroom Blitz,”* raw and urgent. Nicky lit a cigarette, the smoke curling like phantom radio waves. Some rebels wore leather; others wore suits. But the music? It never stopped.

**Author’s Note:**
Nicky Knight’s true identity remains unknown. RAK Records’ archives list an “Edward Vale” as Chinn’s assistant until 1981. Fittingly, his final memo read: *“P.S. – Tell the new kids to crank the bass. Pirates know why.”*