I imagine it happened something like this. I don’t know that it didn’t.

People said he was odd. As loopy as the arch that was the gateway to the town where he lived, some said. It towered over Foregate, a one-way street in which the traffic flowed away from town. To many that was ironic but to Billy Venables it was how things should be.

“It’s shit,” he said about the place. “It’s shit and there’s nowhere better.”

Billy lived with his mother on Red Lion Street opposite the prison wall. On two occasions Billy’s father was the other side of that wall: the first for burglary having failed to conceal himself behind a pair of curtains when the house-owners returned unexpectedly; and the second for stealing a car which fell apart, literally. Billy didn’t know about his father’s close proximity, nor would he have cared. The only relatives Billy knew were his Aunts who visited occasionally on Sunday afternoons.

Cath, Beryl and Gladys were giants. They stomped down the garden path like trolls whilst Mary worried around the Hillman; locking and checking and double-checking. Billy’s mother, who had developed a habit of breathing out loud, inhaled sharply as the house braced itself.

Gladys eclipsed the bay-window to take up her seat in the corner and the room, which was never especially light, fell completely dark. She settled her skirts into the armchair and tucked her purse down the side. Cath and Beryl took the settee and Mary, having finished trying to polish the welcome mat to a shine as Billy’s mum put it, perched herself on one of the hardback dining chairs brought into the lounge for the occasion.

Tea was served; Billy’s mum breathing in the steam that curled from the spout. They chatted about the neighbours, Wanderers and the family.

“Is he going to school, Gwen?”

“No he isn’t Glad. I can’t get him to go. God knows I’ve tried ‘till I’m blue in the face.” Mary placed a hand over her chest and felt the cross beneath her cardigan.

“Billy. What do you do all day that’s so interesting you can’t go to school?”

He shrugged and looked at the floor. What’s interesting got to do with it? Billy spent his truanting days in bed and his nights sat on the lino floor of the kitchen with his air-rifle, waiting for the bastard rat to emerge from behind the fridge. Was that interesting?

“You’ve got to go to school Billy. You don’t want to end up like your dad.”

“Mary!” Gladys snapped.

As the last cup clinked into its saucer Billy’s mother rose to her feet and dropped the front of the drinks cabinet. “What will you have Gladys?”

“I’ll have a whisky if you don’t mind Gwen?”

“Cath?”

“Whisky please Gwen?”

“Is your’s whisky Beryl?”

“Yes please Gwen.”

“Mary. What’ll you have?”

“I’ll have a lemonade please Gwen.”

“Oh go on Mary, have a drink.”

“No! I mustn’t. I’m driving.”

“You can have one can’t you?”

Mary edged her seat nearer to the sideboard and the record player. She lifted the smoked lid and began to finger through a pile of records taken from the bottom cupboard.

Billy’s aunts put the world right. They railed against the union at the factory where they all worked and stabbed serious fingers in the direction of management.

“And if he comes near me with that stopwatch again, I’ll take his pants down and put him across my knee I swear I will!”

They heaved with laughter and the china chattered in the cabinet.

Mary played rock ‘n’ roll records like when they were girls, bouncing around their bedroom at home: Bobby Darren, Brenda Lee, Del Shannon and the greats, Buddy Holly, Bill Haley and of course, Elvis. As the sun settled they whispered their own version of Love me Tender, each looking at a spot on the carpet.

“Only prayer can follow Elvis Billy,” Mary said as she stepped out of the house, clutching the keys to the Hillman tightly.

Billy waved them off and tucked the net curtain in place as his mother closed the front door. “Put the telly on Billy,” she sighed collecting together the glasses and taking them through to the kitchen. “Let’s have some news.”

The Bakelite channel-box was screwed into the windowsill. Billy turned the knob and slumped into the armchair, still warm from his Aunty Glad – he wasn’t sure whether he liked that. The news reader flicked the top of his pen and clipped it into his jacket pocket.

“And finally,” he said, rifling the papers on his desk. “Gene Vincent, who died today aged 36, and the song he’ll best be remembered for.”

“Mum,” said Billy, not nearly loud enough – he couldn’t take his eyes off the guitar player to Gene’s left. Billy had seen musicians looking cool before but he hadn’t seen anyone so obviously in agony and loving it as much as this man, who chewed gum with a menacing purpose and jolted, painfully with each strum. Billy was rocking. With each beat felt closer to the edge. He was falling. Was he falling? And feeling increasingly anxious. The drummer screamed into the second chorus and the band threw their heads forward; their caps falling to the floor. Billy stood bolt upright. He wasn’t anxious any more.

“Mum!!” he called.

I asked Blue Cap, so called for obvious reasons by everyone outside of the family for the last thirty-five years, what had happened that he was such a rock ‘n’ roll eccentric? He saw Be-Bop-A-Lula on the news, he said.

“And that twitch?” I asked – we’d had a couple of drinks.

“Same thing,” he said. “The scream man, it’s still in there. I can’t get it out.”