Billy Butterbean

[Published in Freudian Variant]


Neil was finding it difficult digging by torchlight, but he was forced to do it, otherwise the neighbours might see him. He was fortunate that there was a large tree in his back garden, as that helped to obscure the view, and adding the fact that it was the middle of the night, he felt quite confident of continuing undetected. He was in his shirt sleeves, despite the night chill, and his brow was sweating, but he carried on regardless. The hole wasn't yet big enough, there was a long way to go before it would be.
"Is everything all right?" Joanne whispered from the back door. Neil ceased digging, and turned to face his wife.
"Bloody hell, Joanne! Turn off that kitchen light!"
The glow from the skylight disappeared abruptly. Silly woman, thought Neil. Does she want everyone in the street to see what he was doing? Of course, this wouldn't have been necessary in the first place if he hadn't got carried away. Having said that, he had every right to chastise his own child if he so wished. Someone had to keep them in line. And if he went too far... well, he didn't want to face the consequences.
He continued digging. The bin-bag was waiting in the kitchen. I've got to make this hole really deep, he thought.

"So how long have you had this imaginary friend, Kevin?" the counsellor asked.
"He's not imaginary, he's real," said Kevin.
"Yes, of course. So how long have you had this real friend then?"
Kevin thought for a moment, his eyes scanning the room. It possessed that strange teaky authoritative odour, that grown-up schoolroom smell. Through the window he could see other children leaving to go home, a collection of rucksacks, grey uniforms and white socks disappearing through the school gates.
"Since about a year ago," his father intervened, "when Carl went missing. Isn't that right, Kevin?"
Kevin's eyes met his father's, but not for long, for he could see danger in them. He didn't wish to incur his wrath, no way.
"That's right," he said.
"That was a terrible business, Neil," said the counsellor to Kevin's father, "it must have affected you all badly. Maybe that explains Kevin's association with his imaginary friend." Kevin's eyes shot daggers at the counsellor. "Sorry, Kevin. His real friend, I should say. Do you think that's right, Joanne?"
Kevin glanced at his mother, who was seated to his right, both his parents flanking him, his protective custodians. She seemed nervous, which he could understand, as it wasn't every day that the school suspected one of their children of going crazy.
"I think so," said Joanne. "Kevin and Carl were very close, so he's bound to miss his brother."
"So Kevin has invented this friend as a sort of replacement for Carl," said the counsellor.
"It seems that way," said Neil, "but the lad's twelve years old, for God's sake. He shouldn't be making up friends at his age, that's what younger kids do."
"I agree," said the counsellor. "So to what extent does this friend appear to exist?"
"Well, Kevin talks to him," said Neil, "he plays with him in his room. He thinks he's really there. It's as if he's real."
"He is real," said Kevin.
"Kevin!" Neil snapped.
Kevin knew when to keep quiet. He had faced his father's fury too often not to obey him. He peered at the counsellor, and noticed that she was watching him intensely, gazing at him through her butterfly glasses.
"That's quite a bruise you've got there on the side of your head, Kevin," she said. "How did you do that?"
"He walked into a door," said Neil. A well-rehearsed reply. Kevin was used to it. What's that bruise on your leg? He tripped over a kerb. What are those cuts on your arm? He fell into some nettles. What are those marks on your back? He did it playing football. People were so gullible.
"It's got to be the trauma of his brother Carl's disappearance," said the counsellor. "That seems to be the cause of Kevin inventing this friend. What do you call him again, Kevin?"
"Billy Butterbean," said the boy.

Later that night, the moonlight was attempting to penetrate the curtains covering Kevin's bedroom window, with only a little success. Kevin was under the sheets, lying face downwards on his stomach. He was compelled to do this, as his backside was stinging owing to the beating his father had given him.
The door had opened, just slightly, but enough to allow a stream of light to slip into the room. Neil's dark figure could be seen between the gap, and when the door was thrust aside Kevin knew what was going to happen. He always did.
"I didn't like the way you acted in that meeting today," said Neil, entering the room, "I didn't like it at all. I reckon you should be punished."
He pulled the covers from over Kevin, shoving him on to his stomach, dragging his pyjamas down over his behind, exposing his bare buttocks. The belt was already in his hand. Kevin winced.
"I'm getting sick of this, Billy," he muttered to his imaginary friend as he ended his recollection of moments earlier, "it's always the same, night after night. Some excuse to lay into me."
Carl was lucky in a way, he thought. At least he was out of it. Kevin recalled all the nights listening to his brother's muffled cries from the next room as his father said goodnight. His eyes were hot and damp with tears, and he rubbed them, feeling the wetness on his knuckles. Mum doesn't help either, he thought. She knows it's happening. She could say something.
"I think I know what happened to Carl," Kevin told Billy, "he didn't disappear at all, that's just what Mum and Dad made up. Telling the police he'd been abducted. That's all rubbish."
Kevin attempted to roll over on to his back, but it was too painful, his backside was still throbbing, the aftermath of his father's unwelcome attention.
"Don't tell anyone, Billy," he said, "but I think the same is going to happen to me. I'll be just like Carl. Wherever he is."
Kevin closed his eyes, endeavouring to grab some sleep, although he realized it wouldn't be easy, with what he had on his mind. Billy Butterbean didn't say anything, after all, he was merely Kevin's imaginary friend.

Kevin had his own reasons for not wanting to take a shower, but he was worried because Mr Jefferson's eyes kept looking his way. He was sitting in the corner of the changing rooms, surrounded by an avalanche of noise. Childish shouting and screaming, the sound of spraying water hitting boyish skin, the general hustle and bustle of pre-pubescent youngsters. He was still sore from the previous night's experience, and was slowly getting dressed, his uniform in a crumbled heap beside him. Then two boys entered, their pale skin dripping with shower-water, multi-coloured towels tied haphazardly around their waists.
"Kevin!" the first boy called. "You're not talking to yourself, are you?"
Girlish giggles followed.
"He's not talking to himself," said the second boy, "he's talking to his made-up friend."
"That's right. Billy Butterbean!"
The two boys howled with facetious laughter, and others joined in the reverie, a horde of semi-naked students chuckling and snorting in unison. Then a chant began.
"Bill-ee Butter-bean, Bill-ee Butter-bean, Bill-ee Butter-bean!" and so on, until a manly adult voice roared above the synchronized yelling.
"Enough!" It was Mr Jefferson. "You boys, get yourselves dried and dressed, and the rest of you, just be quiet."
Silence was observed, for which Kevin was grateful. Any attention he received at school was always unwelcome. Only Billy Butterbean was civil to him.
"Kevin, have you had a shower?"
He sensed that Mr Jefferson was going to ask him that. The games master towered above him, attacking him with his eyes.
"I have a note," said Kevin feebly.
"Let's see it then."
Kevin reached into his blazer pocket and produced a crumpled ball of paper, which he proceeded to hand over to Mr Jefferson, who unfolded it and studied the contents carefully.
"Kevin," he said, "you've been giving me this same note for the last five months. Do you think I'm stupid or something? Now, get your kit off and into the showers. Now!"
Everyone was staring in Kevin's direction, causing him great consternation. There was nobody to turn to for assistance, not even Billy Butterbean was there to help him. He was completely alone. They are bound to find out the truth now, he thought, as he lazily started to take off his games clothes. Once down to his briefs, he gingerly pulled them down his legs and off, quickly covering himself with his towel, before swiftly disappearing in the direction of the showers. Glancing left and right, he hung the towel on the silver pipes outside the shower area, then hopped into the water. The spray was lukewarm on his body, and he grabbed some soap, rubbing it into his skin. He didn't wish to remain in there for long, and in no time he departed from the water, rubbing soap from his eyes. He blindly snatched the towel, then he heard a voice calling to him, an adult voice.
"Kevin! What are all those marks on your body?"
Kevin froze. The secret was out. What would happen now, he thought. The authorities would have a field day, all sorts of strange counsellors would be talking to him, demanding to know what had been going on. After that, they would begin asking questions about Carl, and what really happened to him. On top of that, there was his father. He's going to kill me, thought Kevin.
Kevin was sitting next to the counsellor in the front of the Fiat, the seat belt uncomfortably tight upon his lap. They were silent as they approached Kevin's home. However, he hadn't been so silent earlier as he spilled the beans to the education authorities. He had had no choice, the marks upon his person having been discovered by Mr Jefferson. The cat's out of the bag now, he thought, it's time for the fireworks.
He didn't have anyone to turn to, not even Billy Butterbean, who had been mysteriously absent from his side for most of the afternoon. How Kevin had needed him during the harrowing meeting with the authority figures, those adults with their plain suits and their deathly faces. How he had needed someone.
They turned into the close, and were greeted by scenes of commotion. An ambulance, police cars, crowds of people, television crews. What's more, it was all taking place outside Kevin's home. He and the counsellor were obviously alarmed, and Kevin jerked forwards as the Fiat came to an abrupt halt, only the seat belt preventing him from crashing his head on the dashboard.
"Oh, my God," said the counsellor.
Kevin unbuckled himself, and scrambled out of the car, racing in the direction of his house. A policeman spotted him and approached, scooping him up in his huge arms.
"You're Kevin, aren't you?" he said.
Kevin nodded, not taking his eyes off what was happening. An ambulance team were taking a wheeled stretcher from inside the house, a white sheet covering what appeared to be a body, a few scarlet blotches evident upon the sheet. The policeman carried him over to a waiting police car and, as he was delicately placed on to the back seat, Kevin spied a second stretcher leaving through the front door. Then he spotted one of the newsmen apparently delivering an on-the-spot report, his words precise and clear to Kevin's ears.
"The bodies of Neil and Joanne Farrell were discovered in the kitchen of their home," said the reporter, "a neighbour having been alerted by loud screaming coming from the house. They both suffered multiple stab wounds, and their throats were also cut. There is no sign of a break-in, and no murder weapon has been found."
"We'll take you to the station, Kevin," said the policeman, now positioned in the driver's seat of the police vehicle, "someone will look after you there. Okay?"
Kevin nodded. He was so dumbstruck he couldn't speak. His parents, both murdered. Who could have done such a thing? He didn't know whether to be pleased, or to be sad. He didn't know what to feel, he was just numb.
As the car revved into motion and began to leave the scene, Kevin glanced across at the house. Something caught his eye, something in the front window, or rather someone. He peered closer, and the figure became clearer. It was Billy Butterbean. He was looking directly at Kevin, and he was grinning. Then he lifted his arm, and Kevin could see he was holding a large bread-knife, which was coated in blood.