I don't always have nightmares, but when I do they're usually bat-shit insane. If I ever meet a kid named Billy Barber, and especially when in my workplace, take it from me that my life is haunted.
The Curious Case of Billy Barber -- The Boy Destined To Die
It all started I friggin don't know when, as my dream commenced weirdly and normally as ever. All I can remember of the beginning was that I was talking to a banana, and later was found courting the Moon Goddess, and somehow I returned to my mundane life of working at the Cafe. Both the Cafe and my home seemed different, as if this time I owned them, and I seemed to be situated at Glasgow, Scotland, where Harry lived. While constantly assisting and welcoming customers, I chanced upon this kid in beaver brown shirt who demanded service and I asked for his identification (it's a necessity, with all the terrorists walking around in plain clothes -- the law's actually implemented here in India, to have the civilians' identifications checked before offering service). The boy was Billy Barker, and he wanted to play games. I asked where his mother was, refusing to permit him without a parent, but he claimed that it was his mother who gave him the money and wouldn't return till nightfall. I didn't offer him services until his parent was available, but the boy simply stood there for hours, waiting for the mother to return. To help his boredom, I gave him an exception and let him in to entertain himself. But the kid was youthful and ignorant, and allowed himself to be swayed by his pleasures than keep an account of time and money. Eventually he ended up owing me far more than he already had. I told him that the Cafe policy does not accept credits, and that he’d need to stay until his mother returned. The boy panicked, and pleaded me not to tell his mother and that he’d get me more money immediately. In RL I’d usually be strict with undisciplined kids, but this time I decided to cut him some slack. So off he went to get the money. Little did I know that was the last time I’d see him.
So I returned to my employment at the Cafe until a few minutes later a mother came looking for her son. At first she seemed confused, pondering where her son must have run off, and I told her that he was here a moment ago. She screamed at me for being irresponsible, first yelling at me for allowing a child without a parent, and then for letting the child go off like that. And I told her coldly:
“Madam, with all due respect, what you or your children are up to is none of our concern. If you let him loose into streets, resulting him getting into bad company, then you are entirely responsible for it. I hope you find the child soon.”
She left, but a couple of hours later she returned asking for her son, this time hysterically weeping. She seemed to be under the notion that I killed him or kidnapped him. But why would I do that? I asked her to go home and rest while the authorities look for him, but she grabbed a broom to straight out murder me, until finally being restrained by constables accompanying her. They interrogated me, and I told them all I knew.
A few days later she returned, alone this time. Yet again she seemed convinced that it was I who was keeping Billy away from her, and she threatened to sue me or destroy my life.
On the fourth day -- four is such an unlucky and ugly number -- I saw the news in the morning paper. Apparently I was confirmed to be the kidnapper of Billy Barber and my cellphone, my passport, my identification, and some other stuff has been “seized” by the law as evidence against me.
“Arrests will be made shortly,” the radio echoed.
“This is babble!” I screamed. “All of it!”
I decided to grab my coat, hat and wallet, and take a cab to give the mad woman a piece of my mind (yes, even when “angry” you’re supposed to look your best). But as I turned the knob of my bedroom and stepped out onto the living room, there she was mourning (and singing, apparently) on my sofa and caressing the hair of a child who slept on her lap. It was Billy Barber in Byzantium colored attire. The situation grew bizarre and confusing, and I couldn’t tell what from what. But my anger only grew.
“Ah, so you’ve found your pup!” I remarked coldly. “Look, woman, I’ve told you once --”
But when she looked at me, unblinking and teary, there was the mark of hollowness in her soul. At once I felt something was strange, and I glanced back at the boy she caressed. The boy had his chest flat and unmoving, his face was pale, and his muscles did not tense. He wasn’t asleep. He was dead!
“What...” I mumbled in disbelief. “Where did you find the boy?”
But the woman hesitated. She refrained from speaking a word. I looked through my drawers to find my medical gloves and put them on.
“Ma’am, if there’s any crucial info you’re leaving out, please tell me. I can help.”
Still no response, but she gave me the look of poison unlike any other. With my gloves on, I proceeded to examine the body, but she slapped my hand away.
“You still won’t trust me?”
“You’re a monster!” She cried. “You killed my son in cold blood! Maybe for money, maybe for something else, but you killed the poor child when he came to you!”
I sighed, and rummaged through my drawers for surveillance records, and switched them on.
“Madam, I was not involved with your son’s demise. I understand it is a hard time for you, but it doesn’t make sense to blame someone outright to satisfy your vengeance. Take a look at the time period at the surveillance records. Your boy left the Cafe on his own free will, while I remained until you appeared mere ten minutes later. How would I commit such a crime in these circumstances? But I can try to help you find who really did it.”
I gestured her respectfully to allow me to examine a body, and this time I met no Resistance.
“Now this is strange,” I stated. “There is no detectable injury on the boy. No sign of struggle, nor any of suffocation and external pressure, as if the boy merely lay on the floor and simple waited. His attire is soaked and,” I noticed something interesting there, but decided to keep that bit of info to myself, and told her the rest. “...And drenched in mud. But no sign of being buried. No, he was in a box of some kind.”
I turned to the woman. “Madam, please tell me where you found him. Every information is crucial.”
“In..” She mumbled. “...In a... garden.”
“What garden?”
“The... your garden behind the living room. In a coffin. I dug him out from your garden.”
A lightning crackled somewhere, and there struck a momentary pause. My garden? It was impossible and outrageous. Also, I had a feeling she was hiding something.
“The Byzantium clothing the boy wears,” I inquired. “Did you buy it for him?”
She nodded.
“Madam, there’s something you’re not telling me,” I wagered. “When the boy left the Cafe he wore a Beaver colored shirt, but now has an entirely different kind of clothing that actually comes from your household. Please tell me, so I can help you, and I promise whoever did this will pay dearly.”
“And since when did you care?” She screamed hysterically. “This is none of your concern, you told me, but now that your petty life hangs in turmoil you want to help! You’re a monster... You had my boy’s corpse decaying in your backyard, so clearly you have no escape. And yes, I promise, you will pay dearly.”
After the mother and the child left, I ran to the garden to investigate. How would a coffin turn up in my backyard? Did someone break in while I was away? I searched through the light drizzle of rain, but found no signs of digging. None at all. No pools of water either, as if the land’s creases were ironed out. There was no sign of coffin to begin with!
The plot thickens: The boy who died, and the mother who lied. Mystery deepened, and I was caught at the center of the web woven by someone sinister. Whistles and sirens of the local police echoed at the distance, coming to arrest me. Perhaps I could escape while I could and investigate into the matter to prove my own innocence, but in case I got caught I needed a back up plan. There was only one man who could help me, only one shining ray of hope in this whole God-forsaken planet. I ran back into my apartment and grabbed a courier envelope and a pen, and jotted down the address:
“To, Sherlock Holmes,
221B Baker Street,
London.”
