The three of them stepped out, still waving, into a bright spotlight. As the noise of the blades died down, the roar grew louder.
“Vlad?” said Barry, looking up. “Can I stand underneath that chocolate fountain with my mouth open? In fact, can I run from one chocolate gun-spray to another with my mouth open?”
“Yes, of course,” said Vlad. Barry noticed that Vlad was suddenly holding a microphone. “But first of all – let’s not forget: you’re the guest of honour!”
“Ladies and gentlemen…” he said, speaking into the microphone; his voice boomed out across the room. “Party-goers! Death in the Car 5 fans! Please put your hands together for tonight’s guest of honour. We – and by we I mean me and Morrissina Padada, popularly known as Vlassorina, a brand name which we own and which is not to be used for commercial purposes by anyone else without written submissions to our lawyers – proudly present our new son… Barry!!!”
There was another huge roar and another huge round of applause. Barry could see Vlad and Morrissina applauding too, by his side. Not knowing what else to do, he waved some more, even though his arm was really starting to hurt. This got another huge roar from the crowd, like he’d done something really amazing. He wished he had his scooter – which wasn’t a great scooter, just a Razor without special stunt handlebars or anything – to hand, and then he could’ve done a flip or something. Something to deserve all that applause.
Underneath the noise of the clapping, Barry, still waving, whispered to Vlad: “Can I go and run about underneath the chocolate gun-spray now?”
“Hmm?” said Vlad. “Yes, I guess so. But, first of all, a press conference!”
“Pardon?”
“Hey, Barry!” He looked round. About nineteen grown-ups had somehow appeared on the roof of the Death Car, with microphones and notepads and video cameras.
“Barry! Barry! Barry! Barry!”
Oh, not again, thought Barry.
“Barry! What’s it like being Vlassorina’s son…?”
“Er… it’s great…”
The ones with pads wrote that down. The ones with microphones nodded.
“Did you ever imagine in your wildest dreams that one day you’d be the son of the most famous couple in the world?”
“Um… no, I guess not…”
The ones with pads wrote that down. The ones with microphones nodded.
“Are you going to have your own range of perfumes, to go along with Stink-Bombe?”
“Er… yes, I suppose?”
“What’s it going to smell of?”
“Um… poo and wee…?” said Barry.
The ones with pads started writing that down, but then stopped and looked a bit upset. The ones with microphones glanced at each other nervously.
“Barry will be meeting a number of top designers,” interjected Morrissina with a smile, “and we’re all looking forward to smelling what they’re going to create together.”
“I will?” said Barry. She nodded. “Morrissina, can I go and run around, catching the chocolate in my mouth, now?”
“Of course,” she said. “Just one more tiny thing we need you for. And then you can do whatever you want!”
“Great!” said Barry, who by now was worried that the chocolate guns might be about to run out of ammo. “What is it?”
Vlad took out a piece of paper from the inner jacket pocket of his white tuxedo. But it wasn’t just any old piece of paper. It was like a rolled-up scroll, the sort of thing you see on Horrible Histories. What was the word? Parchment. That was it. Vlad unrolled the parchment. There was some kind of writing on it. He held it out towards Barry with two hands.
“We know…” said Vlad. “I mean, why would you not? What’s not to like? – that you’re already sold on us. We know you want to be our son. We also happen to know that you agree with us that the name Barry is… well… not quite right for the son of the most famous couple in the world.”
“It isn’t?”
“No,” said Morrissina. “It really – well, it just doesn’t work for us.”
“Doesn’t work?”
“No…” said Vlad. “So what about changing it…?”
Barry frowned. He didn’t quite know what to say and, since it was a question he didn’t immediately know the answer to, he dug his hands in his pockets. Where he felt his list.
Now he knew without getting it out that Number 2 on this list of things he blamed his parents for – really near the top – was ‘Calling me Barry’. Another one of his grandpa’s phrases (from before he lost his memory) popped into his head: the bane of his life. That’s what his grandpa used to say about all sorts of things that really bothered him: the weather, the queues at the post office, the itchiness of his trousers. They were all the bane of his life. And, for Barry, the bane of his life was being called Barry. It always had been.
And yet suddenly he felt nervous about being called something else.
“Um…” he said, “I guess that would depend on… what I was changing it to…?”
“Exactly! So we were wondering about…?” Vlad unrolled the parchment. In the middle was written, in huge letters, one word.
Barry looked at it for a while.
And a while longer.
Before saying:
“Barrissina?”