The Parent Agency

by David Baddiel

  “Where are you, my darling?” He heard Morrissina say.

  “Come on, Barry,” said Jonty into Barry’s ear. “Vlassorina aren’t used to being kept waiting…”

  “Sorry!” Barry said. Just before he entered the foyer, he turned once more to the throng of cameras, but couldn’t see the two faces any more.

  The film was brilliant. Dirk Large was very like James Bond. He didn’t drive an Aston Martin, didn’t work for MI6, didn’t have the code name 007, no secret gadgets, no people around him called letters like Q and M, and there were quite a lot of other differences, but he did kill a lot of people and sometimes, after killing them, he would say clever little jokes about how they died.

  One time Dirk was in the Death Car, which was some kind of amazing jeep/Formula One/Batmobile combo, and another car was trying to force the Death Car off a cliff, but Dirk was a better driver and so the guy who was trying to kill him ended up going off the cliff instead. As he went over, Dirk said, under his breath: “Well, I guess he’s reached the end of the road…”

  Which was exactly like something James Bond would’ve said.

  Then, afterwards, they went to an enormous party called, for some reason, an after-party. Barry didn’t really understand that as he thought it meant there must have been another party before, but Jonty, who drove him there, explained that it meant the party after the film.

  Barry had been expecting to drive to the party with Vlad and Morrissina, but he’d noticed that, when the cameras weren’t on them, or when Jonty wasn’t filming it to go on MeMeMeTube, Vlassorina seemed not to want to be with him quite as much. They were still really nice and smiley, but – as had happened with the car to the party – they’d wave and Vlad would say, “OK, Jonty, you take the B-Man!” and go off. It made Barry feel kind of weird, but he put it out of his mind because everything else was so exciting.

  When they got to the party, which was in a huge hotel called the Hotel V that had a big V on top just like Vlassopolis, Jonty made sure Barry met up again with Vlad and Morrissina before they went in. Which meant that he had loads more photos taken, because there were loads more photographers waiting outside there too. It was starting to make his eyes hurt, looking into so many bright camera flashes.

  Inside, they were led to a room. In the room were lots of other famous people. Barry was introduced to Finula Postalnarg, and Jatt Blatt, and Imogen Le Bam-Bam – who was chomping through her latest mobile phone, which was funny, although she didn’t seem to think so when Barry laughed. But, although they all clapped and smiled and hugged Vlad and Morrissina when he was introduced as their son, Barry wasn’t sure whether or not they were actually interested in him at all. He did get to meet Monty, who was quite friendly, but it got a bit awkward when Barry asked where the Nose Hairs were, since they hadn’t been invited.

  As Monty went off, looking embarrassed, Barry noticed Jonty standing there.

  “Jonty?” said Barry. “Um… is this it? The whole party?”

  “No,” said Jonty. “Of course not. This is the VIP room.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s a special room that they have at premieres and showbiz events where the really famous people can go and only have to talk to other really famous people.”

  “Oh.”

  Jonty nodded towards some doors. “The real party’s happening out there.”

  “It is…?”

  “Yes,” Jonty said. He checked his watch. “Shall we go and have a look…?” He led Barry over to the doors. As they got nearer, Barry could hear the thump of music. Jonty opened the doors and the music suddenly got much louder. He and Jonty went through on to a balcony – an indoor balcony! – which looked out on to the biggest room, hosting the biggest party that Barry had ever seen.

  Another phrase that his grandpa used to say came into his head.

  Oh my giddy aunt, thought Barry.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Hundreds of other people were in the bigger party room, dancing, talking, drinking and moving about. There were six-metre-high screens all around the room, playing scenes from the movie, and in the middle of it stood an enormous replica of the Death Car. Loads of guests were walking up a huge staircase that led to the driver’s door. Others were standing in groups on the seats. Some were climbing up and down on the spokes of the massive steering wheel.

  The music that Barry could hear was pumping out from the giant stereo on the mammoth dashboard (as Barry looked over the whole scene, he realised his mind was running out of ways of saying ‘big’).

  All round the colossal (phew – he’d thought of one more) car, there were enormous (and another!) guns, in the shape of Dirk Large’s gun. But they weren’t ordinary guns. As Barry watched, he saw Jamie Gherkiner going over to each one and heaving back the trigger; then out shot a huge (he’d given up – from now on, he was just going to use one word for big, and huge was it) chocolate arc into the air, around the car, creating above it a huge liquid net of chocolate.

  “What do you think, Barry?” said Vlad, joining him on the balcony.

  “It’s amazing…”

  “It’s going to get more amazing…” said Morrissina, wafting through from the VIP room. Barry felt a breeze start up through his hair, which was strange as they were definitely indoors. Then he heard Jonty shout:

  “OK, sir and madam V and, of course, Barry. Would you care to step this way.” Barry looked over. Jonty had reappeared, but not on the indoor balcony – hovering beyond the edge of the balcony – in the pilot’s seat of a helicopter! The door of the chopper was open and a small platform came out from it. Slowly, it connected to a gate in the balcony. A gate which Vlad and Morrissina were already walking through and on to the helicopter!

  Barry rushed over and walked on to the platform. Morrissina held out her hand to steady him as he got into the helicopter.

  “Where are we going? We only just got here…” said Barry.

  “We’re not going anywhere, Barry,” said Jonty as he buckled a seat belt across him.

  “No,” said Vlad. “We’re just making an entrance!”

  Then, following a signal from Jonty, the music changed to the theme music from the movie (which was more DA! DA! DA! than Dah Da-Da-Da/Dadada/Dah!da-da-da/Da-Da-Da/DAH-DAH!/Dadada) and the blades of the helicopter started whirring much faster.

  Up they went, to the ceiling of the huge room, high above the crowd, who looked up as one. Morrissina and Vlad waved to them from inside the cockpit. Barry, not knowing what else to do, waved too. The crowd roared and clapped.

  Jonty brought the helicopter down, expertly guiding it through the gaps in the chocolate net, weaving first one way then another. He hovered for a second over the roof of the Death Car, before bringing them down on top of a huge X painted in the middle of it. He turned a key and the blades stopped rotating.

  “Right, Barry!” said Vlad. “Come and greet your public…”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  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?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Yes!” said Morrissina as Barry stared at her, dumbfounded. She clapped her hands together. “Barrissina! Doesn’t it just sound divine!”

  “I’m really glad you like it,” said Vlad.

  “You’ve got some lovely middle names as well,” said Morrissina.

  “They’re in the small print,” added Vlad.

  Barry looked at the document. Squinting, he realised that the whole thing said:

  I, Barry Bennett, hereby renounce all claim to the name Barry Bennett, and any desire to ever again be called Barry Bennett, and accept fully the name…

  BARRISSINA ORANGE HAMLET BUNNY-CUTIE PIDDLYPIDDLYPIDDLY MITT.

  “Orange?” said Barry.

  “Like the fruit!” said Morrissina.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of it,” said Barry. “Bunny-Cutie?”

  “So sweet!”

  “Piddlypiddlypiddly?!”

  “That was just something I threw in,” said Vlad. “I’m crazy like that!”

  “So…” said Jonty, handing Barry a pen – it was covered in diamonds, like Vlad’s aCommunicator and steering wheel, and felt heavy in his hand – “all you need to do is sign on the dotted line.”

  Vlad and Morrissina held the parchment up between them. Vlad pointed. “Just there.”

  Barry heard a murmur in the crowd. It sounded like: “Sign it.” And then, less like a murmur and more like a chant: “Sign it. Sign it. Sign it.”

  “Er… look,” said Barry. “It’s true – although I have no idea how you found out – that I don’t really like the name Barry. But now I think about it… I don’t know that I actually want to get rid of it. It is my name after all.”

  “Sign it. Sign it. Sign it,” went the crowd, louder every time.

  “And also, if I was going to get rid of it, I’d like a cool name. Like Lukas. Or Jake. Or…”

  “Dirk?” said Vlad.

  Barry thought about this. “No, not really.”

  “Sorry,” said Vlad. He put his mouth to the microphone. “Are you saying that…” The crowd stopped chanting. “…Dirk isn’t a cool name?”

  There was a mass intake of breath. Barry could feel hundreds of eyes upon him. “Er… no, it isn’t…”

  The crowd roared. But this time it wasn’t a good roar. It was a bad roar. It was a bad roar completely covering up Barry’s next words:

  “…not for me at any rate… I’m sure, other people might think so…”

  “Look, I’ve had enough of this,” said Morrissina, not smiling for perhaps the first time since Barry had met her. “Sign the bloody form.”

  “Darling,” said Vlad. “That’s a swear.”

  “No it isn’t.”

  “Well, technically it is,” said Barry.

  The crowd started up again, low and threatening: “Sign it. Sign it. Sign it.”

  And this time, Vlassorina, together, joined in: “Sign it. Sign it. Sign it.” They moved towards Barry, one “sign it” at a time.

  “Sign it.”

  “Sign it.”

  “Sign it.”

  Eventually,

  BARRISSINA

  was right in front of Barry’s eyes and “Sign it. Sign it. Sign it” was all he could hear in his ears. He shut his eyes and tried to stop his ears, but it was no good. He opened his eyes.

  Down below, cameras flashed. Among the flashes, for a second, Barry thought he saw, lit up, the faces of the man and the woman who had been outside, looking at him with concern and hope and that something else he couldn’t put his finger on. But it was a long way down and he couldn’t quite make out their faces properly.

  Barry turned back to the parchment.

  “All right! I’ll sign it!” he said.


  The crowd roared – a huge roar and back to a good roar. Vlassorina looked at him with joy. They pushed the parchment closer towards him. He lifted the pen and wrote.

  “Hip hip hooray!” said Vlad.

  “Thank you, Barrissina!” said Morrissina.

  “That’s OK,” said Barry. “Why don’t you read it out loud?”

  “I will,” said Morrissina. “In fact, we’ll do it together.” They turned to face the crowd.

  “I, Barry Bennett, hereby renounce all claim to the name… hang on, you’ve crossed a bit out here…”

  “I’m very impressed that you managed to say that second part together,” said Barry. “Carry on.”

  “I, Barry Bennett… hereby renounce all claim to the name… Barrissina. Orange Hamlet Bunny-Cutie Piddlypiddlypiddly Mitt.”

  Barry’s prospective parents looked up, their faces stamped with confusion. Clearly, no one normally ever said no to Vlassorina. There was a gasp from the crowd. Imogen Le Bam-Bam actually fainted (although later doctors worked out that this was due to her having eaten a dodgy smartphone).

  “And just a bit more, please,” said Barry.

  “And…” they read, “I would like to be taken back to the Parent Agency.”

  “Signed Barry Bennett,” said Barry Bennett, taking the parchment out of their hands.

  WEDNESDAY

  CHAPTER ONE

  “So… two parents down, as it were,” said the Head. “Would you say either the Rader-Wellorffs or Vlassorina were, you know, on the shortlist?”

  “Shortlist?” said Barry.

  “To become your permanent parents… Are they in the frame? What would be the odds on either of them?”

  Barry and The Secretary Entity were sitting in the Head’s office again. The Head had already turned over the third 24-Hourglass, the green one. The four of them had watched the first grains trickle down in silence.

  Barry didn’t know much about odds, apart from when he and his dad were watching the football together on TV and, at half-time, that cockney man’s enormous head would appear and say something like “Chelsea to win 3–1… 11–2 on!” Barry didn’t really understand what that meant, although his dad would sometimes bet some money based on what the cockney man’s enormous head was suggesting, and almost always lose it.