The Notion Potion Page 5

  ‘Well,’ Padraic said. ‘A better flippin’ name for a start.’

  ‘C’mon, P!’

  ‘OK, OK. Well . . . I’m punctual.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that; you’re a wonderful timekeeper.’

  ‘I always carry a spare sandwich in my pocket,’ added Padraic, pulling out a soggy sarnie from his trousers.

  ‘Noted,’ Martin noted.

  ‘I’m good with animals.’

  ‘Not sure how that’ll help, but OK.’

  ‘I’m excellent at maths.’

  ‘That one is not true.’

  ‘Nope, that one was a lie – I’ll admit to that.’

  ‘I dunno, Padraic. I really need the best of the best!’

  ‘I put the A in team!’ Padraic exclaimed, holding up his science results.

  ‘Did you get an A in the test?’ Martin asked, surprised.

  ‘No, I got a C minus.’

  ‘Well, there’s no C in team, Padraic.’

  ‘There’s a C in cream. Can I be in some cream?’

  ‘I want to win this thing, P, and I need every team member to bring something special.’

  ‘OK, well, what you’ll get from me is total loyalty. One hundred and ten per cent. Loyalty, plus the aforementioned spare sandwich.’

  Martin considered his friend’s plea.

  ‘P-Dog – you know I can’t say no to a sandwich. You’re in!’

  ‘In what?’ came a voice behind us.

  We turned to find Declan Mannion staring at us, with a cigar in his mouth. He was certainly not part of the plan.

  ‘In, eh . . .’ Martin tried to think quickly of something. ‘In . . . school. I was just telling Padraic that he’s in school. He was saying that this was a hospital, and I was assuring him that he’s not having surgery today. Because he’s in school.’

  ‘Good save, buddy,’ I lied.

  ‘In what?’ Declan repeated, this time looking at Padraic.

  ‘We’re all in a big party!’ Padraic replied excitedly.

  ‘It’s not a flippin’ party!’ Martin hissed.

  Declan noticed the entry form in Martin’s hand and snatched it from his feeble grasp.

  ‘What the flip is an Invention Convention?’ he demanded.

  ‘Oh, it’s just some boring classwork-based nonsense. It’s certainly not the kind of thing you’d be—’

  ‘The winners get gold medals?’ Declan noted, still reading the entry form. ‘Grand, I’m in too.’

  ‘What? But . . . I don’t think you’ll enjoy it, Dec—’

  ‘I need gold. I don’t trust paper money any more. All my operations are moving to gold.’

  Martin looked to me. I shrugged. I’ve always liked Declan. He’s the kind of guy that’s good to know. In prison.

  ‘Cool,’ Martin lied. ‘I’ll let you know the details when I—’

  But Declan had already walked off. He was in.

  ‘Now it’s a party!’ Padraic added, before skipping off to the toilets.

  Martin considered the newly formed team. He seemed less than impressed with what he’d just created.

  ‘Sean, I bet those kids from St Whimmion’s are as sharp as a Wonkey’s front teeth. What have we got?’

  I looked out at Padraic skipping happily away with a party in his step, Trevor poorly bouncing a basketball in his auntie’s reading glasses, and Declan ‘Can’t-Stop-Failing-Sixth-Class’ Mannion playing blackjack on a beer keg.

  ‘It’s not just about brains, Martin. Finding the right mix is the key to a successful team,’ I told him confidently.

  ‘I don’t know, Sean . . .’

  ‘Look at the A Team*. They’ve got a wily* old con man – for us, that’s Declan. They’ve got the handsome charmer with a twinkle in his eye – that’s Trevor.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Martin agreed. ‘Those new glasses do make his dull eyes sparkle.’

  ‘They’ve got the tough guy who’s afraid of aeroplanes.’

  ‘I did once see Padraic duck under a table when he saw someone making a paper jet,’ Martin agreed.

  ‘And lastly, they’ve got the crazy loon.’ As I pointed at Martin, he seemed unimpressed by his status in the group.

  ‘The crazy loon?’

  ‘The wild card,’ I assured him. ‘The man of mystery who always surprises the enemy.’

  ‘Well, I do surprise myself many times daily,’ he agreed. ‘You’re right, Sean. We can do this!’

  ‘We sure can, kiddo. All we need now is a better name.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Martin thought. ‘How about The A-Team?’

  ‘I feel like that one’s kinda taken, buddy.’

  ‘The B-Team?’

  ‘The B-Team? Hmmm. I like it! I like it a lot.’

  ‘Agreed, Sean!’ he cried. ‘What sounds more like victory than The B-Team?!’

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE BIG IDEA

  A few days later, Declan ordered the boys to come over to his house after school for their first team meeting. I’d hoped to bring Wilbert along too, but Martin didn’t want any mayhem at the Mannion home, so Crunchie Wonkey-sat for me. By which I mean, the Wonkey sat on top of him and nodded off.

  I felt bad that I wasn’t spending more quality time with Wilbert, but I was busy IFing for Martin, and whenever I had a spare moment I was trying to solve the mystery of the N.P. – without much luck. However, I was still determined to be the greatest pet owner a Wonkey could ever wish for, so I vowed to comb him, cuddle him, and maybe even milk him that very evening – right after our science session at the Mannion lair.

  None of the boys had been to Declan’s house before. In fact, Martin was surprised to hear that Declan even lived in a house. Surely no normal home was wild enough or dangerous enough to house the enigmatic Declan Mannion! Martin had assumed that Declan simply drove a truck around all night, puffing on cigars and betting on late-night badger races.

  But surprisingly enough, it seemed that there was an actual Mannion home. And when we arrived at its gate, along with Padraic and Trevor, we were all astonished. It was a very normal-looking house, with a red door and some pretty rose bushes in the front garden.

  ‘This is actually quite pleasant!’ said Martin admiringly, as we strode confidently through the gate.

  ‘A lovely, fragrant home,’ agreed Padraic, sniffing the roses.

  But then came the dogs.

  Oh holy moly. The dogs.

  The gate had barely clicked shut behind them when they came galloping around the side of the house. Fourteen of them, I counted! All greyhounds. The fastest dogs on the planet.

  ‘Arghhhhh!’ screamed the boys, sprinting away.

  Around the house they all went, in a shrieking, barking blur of dark fur, snapping teeth and sweaty, terrified faces. Around and around they raced. It was one of those times I was quite relieved to be a figment of Martin’s imagination, and I leaned against the gatepost lazily, watching the pursuit.

  Finally Declan appeared at the front door. ‘Stop bothering me pups!’ he barked.

  ‘Sorry – (gasp!) – Declan!’ panted Padraic, as they hoofed it across the front garden.

  ‘You’re getting them all sweaty!’ complained Declan.

  Moments later, the tormented trio reappeared at the other side of the house and ran past Declan again. Martin called, ‘Hey, Declan, is there . . .’

  On their third lap around him, he continued: ‘. . . any chance you . . .’

  Fourth lap: ‘. . . could ask them to . . .’

  Fifth lap: ‘. . . stop chasing us, please?!’

  Sixth lap: Declan looked confused. ‘What was that, Moone?’

  ‘Call ’em off!’ screamed Trevor.

  Declan shrugged and made various loud grunts, tongue-clicks and whistles that stopped the dogs in their tracks.

  ‘Yup. Heagh! Dow’boy. G’wan! Hup now!’

  It sounded like he was speaking a different language, but suddenly the dogs were all wagging their tails and nuzzling Declan happily. He was a skilled
pet owner, I had to give him that.

  ‘Aren’t they beauties?’ he called.

  ‘Oh gorgeous, gorgeous,’ muttered Padraic, who was drenched with sweat.

  ‘A good s-s-spring in their step,’ stammered Trevor, who was visibly shaking.

  ‘Very healthy-looking teeth,’ wheezed Martin, who noticed that the bottom of his trouser leg had been chewed off.

  ‘I’m breeding them!’ explained Declan proudly. ‘One of my many side-businesses. They’re gonna make me a fortune. Just like you science lads. You’re my new pups!’ He chuckled, and then gestured towards the house. ‘Hup now! In with ye! G’wan!’

  The lads didn’t wait to be asked twice, and we all hoofed it into the house. It was a relief to escape the dogs, but once in the hallway they were attacked again – this time by a horde of hares*!

  ‘I’m breeding hares too!’ explained Declan, as Martin got kicked in the face by one of those long-eared lunatics. ‘Ya can’t have greyhounds without hares!’

  Eventually the team got settled on a couch in an animal-free room, and Declan surveyed them from his throne-like armchair. ‘Well then,’ he began. ‘Have ye got my gold yet?’

  The boys looked at each other.

  ‘Eh. Not yet, Mr Mannion,’ admitted Martin. ‘First, we need to complete the application form. There’s just a few minor details left.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Our team name. I’ve taken the liberty of calling us “The B-Team”. That OK? I’ve already pencilled it in.’

  ‘Well, then you can pencil it back out again, Moone,’ said Declan.

  I was gobsmacked. ‘He doesn’t like it? “The B-Team” is a brilliant name! It took us ages to come up with that!’

  ‘Any other suggestions?’ asked Declan, throwing it out to the group.

  ‘How about . . . the Science Squad?’ suggested Padraic excitedly.

  ‘Or the Big Bangers of Boyle?’ called out Trevor.

  ‘The Inventor Tormentors!’ came another suggestion.

  ‘The Roscommon Radioactives!’

  ‘The Tremendous Trevors!’

  ‘The Mengineers!’

  ‘Team Martin?’

  ‘Those names are all rubbish!’ snapped Declan dismissively. ‘We need something amazing that tells the world that we’re the most incredible inventors ever!’

  The boys nodded, and then sat in silence.

  ‘How about we put bits of our names together to form a new name?’ offered Trevor.

  They looked at him blankly.

  ‘Like this,’ he said, pulling out a piece of paper. He wrote down their four names and then circled various letters.

  ‘Mar . . . Dec, Pad . . . Tre,’ murmured Trevor.

  ‘Mardec Padtre. That’s genius!’ exclaimed Padraic. ‘It’s like you’re using science to come up with our science name!’

  Trevor circled more letters. ‘Or . . . Trevartin Decraic?’

  ‘Trevartin Decraic! Even better!’

  ‘We’re definitely getting closer,’ agreed Declan.

  ‘Are we though?’ I asked, less convinced.

  ‘Or how about this one?’ Trevor went on. ‘Tre . . . P . . . De . . . M?’

  Declan stood up. ‘Trepdem! That’s the one! That’s our name! We are Team Trepdem!’ he roared, and punched the air.

  Martin seemed less excited. ‘Are we sure it doesn’t sound like some kind of . . . disease?’ he asked. ‘Like . . . I’ve got a nasty dose of Trepdem?’

  There was a pause.

  Then Declan shouted, ‘Team Trepdem! Hear us roar!’

  Padraic, Trevor and Declan all roared passionately.

  Martin and I rolled our eyes – we were clearly outvoted.

  ‘Trepdem it is.’ He sighed, and added it to the form.

  They moved on to the second task, which was a description of their invention. This proved to be more challenging.

  It seemed that coming up with something ingenious wasn’t quite as easy as they’d hoped, so Martin suggested that they just fill out the form with some nonsense to avoid missing the deadline, and they could worry about the big idea later.

  ‘But how can we explain our idea without . . . explaining our idea?’ asked Padraic.

  Martin got up and started to pace around.

  ‘Don’t hold back, buddy,’ I told him. ‘You’ve gotta make this sound as exciting as possible – while also saying absolutely nothing.’

  Martin nodded and turned back to his team-mates.

  ‘We cannot reveal too much about our invention right now . . .’ he began.

  Trevor grabbed a pen and started writing this on to the form.

  ‘But know this!’ Martin went on. ‘It will defy the laws of gravity, the laws of physics, and most of the laws of Ireland. We all know what the world’s greatest inventions are . . .’

  ‘The Toaster?’ I suggested.

  ‘The Toaster! The Toasted-Cheese-Sandwich Maker! And . . .’

  ‘You can’t enjoy toasties without a cup of tea,’ I reminded him.

  ‘The Kettle!’ he cried. ‘But if you were to multiply them each by a thousand, you’d still be nowhere near the amazingness of our invention! Science will not know what hit it! And if you grant us a place in the Invention Convention, we will share our mind-blowing miracle with you and the world! DO IT, SCIENCE PEOPLE! IF YOU DARE!’

  The lads applauded, mightily impressed.

  ‘Right, then there’s the issue of the entry fee,’ noted Trevor.

  Declan pulled out a roll of banknotes from his sock. He peeled off a few twenties and tossed them at Trevor. ‘Gotta spend money to make money!’

  ‘Great stuff!’ chirped Trevor. ‘So all we need now is the signature of our teacher, to prove that everything we’re saying about our invention is true.’

  ‘But none of it’s true,’ pointed out Martin.

  ‘How are we going to get Mr Jackson to sign?’ worried Padraic.

  But Declan calmly reached out for the form. ‘Gentlemen. Allow me.’

  He took a pen and forged the signature of their teacher with great ease, as if he’d done it many, many times before.

  FOR OFFICE USE ONLY

  ✂ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Section 8: Teacher’s Declaration.

  I hereby agree to supervise the work of Team Trepdem and will make sure that they always behave in a safe, responsible and science-friendly manner and will never cause explosions, ignite electromagnetic storms, open intergalactic wormholes, burn carpets or frighten cats.

  I confirm that their invention will be designed and built by the students alone, with no help from me or anybody else.

  I also acknowledge that if there are any lies in this form, or shenanigans in general, I will pay a £10,000 fine and serve a short but deeply unpleasant term in jail.

  Signed,

  Mr Jermaine Jackson

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ROUND ONE

  After all the Team Trepdem excitement, Martin and I were planning to have a nice, quiet evening at home. Martin fancied a bath to calm his nerves after his escape from Declan’s dogs, and I was hoping to spend some quality time with Wilbert.

  When I collected him from an exhausted and dishevelled Crunchie, I borrowed a couple of books from my wrestler pal called Mysteries of the Imaginary World and A History of Weird Bottles, which I hoped might shed some light on the N.P. puzzle. Crunchie wasn’t much of a reader, but kept a large collection of books to pad the walls of his ‘home wrestling studio’ (his kitchen).

  But before I could turn to N.P.-solving, there was a Wonkey to milk. And although those weird little things on his belly kinda freaked me out, the handbook assured me that Wonkey-milking was a delightful bonding experience for both IF and IP (Imaginary Pet).

  ‘But I thought you’d already bonded,’ said Martin as we walked up the Moone driveway. ‘Didn’t I see him hugging you yesterday?’

  ‘Actually, I think the little scamp was trying to strangle me with his hoofs!’ I chu
ckled. ‘But I’m sure that once we have a nice milking session, we’ll be the best of buds. Duck, Martin!’ I yelled, as some pink pellets came flying over our heads, just missing us.

  ‘Sorry about that. He keeps throwing his poop at me. Bad Wilbert, bad!’ I scolded. But the Wonkey just honked with laughter.

  When Martin opened the front door, he found his family gathered in the hallway, waiting for him, and his bath plans quickly disappeared down the plughole.

  ‘Ah, there ya are, Martin!’ exclaimed his mother. ‘Quick – into the car.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Where do you think?’ replied his dad, who was wearing a white T-shirt with the words ‘Up, Sinead!’ scrawled on it in black marker. ‘Sinead’s got her big sack-punch tonight. The county final!’

  ‘It’s the best out of three,’ added Debra excitedly, ‘so if she wins tonight, she’ll be halfway to the crown of Roscommon!’

  Fidelma sighed, wearing a T-shirt that read ‘No Mercy, Moone’. ‘Are we ready yet? I’ve tons of studying to do.’

  ‘Trisha!’ hollered Liam towards the girls’ bedroom.

  Finally she appeared, wearing potato earrings, with the words ‘Sack her good, Sinead!’ scrawled across her face in red lipstick. It looked slightly scary, but Liam ignored that fact since it was also quite supportive.

  ‘Right, everyone in the car! And no one talk to Sinead,’ warned Liam. ‘She’s in the zone!’

  As they piled into the car, Martin whispered to me, ‘You stay here, Sean, and after you milk Wilbert, work on the N.P. mystery. That’s a lot more important than watching Sinead punch potatoes.’

  ‘Will do,’ I promised. ‘But fill me in later!’

  Martin gave a salute and squeezed into the back seat beside Sinead, who was meditating.

  ‘Hi, Sinead!’ he chirped.

  She immediately punched him, giving him a perfect dead arm without even opening her eyes.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘I said no talking, Martin! Don’t let him distract you, Sinead!’ Liam called as he started the engine. ‘Stay in the zone! Just stay in the zone!’

  He floored the accelerator, and they sped away.

  A little later, the Moones were seated near the stage in the packed Roscommon Town Hall, waiting for the two sack warriors to appear.