To Dawn,
holder of hands, maker of love,
mother of dragons.
Chris
For Vicki, my favourite Realsie,
who’s such a perfect partner-
in-crime, I often wonder if she’s
really an IW (Imaginary Wife).
Nick
CONTENTS
WELCOME TO THE BOOK!
CHAPTER ONE: BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS
CHAPTER TWO: WILBERT
CHAPTER THREE: THE WINNERS WALL
CHAPTER FOUR: THE ROAD TO NOWHERE (BUT NEAR ROOSKY)
CHAPTER FIVE: THE BUSTED BUS
CHAPTER SIX: ST WHIMMION’S AND THE MAD MECHANIC
CHAPTER SEVEN: BARNEY BUNTON AND THE INVENTION CONVENTION
CHAPTER EIGHT: N.P.
CHAPTER NINE: TEAM MARTIN
CHAPTER TEN: THE BIG IDEA
CHAPTER ELEVEN: ROUND ONE
CHAPTER TWELVE: EXPERIMENTS
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: BARNEY BUNTON’S SECRET
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE QUEST
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE MINES OF MISFORTUNE
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: WELL WELL WELL
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT THEM
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE GENIUS JUICE
CHAPTER NINETEEN: TUB GRUB
CHAPTER TWENTY: OPERATION BATH BUILD
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: THE TRUTH BOMB
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: ROUND TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: THE FINISHER
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: BIRDMAGEDDON!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: JUDGEMENT HOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: WINNERS
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: EOPS
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: GRADUATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT CHRIS O’DOWD
ABOUT NICK V. MURPHY
MORE MARVELLOUS MOONE BOY BOOKS!
WELCOME TO THE BOOK!
I was born under a wandering star. A wandering, wandering star. It was completely lost, in fact. The mistake the star made was getting peckish as it neared the Milky Way. Starved and confused, the sky-strolling star tried to take a bite out of the chocolatey-sounding galaxy before being chased off.
Of course, I, Sean ‘Caution!’ Murphy, am not alone in this detail. All imaginary friends (IFs) are born under wandering stars. It’s kinda our ‘thing’. Apart from Dicky ‘Single Tooth’ Magnusson, who was famously born under a cartwheeling comet. This common place of birth gives all IFs a keen sense of adventure, a passion for science, non-science and nonsense, and the sensation of always feeling slightly lost.
The reason I bring up my birth is that our story begins on the magical morning of my birthday. Now, usually I’m not one to hoot too loudly about getting older, but this year was different. By anybody’s standards, I’d had a pretty terrific twelve months. A year earlier, I’d been a lowly clerk in the customer services department of C.L.I.F.F. – the Corporate League of Imaginary Friends Federation. But then a twist of fate had brought me to the attention of an idiot boy from the west of Ireland.
Together with Martin Moone, I’d had quite the year of adventure. We’d found a new home for a misplaced loony IF, Loopy Loopington Lou. We’d thwarted a mysterious plot in a local fish factory, and hosted Christmas for some Brazilian fish-gutters. Martin had even been bitten by a mole, which we’d thought was radioactive and had given us superpowers, but instead this turned out to be rabies. Yes, quite the year! And given that I’d behaved wonderfully as an imaginary companion throughout, I was expecting my birthday present to be nothing short of spectacular.
If I’m honest, being an IF can sometimes be a thankless job. You’re a constant Giver, listening to your Realsie’s gripes and grumbles. Give advice, give encouragement, give high-fives – give, give, give. At different times you assume the role of Best Bud, Confidant or sometimes even Parent (but without the weekly joy of receiving six gold coins from the government. You do know that the government gives your parents six gold coins every week, right? Of course you do. I mean, why else would your mam and dad do it?!).
However, an IF’s birthday is the one time when the Giver becomes the Getter. A Realsie can surprise their IF with almost any kind of gift imaginable! Think about that. ANYTHING!
Now, I’m no fool, so I understood that Martin was often lacking in the imagination department. Yet my hopes were high. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I was born under a wandering star it’s that sometimes the universe can surprise you. Or chase you.
And so, on the eve of my birthday, I kept my fingers crossed, my toes clenched and my tongue in my ear. That’s how I always make wishes – and it’s also how I tell stories. So please enjoy this story about what actually happened on my birthday, and the mysteries, magic and mayhem that followed. Relish the words. Read it aloud in the voice of someone you think sounds ridiculous. As you turn the pages, feed grapes to a nearby goldfish. Or just sit and read it like normal.
Signed,
Sean
P.S. Only feed grapes to your goldfish if his name is Goldington ‘Grapenuts’ McFinns. He’s the only one I know who actually likes them.
CHAPTER ONE
BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS
On the morning of the big day, when the sun finally peeked through the filthy windows of Martin Moone’s bedroom, I’d already been awake for three hours. I was the kind of giddy you only get a few times a year: Christmas morning, obviously; then Swan Night (that magical hour at dusk on 24th September when swans break their silence and speak perfect English); and, of course, your birthday! I WAS GIDDY AS A GIGGLING GOAT! I’d been absent-mindedly whistling for about twenty minutes by the time the Moone boy slowly prised open his dopey eyes to find me pacing at the end of his bed.
‘GOOD MORNING, MARTIN!’ I squealed casually.
‘Oh my goodness,’ he croaked. ‘Good morning, Sean.’
‘Hope I didn’t wake you.’
I whistled some more. Martin could obviously sense my excitement, and sat up.
‘I see it’s that special time again, Sean!’
‘Are you referring to your class science trip?’
‘No, Sean. I hadn’t forgotten that, but I think we both know there’s something even more special today, don’t we?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose we do, my good friend,’ I replied sheepishly, trying to pretend that my birthday had slipped my mind.
‘It feels like it comes around quicker every time!’
‘Yup. As they say, Martin, time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.’
‘Who says that?’
‘One of the Marx brothers – Karl, I believe.’
‘Well, Sean, I can’t lie – I’ve been looking forward to this ever since I woke up nearly two minutes ago. It’s my very favourite time. I wonder what we have in store today?’
‘Haha, yes. What do you think is planned, Martin?’
‘Well, I don’t know, but I suppose we’ll both find out when we get to the kitchen.’
‘The . . . kitchen?’ I asked, beginning to lose confidence.
‘Of course. Where else would we have breakfast time?!’
With that, Martin skipped off down the hall, his big, lazy noggin knocking door frames and dashing my hopes as he went.
I trudged after him, disappointed but not massively surprised, and could hear the wee eejit yelping from the kitchen, ‘Woo-hoo! READYBIX! Yes!’
(I should probably point out that he has the same breakfast every single morning.)
Martin guzzled down his brown, stodgy boy-fuel as his three sisters woke from their slumbers and joined him at the breakfast table. He’d made a checklist for the school science trip and was marking off items between mouthfuls. ‘Martin, what’s the flippin’ point of putting
“checklist” on your checklist?’ barked Sinead, the youngest and fiercest of his three older sisters.
‘Well, it’s to make sure I do a checklist, dummy.’
‘But you’ve obviously already done it if there’s a list to put it on,’ chimed in their eldest sister, Fidelma.
‘Exactly!’ Martin said, tapping his nose as if his plan was faultless.
‘Let him do his silly list,’ Trisha, the moody middle sister, sniggered. ‘I bet he won’t even manage to check off the fact he has a checklist, the tool.’
Martin quickly checked the box next to ‘Checklist’, hoping nobody would notice. Seeing this, his sisters burst out laughing.
The fearsome threesome were being particularly vicious lately. I guessed they were feeling rather superior, basking in the success of recent triumphs. Fidelma had just done very well in her Mock Leaving Cert* and was studying hard for the proper exams.
Trisha had recently won a student design award for a nose ring, inspired by a book she’d found on Spanish bullfighting.
Even Sinead had something to crow about. The previous week, she’d been crowned the Sack-Punching Champion of North Roscommon – a traditional sport where the competitor punches a sack of potatoes until every spud has been mashed. The winner gets a sack of mashed potatoes. The loser gets two sacks of mashed potatoes.
Though they tried not to pick favourites, the Moone parents were clearly as proud as punch* of their triumphant trio. This had left Martin feeling a bit left out lately. Debra and Liam, his mam and dad, didn’t often mention his failings, but the boy felt the sting of mediocrity around his sisters. He’d also felt the sting of Sinead’s punches, which she insisted were an important part of her ‘training’.
‘Well, I think it’s great that you’re making a list, Martin,’ Debra reassured him. ‘You’ve always been a great man for writing down things you mean to get or do.’
‘He has indeed!’ agreed Liam. ‘And who cares if they get done or get got? The most important thing is . . .’ Liam’s eyes narrowed as he looked more closely at his son’s checklist. ‘Martin, did you write that list of nonsense on the back of my chequebook?’
His sisters erupted in laughter.
‘What a loser,’ Sinead snorted.
‘Hey!’ Martin snapped, over the merry mayhem. ‘OK, maybe I’m not a winner winner. Maybe I don’t have any medals, or trophies, or certificates, or those lovely ribbons that they put on horses. Maybe I don’t run fast enough or jump high enough or dance prettily enough. Maybe I’m no maths genius. Or geography genius. Or PE genius. Maybe sometimes I get to school and realize that I’ve forgotten to wear any underwear. And maybe I’m OK with that. Maybe I’m more comfortable knickerless.’
I felt Martin’s speech was maybe going off-piste*, so I whispered in his ear. ‘Where are you going with this, buddy? You just seem to be making a list of all your failures. Maybe throw in some of your successes?’
He thought about this for a few long moments before saying, ‘So in conclusion, I may not be a winner, but there’s one thing I’ve always been, and that’s—’
‘A spanner?’ suggested Sinead.
‘A doer!’ retorted Martin.
‘Don’t you mean a don’ter?’ asked Trisha.
‘Or a do-badly-er?’ suggested Fidelma.
‘I’m a doer! I’m a get-stuff-doner. I’m a finisher!’ he declared, then stood up and waltzed off, leaving his breakfast unfinished.
CHAPTER TWO
WILBERT
Now hatted, coated and schoolbagged, Martin made his way towards school with his trusty wingman at his wing: me! Who wasn’t coated or schoolbagged, but was identically hatted. Martin had given me my red, woolly hat when I first became his IF – his one and only prezzie to me. So far, at least . . .
And although he clearly wasn’t the most imaginative gift-giver, I still hadn’t given up hope. After all, this was only my first birthday in the imaginary employment of Martin Moone, so there was still time for him to surprise me with something special. And what I wanted more than anything was a pet.
So many of my friends had pets these days, and I was beyond jealous. Crunchie Haystacks had an adorable Grumbot, Loopy Lou had a fearsome Finkle, and even Bruce the Spruce had a fluffy Thudbottom, which slept in his branches all day and snarled at the stars all night. I didn’t even mind what sort of pet I had – I just wanted a little companion to nuzzle me and bound around me, lick my face and nibble my toes after a hard day of IFing.
I’d dropped plenty of hints. I’d even cut out pictures from the pet section of WHIF Magazine and scattered them around – snaps of Bungletots, Whumps and a cute Skunkosaurus. But if Martin had seen them, he’d never mentioned it. And as we trudged down the narrow, winding road towards his school, he still seemed completely unaware that it was my birthday, having another morning moan about his sisters.
‘How did I end up in a family of winners?’ he lamented. ‘If anyone’s a winner in our house, it should be me! I mean, look at me – I’ve got “winner” written all over me!’
I glanced at him, but the only thing written on him was the word ‘plonker’, which Sinead had scrawled on the back of his neck a couple of nights before, while Martin was sleeping. He’d tried to wash it off, but had only managed to smudge it, so it now looked more like ‘plops’. But I decided not to remind Martin of his neck graffiti, keen to steer the conversation towards more important matters.
‘Ahhhhh, I love this time of year!’ I sighed happily. ‘Spring is springing, hatchlings are hatching, chicks are . . . chicking – it’s such a birthy time, isn’t it? Spring days are the birthiest days!’
‘It’s so unfair!’ Martin went on, completely missing my hint. ‘I mean, what are they so good at? Cleverness? Artiness? Punchiness? That stuff is easy. What about the stuff I’m good at? Chattiness? Walkiness? Hattiness?’ he said, patting his woolly hat. ‘Where are my medals for those?’
I tried to jog his memory again. ‘Look at that squirrel, Martin!’ I cried, pointing at a tree. ‘He’s a jolly good fellow, isn’t he?’
Martin frowned. ‘Huh?’
‘Yes, he’s a jolly good fellow. For he’s a jolly good fellow! And so say all of us!’
‘It’s just a squirrel, Sean.’
I watched it scamper away. ‘There goes the happy guy!’ I cried. ‘But maybe he’ll return to us some day. Many happy returns, squirrel! Many. Happy. Returns!’
‘Since when do you like squirrels so much?’ he asked. ‘You usually call them “tree rats”.’
‘Do I? Well, I guess I’m feeling pretty squirrel-friendly right now because today’s a special day.’
‘Oh yeah? And why is it a—’
Suddenly Martin came to a halt, and looked at me in surprise.
‘Holy moly!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re right, Sean! How could I have forgotten?’
‘How indeed!’ I chuckled, relieved that the penny had finally dropped*.
‘EOPS!’ cried Martin.
‘Sorry . . . ?’
‘EOPS!’ he repeated, sounding like a barking seal. ‘EOPS, Sean! EOPS!’
‘Are you having some kind of fit, Martin?’
‘E-O-P-S! End-Of-Primary-School*!’ he explained. ‘It’s exactly two months away!’
I rolled my eyes in despair. ‘That’s what you forgot?’
‘You were right, Sean!’ he continued excitedly. ‘It’s a special day all right. The end of an era! Another momentous milestone in the Martin Moone story. It’s all change. We need to cherish these last walks, Sean – before SOSS.’
‘Start-Of-Secondary-School*?’ I guessed, with a sigh.
‘Correcto, Beardo! After the summer, we’ll be doing a very slightly different walk in the mornings. How nuts is that?’
I gave an unenthusiastic grunt.
‘Aw, Sean, don’t be sad about EOPS,’ he said. ‘Primary school is the past! We’ve gotta be like sharks – always swimming forward! Hunting the blood of New Experiences! Devouring the guts of Cha
nge For The Better!’
Suddenly he paused, staring into the bushes.
‘Hey, what’s that?’
‘What’s what?’ I asked.
But he was already picking his way through the weeds, venturing off the road.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked, annoyed, as I followed after him.
We made our way behind a leafy shrub, and there in the long grass we found a large wooden box! It was almost as tall as Martin, and we gazed at it in amazement.
‘Wow!’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s this?’
I frowned, peering at it. It was quite the mystery all right. ‘Do you think it fell off a truck or something?’ I wondered.
There was a strange smell coming from the box, and I began to walk around it curiously. Then I noticed something dangling from the lid.
‘Wait – look. There’s some kind of . . . tag!’
I gasped with shock. ‘It’s for me . . . ?!’
Martin was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Well, you didn’t think I forgot, did ya?’
I laughed. He’d got me all right, and I was impressed – it’s not easy to fool someone who lives inside your head!
‘Well, what are ya waiting for?’ he cried. ‘Open it up!’
I set upon the box excitedly and tried to lift up the heavy lid. I could hear loud snorting and snuffling coming from inside it, like a bull about to make his entrance at a rodeo. This was no hat. Something was alive in there! I lifted up the lid another inch and then – SMASH! – a wild-looking beast exploded out of it, leaping into the air and almost landing on top of us!
It was a shaggy-haired creature that was half werewolf and half donkey. It had a long donkey’s face, but doggy ears and a couple of fangs for teeth. Its front legs had hoofs, but its back legs had paws, and on its belly was a patch of white fur with four tiny udders – which was odd since neither donkeys nor werewolves have udders. Or if they do, no one’s ever dared to milk them. Its face had a slightly confused expression, as if it wasn’t really sure which animal it was supposed to be – and as if to express this, it reared up on its hind paws and gave a deafening ‘HEEE-HOOWWWWWLLLLL!’
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