Yes Man

by Wallace, Danny

  Ian laughed.

  “What?” I said, offended. “I mean, think about it: What if this whole Yes thing … What if it was meant to be?”

  “Meant to be what? A waste of time?”

  “No. You know … destined. What if there’s a reason for it all?”

  “If that man on the bus was a god, then why does he travel by bus?”

  “It’s like that song. ‘What if God was one of us, just a stranger on a bus, la la la la lalala.’ In fact it’s exactly like that. Right down to the slob reference and the la la las.”

  “This is a fundamentally flawed concept,” said Ian, pointing his fork at me. A small piece of chicken fell off, but we both politely ignored it. “For a start, a god would not use the bus. Any god. Certainly not Jesus or Buddha. They make enough from statuette-based merchandising alone not to have to slum it with the likes of you. Even the pope’s got a special car, for crying out loud. And the slob reference—I don’t think so. You’d have to make an effort if you were God. It’d be too demoralising for people when they met you at the pearly gates and realised they’d spent their whole lives essentially worshipping a Beverly Hillbilly No, no. You’d wear a suit or a nice jumper, something like that.”

  I took a bite of my naan. My phone rang. I answered it. They hung up.

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s all too much of a coincidence. You know … a stranger passing on his wisdom, and then me finding out the World Teacher lives locally.”

  Ian nearly choked on his tikka.

  “A coincidence? Dan … How is that a coincidence? The two things clearly have absolutely nothing to do with each other. You can’t say, ‘Oh, I sat next to a man on a bus, and a month later I heard God lives in Brick Lane’ and claim it’s a coincidence! It’s like saying, ‘Oh, look, there’s an apple, and only yesterday I was on a boat!’ How is that a coincidence? You’re deluded, my friend….”

  I took a sip of my beer and looked at Ian wisely.

  “You were probably destined to say that.”

  When I returned home that night, I considered all the ways I could potentially find the man on the bus. He was a teacher, and the chances were he was teaching locally. Maybe I’d try and find a list of all the local schools and colleges and send my posters there. Or perhaps I could buy a false beard and announce to the local press I would be staging my own police reconstruction. I knew Ian had been right when he said I needed to meet him. And not just to prove or disprove he was Maitreya, but to tell him what I was up to, what he’d done to my life.

  I went to sleep that night, excited. But little did I know that, for a while at least, the hunt for the man on the bus would have to take a backseat. Because as it turned out, someone was on the hunt for me.

  My secret—the secret that was vital I keep as quiet as I could—was suddenly in real danger of being revealed.

  Because someone knew about it.

  And that someone was out to get me.

  Chapter 11 In Which Daniel Finds Himself Central to a Very Disturbing Predicament

  I really didn’t know what to make of it at first.

  I really, truly didn’t.

  I assumed, when I first opened it, that it must have been a coincidence. Or, failing that, some kind of joke.

  But now … now it just seemed sinister.

  I picked up the package once more and carefully, quietly studied its contents.

  A very short note:

  If you’re going to say yes all the time, you may as well give your voice a rest.

  And a dark-blue baseball cap, embroidered with one word: “Yes.”

  The package had been sent from London W1. The label had been printed as had the note. I kept on studying the hat, searching for clues, but then I realised there weren’t any, and I was just a man, sitting at a table, studying a hat.

  For a split-second paranoia gripped me. What if word had got out? What if Ian had let slip what I was doing? What if someone had overheard our conversations? What if someone was planning and plotting against me? Maybe I had a nemesis now! An evil, mustachioed villain, intent on my downfall! Or what if …

  Hang on.

  Ian.

  Of course. Ian.

  Simple. Mystery solved.

  Ian was not only the man who knew, but the man who had something to gain from this. The man who was in on it, and who’d been in on it from the start. The man who’d already told me he was going to punish me. Ian bloody Collins.

  I laughed and shook my head with what I hoped looked like pity in my eyes. Oh, he thought he was good, didn’t he? He thought he could beat me. He thought that by sending me this hat—this hat-based version of a horses’ head under a pillow—he could frighten me. Intimidate me. Make me think what I was doing was wrong or bad or pointless.

  But I knew just how to handle this: I would ignore it. I would pretend it had never arrived. Sooner or later, he’d start probing, looking for a reaction. It was exactly the same as when he sent me that fake Valentine card, the one he pretended was from Lionel Richie. It wouldn’t be long before he’d break down and say, “Look, are you going to wear the bloody hat or not?” And then I would look upon him with more weary pity in my eyes, sigh, and say, “Yes.”

  Which would be all the more frustrating for him, because it would be yet another Yes in the bag.

  I couldn’t lose.

  With that said, he’s never actually mentioned the Lionel Richie thing.

  I was halfway down Regent Street, when my phone rang. I answered it.

  “Yeah, mate, who is this?” said a voice on the other end of the line.

  “It’s Danny,” I said. “Who’s this?”

  “I found a sticker saying I should call you. Why?”

  “Oh. Yes. I was wondering if you’d like a polite conversation.”

  There was a pause. And a laugh. And then he hung up, but not before saying: “Wanker.”

  I sighed to myself. So far, the Call Me campaign hadn’t been a great success. Sure, lots of people had called me, but none so far had wanted to indulge themselves in the “polite conversation” side of my offer.

  It was the next day, and I was desperate to meet up with Ian. I wanted to see how long it would take him to try and move the conversation onto hats.

  We agreed to meet at the Yorkshire Grey in the afternoon.

  I headed into town a little earlier. There was something else on my mind: I knew I should do something to try and make things all right with Hanne. It had been a while since our pleasant three-way dinner, so maybe I could find a small peace offering.

  “Excuse me?” said a tall man in what looked to be his sixties. He was standing outside Pizza Express, and he was clutching a bunch of leaflets. “I was wondering if you’d give this a read….”

  He had a kind face and was wearing a kind of tweed hat and a blue anorak. I took a leaflet—crammed with tiny, neat print—and began to read.

  Hello

  Did you know the fate of the Western world lies directly in my hands?

  I looked up at theman and blinked a couple of times. If the fate of the Western world really did lie directly in this man’s hands, I was about to start walking east.

  I was born in 1938, the seventh son of the sixth duke of Portland, with a prodigious intellectual ability that developed quickly and thoroughly. Because of this, I was able to write my first book of celebrated sonnets 1939.

  I didn’t quite know what to make of this. Apparently the man in front of me had written a book of sonnets when he was one year old. I suppose that was possible. But this was a celebrated one. All the sonnets I wrote when I was one were rubbish.

  I was able to quickly rise up the ranks of political power, but my influence always remained hidden due to concerns about secrecy and political espionage. My decisions have effectively saved the world twice, once during the Cuban Missile Crisis and again when North Korea got the bomb in 1987. I was responsible for Churchill’s actions in the Second World War, and for those of many of his predecessors.r />
  In the words of Katherine the peace activist, this was quite literally unbelievable. This man, between the ages of one and six, not only found time to write a celebrated book of sonnets, but was also busy dictating military strategy to Churchill.

  I doubt you would believe the scope and range of my political influence.

  Fair point.

  You might also find it difficult to believe that not merely have I not been paid for any of this, but the government, in furtherance of their conspiratorial designs, has been paying me less than half of my normal social security.

  Aha. And suddenly I knew where this was going….

  I continue to help bring stability to the world. If you believe this has helped you in your life, you may wish to make a small contribution….

  I was overawed. It was all so … unusual.

  “So,” I said, looking him in the eye. “Is all of this completely … accurate?”

  “Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “But people never believe me, which is why I had these printed up.”

  He smiled as if to show how ludicrous it was that people just wouldn’t take his word, and he’d had to go to all this trouble just to prove a simple fact. I looked at the piece of paper in front of me. To be honest it didn’t really seem to be particularly conclusive proof.

  “And you really dictated political strategy to Churchill when you were a toddler?”

  “Around that time, yes, I did.”

  I’ll be honest. As I suspect you have guessed, I didn’t totally believe him. My dealings with Omar, Albert Heijn, and Dr. Molly Van Brain had taught me not to take things at face value when money was concerned. But I wanted to give the man the chance to prove himself.

  “And you did actually save the world?”

  The man nodded. “Effectively,” he said.

  I scanned through the piece of paper one more time, trying to find some way out of this. As far as I could see, there wasn’t one.

  “So you’re basically asking me to give you money, because you saved the world and you continue to do so? That’s your request?”

  I was hoping that by repeating all this he might suddenly buckle and say, “Ah, okay, fair enough, you caught me out there. I didn’t do any of that stuff. It was actually Churchill who made all Churchill’s decisions. You’re obviously a politics buff.” But he didn’t say that. He simply nodded once more, and said, “Well, yes. But only if you think it is appropriate.”

  I sighed and got my wallet out.

  “Have you got change of a tenner?” I said.

  “No,” he said.

  I gave him a tenner.

  I guess this was one of the downsides of saying yes to everything. You kind of make yourself vulnerable to the whims of the outside world. But being a positive thinker I tried to work out if I could possibly turn my encounter with the toddler politician into a present for Hanne. It had, after all, cost me ten pounds—the precise figure I reckoned I would have to have spent on her. I decided upon careful consideration that I couldn’t. It would probably just make things worse. “Hey, Hanne. Sorry about the other night. But I just gave ten pounds to a man involved in the Cuban Missile Crisis. We cool now?”

  But moments later the ideal gift would present itself, thanks to a small, laminated A4 sign in the window of a florist: GOT SOMETHING TO SAY? SAY IT WITH FLOWERS!

  I would!

  So … what did I have to say?

  Ian was being remarkably coy.

  We’d been sitting in the Yorkshire Grey for nearly four minutes now, and not once had he mentioned hats. Or caps. Or headwear in general. The sly dog. I smiled to myself. Ian was obviously playing the long-game. I decided I wouldn’t talk about hats, either. That’d show him.

  “Why are you smiling like that?” said Ian.

  “No reason,” I said.

  “You’re behaving very oddly.”

  “Am I? Am I indeed?” I said, before adding, “Of course, some would say it is you who is acting oddly.”

  “No,” said Ian. “Pretty much everyone would say it’s you.”

  “Would they?” I said, because when you’re in a conversation like this, it’s all about getting the last word. “Would they indeed?”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he said. “Did you say yes when someone asked you to act mental?”

  I pitied Ian. I was on to him, and he just hadn’t worked it out yet. His Yes hat hadn’t weakened me as he’d no doubt thought it would. It had made me stronger. “Listen, I invited Wag along as well,” I said nonchalantly. “He should be along when he gets my message.”

  “Message?”

  “My message saying we were in the pub, and he should come along.”

  “Good. So. How’s the project?” he said.

  “Not too bad.”

  “Said no to anything yet?”

  I smiled. “No. I have fully embraced every opportunity that has come my way. And I have done it without the use of even a single hat.”

  I studied his face for a reaction to my subtle hint. There was none. Shit, he was good.

  My phone rang. I answered it. They hung up.

  “Have you brought your diary?” said Ian.

  “You will have my diary, in full in due time, my friend.”

  “Well, give me details, then …”

  “I have invented an automatic, self-rewinding video box and entered a competition to be Britain’s most German-looking man.”

  Just then Wag walked into the pub.

  “Remember, not a word to Wag,” I said, raising a finger to my lips, and Ian nodded.

  “What the hell are you up to?” said Wag. He seemed angry, and he had quite a red face.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. I honestly couldn’t work out why he was annoyed.

  Wag opened his rucksack and pointed inside. There was a crushed bunch of broken flowers with a small card attached.

  “You got my message, then.”

  “You could have phoned me! Why send me flowers with a little note saying, I’m down at the pub’? Do you know what the lads at work thought of this? Why didn’t you just text me?”

  “I wanted to say it with flowers!” I said. It took Ian a second, but when he realised what must’ve prompted that, he nearly choked on a peanut.

  “Well, don’t! I’m getting a pint,” he said and walked off.

  “I wanted to say it with flowers,” I said meekly.

  My phone beeped. It was Hanne.

  THANK YOU FOR THE FLOWERS, BUT YOU MUST STOP THIS UNNATURAL OBSESSION AND MOVE ON.

  “Christ,” I said. “This is perfect. I had something to say to Hanne, and I also wanted to say that with flowers, and now she’s beginning to think I’m obsessed with her.”

  “So you gatecrash her date, and then you send her flowers as well? You should never send flowers to an ex. Sends out the wrong message.”

  “Let’s just hope she doesn’t find out about the small African boy.”

  “What small African boy? You’ve not sent her a small African boy, now, have you?”

  “No. I had an idea earlier. I gave a tenner to an old man who thought he’d saved the world once or twice, and I thought about doing it in Hanne’s honour, but then I thought no, it would have to be better than that, and I saw this thing about sponsoring kids in a copy of the Big Issue I bought—my third this week, by the way—and so I rang up, and I sponsored one for her. By way of an apology.”

  “What’s going on?” said Wag, arriving back at the table.

  “Danny has to apologise to Hanne.”

  “Oh. Why?”

  “Nothing, really,” I said, hoping that would be the end of it.

  “Danny forbade Hanne from seeing a new bloke,” said Ian. “And then when they went out on their first date anyway, Danny gatecrashed and stayed for the whole evening.”

  Wag looked shocked.

  “I didn’t gatecrash,” I said. “I was invited. Seb invited me. We seemed to really hit it off.”

  “You stayed
the whole evening?” said Wag.

  “Only until I was politely asked to leave.”

  “They told him to fuck off,” said Ian helpfully.

  “Are you stalking Hanne?” said Wag, wide-eyed. “This is brilliant. I don’t know any stalkers!”

  “I am not stalking Hanne,” I said, and then Ian piped up with “Hanne thinks he’s obsessed with her. He just sent her flowers too.”

  “You’re stalking Hanne!”

  “I sent you flowers, mullet man, and I’m not stalking you!”

  “Don’t try and change the subject by mocking my hair! You don’t send your ex flowers!” said Wag. “It sends out the wrong message!”

  “And then,” said Ian, “he sponsored a small African boy in her honour.”

  Wag’s jaw hit the floor.

  “You don’t sponsor a small African boy for an ex! It totally sends out the wrong message! Never do that—it’s like a rule!”

  Wag looked toward Ian, and he nodded, eyes closed, in agreement.

  “We’ve got to get you a girlfriend,” said Ian. “You could be dangerous.”

  He was winding me up. But Wag wasn’t. He thought I probably was quite dangerous.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” I said firmly. And after ten or twenty minutes we did.

  It was a couple of days later, and I’d been staying in a bit more. It wasn’t that I’d stopped saying yes. It was just that I’d stopped looking quite as hard for them. I’d annoyed Hanne, and Ian was clearly trying to scare me off with his Yes hat. Wag too had seemed annoyed with me, and I was growing tired from all the going out. Several more strangers had rung me up, and I’d nearly managed to engage one of them in a polite conversation. But then they’d lost their nerve and hung up like all the others. Plus Hanne had clearly had a thank-you letter from the Sponsor-a-Child people, because she e-mailed me to ask whether it had been me that had sponsored a small boy in her honour. I wrote back and reluctantly said yes, and that she should let me know if I should sponsor one in honour of Seb too. She told me that wouldn’t be necessary.

  I pottered about in the flat. My phone rang. I answered it. They hung up. I ran a bath.

  What did Ian think his hat would achieve, anyway? Did he really think I’d crack under pressure? Was he hoping to catch me out and make me say no to something, before pouncing on me from out of a bush and dealing out his as-yet-unspecified punishment? Well, I had to stay one step ahead of him—that much was certain.