Yes Man (28 page)

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
.

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.

I got out of the bath an hour later to find a new e-mail waiting. It was from Tom the BBC man. He wanted to know what my plans for the Edinburgh Festival were—was I going to go up this August, and if I had no plans, did I want to help with his team? He needed an extra pair of eyes up there, seeing shows, scouting for talent, developing ideas. Did I want to pop in and have a chat about it? Too bloody right I did!

I’d been going up to the Edinburgh Festival—the world’s largest arts festival—for years, but just hadn’t planned on it this year. Too much had been going on as of late … But now that there was an opportunity, I had to grab it. Particularly as it all stemmed from a Yes.

Edinburgh would be fun. A chance to catch up with what’s going on. And it’s not like it would be bad for my career. I was pleased Tom was still thinking of me. And it would be good to get out of London. I smiled. Yes was getting
me out of London. Yes would take me to Edinburgh. Maybe … hang on.

I had another new e-mail.

But …

Eh?

To: danny

From: whoisthechallenger

Subject: Like the hat?

Hello, Danny …

It is me again…. Hopefully you received the hat….

I have something to suggest to you….

Why …

Not …

I scrolled down.

Go …

What was going on here?

I scrolled farther down.

TO …

Down.

And down.

And down.

And there I saw it.

One word. One, confusing word.

Stonehenge

And that was that.

Stonehenge?

What? What was I supposed to do at Stonehenge? Who was this?!
The Challenger?
So Ian was calling himself the Challenger now, was he? And he was making anonymous suggestions, was he? Suggestions he knew I’d have to say Yes
to? Upping the stakes? Stepping over the line? Ordering me about? Doing precisely the thing I’d told him not to do!

I read it again. Why not go to Stonehenge? But why Stonehenge?

I was filled with a sudden rage. Who the hell did he think he was, setting up a free e-mail address, and calling himself the Challenger? Did he think he could beat me? Did he think I’d just roll over and stop, opening the door wide open to his punishment?

The thing to do was surprise him. Shock him. Demonstrate my abilities. Demonstrate my commitment. I’d do this. I’d go to Stonehenge. Not tomorrow. Not next week. I’d do it
now
. I could be there and back in just over five hours, if the wind was behind me and the traffic forgiving. And then I’d find Ian, I’d show him the evidence, I’d throw him into submission, and I’d put an end to the immature silliness of the type of man who’d call himself the “Challenger.”

“The Challenger,” I muttered to myself as I walked to the car. “Who calls himself the Challenger?”

I was right. It was a
pathetic
way for a grown man to behave.

I jumped into the Yesmobile and started to drive.

I was driving at full-pelt back toward London
.