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.
Chapter 12 In Which a Friendship Is Brought into Doubt, and Daniel Buys Some New Spectacles
I was driving at full-pelt back toward London.
I’d been to Stonehenge. I’d gotten out of the car. I’d had my picture taken. And now I was on my way to find Ian, confront him, show him the evidence, and tell him he was getting in the way.
His interference was actually quite annoying. He knew why I was doing this. He knew it was something for me. This wasn’t a stupid boy-project; this was important. Sure, it felt a little pointless from time to time, but that’s only because I hadn’t worked out what the point was yet. And how was I supposed to do that when Ian was prancing about in his flat with a mask on, pretending to be the Challenger and probably spending his time designing little Challenger logos and sewing a special lycra Challenger suit? I couldn’t fathom why he thought it would be in any way useful to try and trip me up like this.
I pulled up at a service station somewhere in Wiltshire and got my phone out. I texted Ian.
WHERE WILL YOU BE IN TWO HOURS?
I’d been sitting in my small green Yes-related car for several hours and needed to stretch my legs. I got as far as the mini-mart. By which I mean I walked across the forecourt; not that I have magic extendable legs.
Inside, the man behind the counter put down his paper and said hello. I said hello back.
“Is that your car?” he said despite the fact that I was the only person for miles around, and he’d just seen me get out of it.
“Yes,” I said.
“Odd, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Where did you get it, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I bought it at a party,” I said a little grumpily.
“Oh. A car party?”
I have no idea what a car party is.
I found a pasty, shoved it in the petrol station’s microwave, set it for thirty seconds, and thought about what lay ahead of me. But my thoughts were instantly interrupted by the beep of my phone.
I’LL BE IN STARBUCKS, CARNABY STREET. WHY?
There was no time to reply. I was on a mission. I had to get going, move fast. I was out the door and in the car before the microwave even pinged.
“Excuse me,” said a man, suddenly to my right. “Would you have a moment to talk about Save the Whales?”
I was striding down Carnaby Street toward Starbucks, and I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
“Yes, yes I would,” I said, stopping dead in my tracks. This joker was no match for me. “But can I go first?”
“Er … how do you mean …,” he said.
“Did you know that the UK is the world’s fourth richest country, and yet more than two million pensioners live below the poverty line?”
“Um …”
“Did you know that there are more than eleven million pensioners in this country?”
“Sorry, do …”
“Did you know that a third of pensioner households lived in poverty in the year 2000?”
“Uh, no …”
“Just a few pounds each month can keep a pensioner warm and fed all year round. Is that something you might be interested in?”
“Er, yes, I guess …”
“See that man in the green Adopt-a-Granny bib over there?”
“Yes?”
“He’ll give you the appropriate forms.”
I strode on, leaving a confused and bewildered whale saver behind me. Strode on, toward Ian. Toward vengeance.
When I arrived, he was just sitting there, all sweetness and light. He’d ordered a latte and a tiny muffin.
“Well, I’m back,” I said, standing over him. “And I’ve got the evidence.” I handed him the digital camera. He put his newspaper down and studied it. “You appear to be showing me a picture of you with a small sign saying ‘Happy Now?’”
“Yes. So are you? Are you happy now?”
“Is that Stonehenge?”
“Of course it’s Stonehenge. So are you happy now?”
“Am I happy that you’ve been to Stonehenge?”
“Yes.”
“Why would that make me happy? Because unless you won it in a raffle, you standing in front of Stonehenge isn’t at the top of my make-me-happy list.”
“Oh, so it doesn’t make you happy? I suppose it’s because I’m not wearing a hat, is it? I can wear a hat if you like. I can wear it right now, in fact.”
I whipped the baseball cap out of my jacket and fixed it onto my head. I stared at Ian and pointed at the hat. He took it all in.
“Now you appear to be wearing a baseball cap with the word ‘yes’ on it.”
“Yes. Well done. I do. This must be a pretty great day for you. You must be over the bloody moon.”
Ian sat back in his chair.
“Danny … I haven’t got a clue what you’re on about.”
And I looked into his eyes.
And annoyingly I be
lieved him.
“So if you’re not the Challenger, then who is?” I said.
We’d moved the conversation into the pub opposite Starbucks.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Ian. “I mean, why would they send you to Stonehenge? It’s a bit bloody mysterious, that. Stonehenge must be a clue.”
I thought about it. Had I met any druids along the way? Maybe the Starburst Group had realised that there was more to my Yeses than I’d let on, that I wasn’t just “being more open” as I’d claimed. Or maybe they thought aliens had built Stonehenge and wanted a second opinion?
“Have you told anyone, Ian? Anyone at all?”
“No.”
“Not even Wag? You haven’t told Wag, have you?”
“No. Have you?”
“Why would I ask you if you’d told Wag if I’d already told him?”
“I don’t know, Dan. This is all very confusing. It’s like someone’s out to get you. I guess it could be Wag. I mean, he’s bound to suspect something.”
“How come?”
“How come? Because he was out with you right at the start, when you told that bloke you were looking at his girlfriend. You always say yes when he suggests going for a pint, when you’d done pretty much the opposite for most of the year. You sent him flowers because you saw a sign saying ‘Why Not Say It With Flowers.’ He knows about all the trouble you’ve had by saying yes to Hanne. It could be him, Dan. It really could.”
Oh my God.
It was blatantly Wag.
“So what should I do?”
“You’ve got two options. Confront him, or confound him.”
Ian was right. I either took a risk and told a man who may or may not be the Challenger that I was the Yes Man … or I exposed him to my steely determination. I showed him just how seriously I was taking this. I demonstrated my newfound abilities, my newfound openness, and where life could take you if you used just one little word …
“I’m going to confound him,” I said. “I’m going to display the very essence of Yes.”
“The Yessence,” said Ian.
“I’ll show him the way.”
“The way of Yes. You can teach him a Yesson. Take him on a Yescapade!”
And then I took my phone out, dialled Wag’s number, and casually asked him if he fancied a night out.
He said yes.
We arranged to meet at 6 p.m. at the Pride of Spitalfields—a tiny pub just off Brick Lane, packed with old men and London hipsters—and from there we would grab some food. And food wouldn’t be a problem. Brick Lane is lined with curryhouses. It’s a street in which dozens of men take to the pavements to greet you and persuade you in with promises of free wine and discounts that they conveniently forget about when handing you the bill.
We found one such man the moment we left the pub.
“My friends, come in …,” he said, making insanely welcoming gestures with his hands. “Fantastic food here …”
Oh, this was going to be sweet. I was going to challenge the dark and brooding presence of the Challenger himself. On my terms. And my turf.
We did as he said and sat down to eat. I had the dansak as is right and proper. Wag had a bhuna, the mullet-haired idiot. And then, tummies full, we asked for the bill.
“This is on me, Wag,” I said, and he looked impressed when I very purposefully showed him a wallet full of new Yes-related credit cards. I paid up, and we left.
Another man was on our backs almost immediately.
“Food? You come in here, very good discount for you …”
Wag patted his stomach—the international sign of “I’ve eaten, thanks”—but I was having none of it. I bellowed “Yes!”, dragged Wag into the curryhouse, and immediately ordered some poppadoms. Wag had a beer.
“Jesus,” he said. “How hungry are you?”
“I’m not hungry at all,” I said, snapping a poppadom in two and trying to look mysterious. “I’m not hungry in the least.” Wag looked at me a bit oddly.
From there we jumped into a black cab and headed into town. I had a little surprise lined up for Wag.
“What are those?” he said, looking at the items I had whipped out.
“Tickets,” I said.
“What for?”
“A musical.”
“A musical?” said Wag, alarmed. “What musical? Why?”
“I was walking through Leicester Square today, Wag. A ticket tout offered me two tickets for the price of one for tonight’s performance. So that is why we are going.”
“But I don’t want to go to a musical! What musical?”
“We Will Rock You.”
“The Queen musical? I don’t want to go to the Queen musical!”
“We are going to see the Queen musical, because I have already said yes to it, and then we are going to do whatever you want. Do you understand? Whatever you want …”
Three hours later we were leaving the theatre and walking toward Soho. I started to sing a medley of Queen numbers. Wag didn’t. He seemed to have been stunned into silence by the raw power of tonight’s theatrical experience.
“So what do you want to do, Wag?” I said, stopping to hand my We Will Rock You T-shirt to a homeless person. “Suggest something! Anything!”
“I dunno. Pub. Whatever.”
We found the first pub we could and left after the first pint. I was keen to show Wag what else was out there.
We crossed over the road and through Soho Square.
“Why are you so jolly?” said Wag. “And where are you taking me?”
I started to sing another Queen number, and we passed a man standing in the shadows saying what seemed to be the words “Hash, coke? Hash, coke?” very quickly and very quietly.
I stopped in my tracks. Wag continued on until he noticed I’d stopped, and he turned around.
“You want hash, coke?” said the man.
“All right, then!” I said in a loud and dramatic voice, so that Wag could hear. I wanted him to know that Yes had opened my horizons, made me a man of the world. I’d already had a drag or two on a comical cigarette in Brixton as well as a psychotropic mindbomb. I knew what I was doing, all right!
“Dan, what are you doing?” he said in a kind of shouted whisper, and instantly I realised I didn’t really know.
“How much you want?” said the man.
“Um … I’m not sure,” I said, suddenly out of my depth. “A pound’s worth?”
“Danny!” said Wag again and walked toward me. This made the man in the shadows a bit nervous, and he started to back off.
“Wag, I am trying to buy a pound’s worth of drugs.”
“Why?”
“Because this nice gentleman asked if I’d like any.”
“Danny. Pub. Now”
Minutes later we found ourselves in a late bar on Frith Street. We’d arrived there on a high-speed ricksha—because a driver had asked—and our cheeks were red and our hair windswept.
“What the fuck is going on?” said Wag. “Why are you so keen to move on? Why the ricksha?”
I simply smiled enigmatically. Now I was matching Wag drink for drink and making sure he knew it. I was showing Wag how to live. How to grab the Yeses!
At closing time we left the pub, somehow both with balloons, and both of us singing. Unfortunately we were singing different songs.
“Come on, Wag … let’s go to a bar … yeah?”
“No, Dan. I’ve had enough … ‘fan.’”
“Come on! It’ll be brilliant! We can stand in the corner and awkwardly look at girls! We can say yes to life!”
“Stop bullying me! I feel a bit sick….”
“One more, Wag! Yes?”
Wag looked a broken man. I had truly taught him a lesson.
“One more,” he said.
Now we were in Madame Jo Jo’s, deep in the heart of seedy Soho. We were drinking out of cans, and Wag had begun to sway. I was worse. Only the adrenaline of each Yes moment was keeping me on my feet. Another novelty t
equila man was here, though, and Wag and I forced a shot each before Wag grabbed my arm and said, “Enough … enough … please …”
Was it a cry for help? Or—more likely—an admission of guilt? I knew the time was near.
Minutes later we were stumbling down the street toward a cab rank. Wag could hardly speak. I had started to be able to see properly, but only if I closed one eye.
“So then …,” I slurred, “that was an interesting evening. What are your conclusions? Do you have anything to say? Is there anything you wish to apologise for?”
Wag looked a little too shellshocked to apologise, if I’m honest.
And then the words we really didn’t need to hear …
“Looking for fun, boys?”
I looked up to see a woman, sitting on a stool under a sign that read MODELS. I tried to focus my eyes. Her hair was elaborate and her dress sense revealing. “Good show on downstairs. Five pounds each.”
Shit.
I looked to Wag. He shook his head. I nodded mine. For a second it looked like he was about to cry.
I’m not proud of this. Particularly as I can’t blame it on the booze.
But I gave the woman ten pounds, and I dragged Wag in with me through some red velvet curtains and into the seedy lair within.
It would be the final proof he would need of my commitment.
I awoke the next morning and tried my best to understand what was going on. I was lying in a position I’m not sure anyone’s ever been in before; at least not by choice or not during wrestling.
I knew I was on my own, but there seemed to be too many arms for that to be possible. I was facedown on the sofa, my cheeks wet with dribble, and both the TV and the radio were on. As was my computer. As were all the lights. And I mean every single light I had. The ceiling lights, the lamps, a small anglepoise … I’m sure if I’d checked the cupboards I’d have found all the torches and Christmas lights on too. I had clearly come home drunk and happy and wanting to keep the night going—despite the fact that all I’d done was turn everything on, check my e-mails, and pass out on the sofa.
I was fully clothed, intensely dry-mouthed, and I was aching all over. I was also boiling … The sun was streaming in through the windows, and I was halfhidden beneath a spare duvet. I started to wonder why on Earth I was on the sofa. Perhaps I’d had a fight with myself in the night and banished myself to the living room. That seemed unfair to me. In relationships I’d always been the one who’d ended up sleeping on the sofa. You’d think living on my own would mean I got the bed. But a vague memory reached me, clouded and slow. I began to remember that in my drunken state I’d decided it wouldn’t be all that wise to try and start negotiating the stairs up to the bedroom. But worrying that I would get cold in the night, I knew I’d need to fetch a duvet. So I ran upstairs to get one and bring it down. At no point had the all-too-logical idea of just staying up there hit me. I’d even gone for the spare duvet—the one hidden away at the back of a cupboard, the one I’d have to stand on a chair to get. Worse, I could remember feeling rather proud of myself for being so sensible as I stumbled back down the stairs, duvet in arms, ready to pass out.
Yes Man Page 22
