Yes Man (27 page)

Elias smiled and looked around the room for a few moments. He seemed to catch an invisible eye, and then looked back at Pete and nodded.

“Yes. He is here.”

Pete nudged me in the ribs and smiled a very wide smile.

“Probably because of you,” he whispered.

I was starting to think that Pete
did
believe in all this after all.

“Where does Maitreya live?” asked a man on the other side of the room, and I felt rather smug, because I already knew this.

“He lives among the Asian community in Brick Lane. He doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t eat, he doesn’t have a bed. He works twenty-four hours a day, tirelessly, for the benefit of the planet Earth. For the benefit of each and every one of you.”

And Elias Brown once again looked me right in the eye.

“I’m telling you, Ian, he looked straight at me,” I said as we walked down Mile End Road. “It was a little bit spooky.”

“An old man in a cream suit looked straight at you, and you think that’s spooky. It’s not spooky. It’s just an old man in a cream suit looking straight at you.”

“But it was like he
knew
something. He kind of changed my mind, when I saw the look on his face. It was like Maitreya was sitting next to him and pointing me out and saying, ‘That’s the one …
that’s
the one I’m helping!’”

“Do you realise how arrogant that sounds?” said Ian as I paused to stick a CALL ME sticker to a phonebox. “Do you think you’re the bloody Golden Child or something? Do you think that any minute now, Eddie Murphy’s going to burst into the room looking for you.”

“Is it really so far-fetched? Why do you automatically assume I can’t be some
kind of Golden Child? This is precisely the kind of negative feedback that Jesus will get when he makes his Second Coming.”

My phone rang. I answered it. They hung up. In the past twenty-four hours, my CALL ME stickers seemed to have permeated London’s consciousness, and this had started to happen quite a bit.

“Look, Dan,” said Ian. “I honestly don’t think the man on the bus was Jesus or Maitreya or
any
of those fellas. I was drunk when I suggested that. And I think it is highly unlikely that you, my friend, are the Golden Child, or the Copper Child, or a child made of virtually
any
metallic substance or element.”

“The Starburst Group think it might be possible.”

“The Starburst Group think that aliens built the pyramids,” he said, and I saw his point.

The only way
you’re
going to get over this, Dan,” he continued, pausing only for dramatic effect, “is if you find the man on the bus.”

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever walked down Brick Lane, attempting to track down and meet an enlightened being from another dimension, but it’s really not as easy as it sounds.

Ian had been right, of course: Finding the man on the bus was the only way to confirm once and for all that he wasn’t the Maitreya. That said, he hadn’t been too keen to join me on the journey. I’d already tired him out with our sticker exertions. No, this time I’d had to persuade him with the promise of a free meal.

“So, what’s the plan?” he said as we stepped off the Tube at Aldgate.

I smiled and opened my rucksack.

“This is …”

I pulled out a thick wodge of photocopied A4 posters, headed with the controversial and attention-grabbing question: IS THIS YOU?

It was the second great Yes-Man campaign in just one week! I was deeply excited…. Here I was, reaching out to the world, exposing myself not just once but twice! This was just what I’d promised myself I would do. Not only did I have my CALL ME stickers out there, circulating in society and spreading my number far and wide, but here were my Man On The Bus posters, proudly displaying the face of the bloke who’d brought me out of the depths of my depression. The only problem was, I’m not very good at drawing, and all I really remembered about my subject was that he was an Asian man with a beard. That, on its own, wouldn’t
be enough. So I wrote a more detailed explanation of the poster’s existence underneath the picture:

Are you a teacher who lives in the Aldgate area of East London? Were you travelling on the bus-replacement service out of Oxford Circus, heading toward the East End on Friday the 6? If so, I’m the man you were talking to on the bus! Please get in touch—there’s a story I need to tell you! Either e-mail me at [email protected] or call me on 07802 *** ***. This isn’t a joke! Please call me! Danny

I felt sure that this would peak the man’s interest, and he would call—if he saw it. The best thing I could do was plaster Brick Lane—the centre of the local community—with my elaborate posters and just hope …

And so, for the second time that week, we began to stick things up. We stuck posters on lampposts, over club posters, in phone boxes, and more while also whacking the odd CALL ME sticker up alongside it. I’ll be honest: We got a few strange looks that day. Perhaps it was the quality of my artwork that was causing concern; perhaps it was the fact that we were being so very thorough with our campaigning. Whatever it was, I knew that at the very least, we’d caused a stir. Someone would recognise this man. They
had
to. Even if the only defining characteristic of my drawing was a beard.

And then a bell went off, and out of the mosque opposite poured hundreds of bearded men, and I realised that perhaps this was going to be a little trickier than I thought.

As we ate our meal, Ian and I pondered the magical possibilities of what we’d just done. Well, I thought they were magical. Ian still thought they were bollocks.

“It’s crazy when you think about it, isn’t it?” I said. “You know … about the man on the bus possibly being a god.”

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.

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
.