Yes Man (49 page)

Texas.

Stonehenge 2 was in
Texas!

Suddenly my world seemed to collapse.

Just when I’d accepted that in order to survive the world of Yes, it was necessary to just sit back and enjoy the ride, someone else had reached in and grabbed the steering wheel …

I returned home to London knowing one thing: There was no way I could go to Texas. Enough was enough. The Challenger had pushed me far enough when he’d sent me to
England’s
Stonehenge. He had another think coming, if he thought I was about to let him send me to a
Texan
one, too
.

This was it. It was time to take a stand. But by not going to Texas or ignoring his cryptic words, I’d be failing. Breaking the rules. Saying no to something I’d sworn I’d say yes to. And I couldn’t do that.

I knew that by the time Lizzie got to London, this was something I would have to have dealt with. A battle I’d have to have won. She’d be here in little more than a week … I’d said yes to her and couldn’t break that yes now, meaning if I obeyed the Challenger’s whims, I would have to organise and make the return journey incredibly soon and incredibly quickly.

But how would I explain it to Lizzie? How would I tell her what I’d been up to? That I was, in effect, living a double life? Maybe she’d take it well (because yes, I would have to tell her). Sure, I was still the mild-mannered, bespectacled Clark Kent-style radio producer of old … but now I was something else, too. A man with more going on in his life. A man with more confidence, more openness. A man who’d recaptured his spontaneity. Maybe she’d take a shine to that. She’d seemed to in Edinburgh, when she was to blame for it.

Or … would she
hate
it? Would she, like Hanne, find it immature, and unnecessary, and
stupid?
And would she feel it devalued our relationship when I told her that I had bought her a ticket from Melbourne to Edinburgh not out of some grand romantic gesture … but just because she
asked?
Because some bearded bloke on a bus said it’d be
good
for me?

Either way I was going to have to tell her.

But no matter how she reacted, everything could still go wrong. Even if I went to Texas and got back well before Lizzie arrived, it would solve absolutely nothing. The Challenger would still be in the picture, meaning the threat of considerable trouble and awkwardness would always be a moment away….

Desperately I e-mailed Thorn once again. He wrote back the same day.

Danny,

Really, really sorry—not been able to get in touch with Jason. To be honest, we’re not all that close as friends, but I have left a message with his sister asking her to get him to e-mail me asap. I do have these details, though …

And below that, Jason’s place of work and mobile number.

Excellent! Now I
really
had him! All this man’s power lay in the fact that I couldn’t prove it was him. While he was an anonymous threat, he was able to make me do things against my will. But once I’d unmasked him, he’d be another Ian; another person who knew—and who I
knew
knew. By exposing him, I would rob him of all authority. By exposing him, I would be able to
ignore
him.

I launched an immediate and forceful three-pronged attack….

First, a strongly worded e-mail.

Jason,

I have your mobile number, and I know where you work. And I’m not doing it. I’m not going to Texas. I know who you are, which means I know that you know, which means you can no longer do this to me. I want to speak to you to make sure you understand, though.
You are no longer eligible to make me do things because I know you know that I know you know
.

I’m going to phone you now.

Danny

I picked up my phone and dialled his mobile.

Frustratingly it went straight to answerphone.

“This is the Vodaphone VoiceMail Service for 07*** *** ***, please leave a message after the—”

“Jason, it’s Danny,” I practically shouted. “The jig’s up. I have your number now. Read your e-mail and never get in touch with me again. We’ve all had a lot of fun with it, and I’m sure you’ve had a great laugh with your mates down at the pub, but the party’s over. Good night and go to hell …”

I hung up and looked at my watch. It was four o’clock—well within office hours. I dialled the work number that Thom had given me. I was pumped up, ready for a showdown, ready to tell this bloke to piss right off.

“Welcome to the immigration and nationality bureau,” said a recorded voice. “Please note that all calls are recorded …”

There was a click while the call transferred to an operator, and then …

“Good morning, Home Office, how can I help?”

“I need to speak to a man called Jason, please.”

“What’s the surname?”

“I don’t have a surname. I’ve only met him once. He works in immigration, making decisions about people …”

“I’m afraid I can’t place your call without knowing a surname.”

“I need to speak to him. Urgently.”

“All appeals must be in writing …”

“I don’t want to make an appeal…. I want to speak to Jason…”.

“Did you receive an RFRL?”

“I don’t know what an RFRL is … I just need to speak to a bloke called Jason. It’s a personal call; it won’t take but a minute … please, just put me through to someone in the department who makes decisions about things like that …”

“Hold on the line …”

My heart started to race. I was getting closer. My three-pronged attack was about to climax. I was closing in on the man who had been mocking me from afar.

“SEO.”

It was a girl’s voice.

“Hi … is Jason there, please?”

“Jason who?” she said.

“I’m not sure. He works there. Making decisions about people. Saying no a lot. I
have
to speak to him….”

“Hang on …”

The phone is muffled as she asks someone about something.

“He doesn’t work here anymore,” she said. “There was a Jason here, but he’s gone. I’m new here. Sorry.”

Curses!

“Well … where’s he gone? Do you have a number? I tried his phone, but it’s switched off. I need to speak to him. I need to speak to him
right now…”
.

“Hang on …”

Another muffled conversation.

“No, I’m sorry. We’re not allowed to give out personal details.”

“But honestly—I’m not a stalker or a lunatic. This man, he’s been …”

“I’m sorry.”

I sighed and rubbed my eyes.

“Well … if you see him … can you get him to call Danny?”

“Sure. I’ll tell the others, too.”

“Thanks.”

I put the phone down, slightly dejected. I’d thought that was going to be it.

What would happen if I didn’t get him? Never got him? What would happen if I could never track him down and grab him and shout “I know who you are!” at him? Then the Challenger would live on. And I’d have to go to Texas after all.

It wasn’t just that I was tired. It wasn’t just that I’d had enough of travelling and wanted to stay at home and see Lizzie and finish the last month of Yes in relative comfort. It was that I’d been all but ignoring another aspect of my journey up until now.

The cost.

Texas wouldn’t be cheap to get to. I knew I’d have to fly to New York, then probably change and get a flight to Austin, and then a cab or a bus or a train to Hunt, where Stonehenge 2 was. And I’d have to do it in the way I’d been doing everything else: on credit.

I now had several more credit cards than was sensible, thanks to the various offers, suggestions, and invitations of the kindly people at Visa, Barclaycard, American Express, and everywhere else, and I’d used each of them. I’d used them early on only for smaller things, sure; things like a curry with Wag. Or maybe a round of beers with Nathan or Jon or Ben or Rich or any of the other friends who’d suddenly found me all too easy to coax out of the flat for a pint. But later, well … the bills had
grown
. Buying the Yesmobile had eaten up my savings, and I hadn’t exactly been working very much lately. I’d been putting work off, knowing that a new job was just around the corner, hoping that everything would sort itself out. Then there’d been Lizzie’s flight to pay for. And the insurance and the road tax for the new car. The train tickets to Liverpool. And Cardiff. The thousands of suckers I’d had printed up. Up until a week ago, I could bear all that … but the next bill would feature a hotel in Barcelona. Meals. Hasty withdrawals for taxis and trains. Flights to Singapore and back. And maybe, now, even a series of flights and hotels to get me to Hunt, Texas, to look at a smaller version of a monument
that was already pretty small and which, anyway, I’d seen just a month or two before.

And what would I have to show for it all? What would I have to show for all the effort and expense and debt? A
feeling
. Try telling
that
to the bailifs. Was all this worth so much money?

The problem began when I won that twenty-five thousand pounds. It had made me feel like a very rich man indeed. It had made me think everything was going to be okay, like Yes was going to look after me. But now, sitting at my desk, studying my bills, I suddenly didn’t feel like it was. Yes just wasn’t living up to its end of the bargain.

So I did what any man sinking slowly into debt would do. I shoved the bills into a drawer and went out instead. In January I’d be turning a corner. Starting again. I’d pay it all off when I chained myself to that desk, where I’d stay for the rest of my life.
I only had a month to go
. I only had a month to go.

So, tonight I would drink. Drink to forget.

The problem was, I’d have to do it with Paul.

I was on my way to meet the man who’d called me for a polite conversation for a second time. So far, he remained the only person who had taken me up on the offer. I was not in a good mood. And I was not in the mood (and I hope he will forgive me for this) for meeting Paul. I needed to be with someone who understood me; not with someone who understood Border terriers.

We met at the Yorkshire Grey. The polite conversation was stilted, at best, but I don’t think Paul had noticed. He was off on another monologue, while I just sat there, scowling.

“Musically,” he said, apropos of virtually nothing, “my interests are varied. I’m probably
most
into Sarah Brightman. Do you like Sarah Brightman?”

“She is a very talented entertainer,” I said, downbeat and downtrodden, when what I really wanted to say was “I can’t
stand
Sarah Brightman.” But this was a polite conversation. That was the deal.

“I think she’s touring early next year, if you’re interested in seeing her,” said Paul.

Nope. I am not interested at all.

“That is excellent news,” I said.

“I’ve loved her stuff ever since
Phantom of the Opera
. That’s what first brought her to my attention. And then some friends in Brazil sent me an album of hers, called
The Songs That Got Away
, and I was so glad that they
hadn’t
got away,
because that was me hooked! I’ll let you borrow that CD if you like.”

“Oh yes, please.”

“Since then I’ve been to see her in conceit a few times. I saw her in Edinburgh in ’97.1 had tickets for the seventh row, on the right of centre, and that was fantastic, even though Sarah was standing to the left of centre, but it was still good, you know.”

“Right,” I said as if I’d been making mental floor plans in my head. I had finished my pint and was waiting for Paul to finish his. I didn’t want to add yet another round to my Yes bill.

“And then I saw her again on that same tour in Norwich, and it was a bigger crowd this time….”

And please,
God
, make this
end
. Make him talk about Border terriers again. Anything.

“… and basically I started the standing ovation at the end of that gig, so if you ever meet her, walking around the BBC, you should say, ‘I met the man who started the standing ovation in Norwich in 1997’ and see what she says!”

“I will certainly do that,” I said, playing with my glass. My very
empty
glass.

“Do! Do that! She’ll love that. Yes, as I say, I think she’s touring again next year …”

I put both my thumbs up.

“Hey—if you work for the BBC, Danny, you could probably get me an autograph.”

I looked at him blankly.

“Couldn’t you?” he said.

“If I bump into her,” I said.

“You could fax her and ask for one.”

What did he want me to fax? “Dear Sarah, the BBC would like an autograph”?

“Would you do that for me?”

Sigh.

“Yes.”

Paul looked at his watch.

“Oh. I should probably get going … I’m going to the cinema tonight.”

“The cinema?” I said, partly out of relief that the subject was changing and partly because, despite all this, I now wanted to extend the conversation. I didn’t want to be alone right now.

“Yeah,” he said. “Oh, God, I would invite you, but someone else got the tickets. It’s kind of a date.”