Five

The name Larry Brightstone first came to my attention in the lost and found section of my Sunday morning newspaper. He had found a number five a few days earlier on a walk and was keen to return the object to its rightful owner; if anyone was missing a number five, they were welcome to claim it at his property.

I folded the paper, put it down and went about my day with the intention of not giving the bulletin a second thought. However, as the day progressed, my thoughts frequently returned to it. I wondered about the man who placed the bulletin. What sort of character was Larry Brightstone and what were his motivations? I needed to find out, so late that afternoon I drove to the address provided, not prepared for what I would find.

When I arrived two things struck me: the size of the house, its grounds and the amount of people queuing. The line stretched all the way out of the iron entrance gates. As I got closer, I realised that they were waiting to enter a white gazebo. “What is going on?” I wondered.

I joined the queue and attracted the attention of the man directly in front of me. He turned towards me in irritation and said: “What do you want? You better not try to queue jump! I’ve been waiting all day and I’m not going to lose my spot.” “I assure you, I’m not trying to get ahead of you. I just wonder what is going on here.” I calmly replied. “Did you not see the bulletin in last Friday's newspaper?” he replied abruptly. Once the man calmed down, Douglas explained that he was a footballer who had lost the number five from the back of his jersey a few days ago. He decided to come along and establish if it was his. “Had all these people come for the same reason?” I speculated. As the queue moves forward I meet more people with similar stories to the Douglas’s.

A charming couple, Luke and Diane, were more than happy to tell me the reason for their visit. They hosted a games night every Monday for their neighbours, which Diane was eager to tell me was very popular: “Last Monday after a late night finish, Luke was putting away the Rummikub and told me that one of the number fives was missing from the set. We looked everywhere, but could not find it. So here we are!”

Christina was preparing to throw a fifth birthday party for her daughter Ruby. Everything was prepared. However, the number five shaped balloon with Ruby’s favourite children's character on it, Jack The Beaver, had gone missing. She was queuing to see if it had been found because, with the big day just around the corner, it was too late to order a replacement.

As the afternoon turned to evening, more people joined. Some locals but others had travelled long distances to establish if the item was theirs. I asked the newcomers if it would not have been easier to buy a new one. The responses I got ranged from: it would be too expensive, it was out of stock or the original had sentimental value and could never be replaced. I listened with interest to each new story and as night fell some people left, while others unrolled sleeping bags or pitched tents. However, I was no closer to meeting our host. I would return twice before that opportunity presented itself.

Unfortunately, due to my busy work schedule as a reporter at The Evening Post, I was unable to return for three weeks. The crowd, since my first visit, had swelled considerably. What was even more striking was the absence of a queue. Instead, people were sitting on the grass talking to each other, while they were waiting to be admitted into the gazebo. Whereas before there was hardly any interaction between these individuals, now there was a community spirit. They were supportive of each other and would console each other when it turned out that the number five still hadn’t found its owner.

This was further reinforced at lunch time, when some people went to their cars and brought out picnics, drinks in coolers and music played on speakers. The day passed with everyone in a good mood. The urgency of finding the owner of the number five, seemed to have been forgotten. I thought that the music would irritate Mr Brightstone and that he would make an appearance. But, just like in my previous visit, he never showed. Once again I left with my questions unanswered.

It took me a month to return. As I drove up to the iron gates of the property, I saw that the grounds were deserted. The gazebo wasn’t there, the tents had gone, the only sign that there were ever people there was a single piece of litter blowing in the breeze. “Finally” I thought, “I would get the answers to my questions.” I walked up the drive and knocked on the door. I stood on the doorstep listening to the classical music coming from within. The door opened and a butler said: “Can I help you Ms?” “Good afternoon, my name is Charlie Price. I am a reporter at The Evening Post. I was wondering if Mr Larry Brightstone is at home?” I showed him my credentials and he stood to the side allowing me to enter. I found myself in a grand entrance hall with a chandelier above me and a marble staircase on my left. “If you would kindly wait here, I will tell Mr Brightstone that you wish to see him.”

The butler walked through a door at the far end of the entrance hall. While I waited, I admired the opulence. I whistled softly in admiration, transfixed by the floor to ceiling paintings, which adorned the walls. I wondered who the figures in the portraits were. At the sound of a door closing I jumped slightly and turned to see a tall man with grey hair and green eyes, wearing a pinstripe suit. He smiled warmly as he approached and offered his hand to shake. In a cultured voice he said: “Ms Price, welcome to my family home. I believe you wished to speak with me. How may I help you?” “Mr Brightstone, it is such a pleasure to finally meet you. I was here, for the first time, two months ago. I wonder what happened to the number five? Did anybody claim it?” He chuckled: “Let me guess, the number five went missing from your newspaper and you were wondering if the one I found was yours?” “No, nothing like that, I assure you. I’m not here in an official capacity, I’m just curious. I’ve been here twice before, but I have not been able to meet you till today.” “In that case would you please follow me so we can talk in comfort.”

Mr Brightstone led me into the library, which was just as impressive as the hall. He indicated a sofa for me to sit on. Crossing the room, he said: “May I offer you a drink?” I declined. He put some ice in a glass and poured himself a whisky from a crystal decanter. Sitting on the chair opposite me he said: “Please continue your story.” So I told him why I was so keen to find out about the mysterious number five. “The first time I visited your property, I talked with various people and heard their stories. Some of them were unwilling to talk to me. However, on my second visit a community seemed to have emerged. The visitors had gone from strangers to friends, forgetting all about the number five. The biggest question I have for you, Mr Brightstone, is why? Why go to all the trouble?” Mr Brightstone sat with his fingers steepled and listened. When I finished he said: “Isn’t community the point, Ms Price?” Seeing my puzzled expression, he took a sip of his whisky and put the glass down on the table between us. The ice cubes clinked together. He then explained: “There is so much disharmony in the world. People are so angry at each other. Compassion has been replaced by indifference. I decided to conduct an experiment to encourage empathy. So I placed the bulletin which you saw. At first, nobody came and I was worried that all my effort would be in vain. However, I was delighted when people started to arrive, sharing a common goal and, gradually, these individuals forgot their differences, communicated and supported one another. It was a great success.” “Where is the number five now?” I inquired. “There never was one,” he said flatly. “So all those people, me included, were just participants in a social experiment?” I asked. He nodded.

I felt disappointed and exclaimed: “You misled people and promised to return something you never had, all to prove a point.” “You may disapprove of my method Ms Price, but you have to admit the end result was beautiful. I know my experiment won't fix anything long-term but maybe it will inspire a wider conversation.” “Don't you feel bad about all the people that you deceived?”. “They have all been financially compensated for their troubles, I sent everybody a cheque after the experiment concluded,” he replied with a smile. “They came to you to get their property back. At the very least you should have told them what you were doing.” “If I had done that, it might have jeopardized my study. I wanted their behaviour to be as natural as possible.” “Thank you for your time and for answering my questions so honestly.” We shook hands and I left.

I was conflicted. On one hand I was happy to have concluded this strange episode, but on the other I felt disappointed that the last two months had been nothing more than an experiment devised and executed by a wealthy man to make himself feel better about the world.

Today, a year later, I’m sitting at my desk and writing another article concerning a protest that had turned violent, in which several people were injured. I find myself thinking back on the social experiment that took place last year. While the manner in which Larry Brightstone achieved his results still troubles me, I have come to realise that for a brief time, he had created what we all need: harmony in an increasingly fractured world.