I didn’t know who that was. I shrugged.
‘He played on a Travis b-side once.’
‘Oh, I like Travis. And Coldplay. Stuff like that.’
Matt looked at me disapprovingly.
‘I don’t like music like that. It’s too . . . popular. I prefer people you’ve never heard of. Like John Bryant. Have you heard of him?’
‘No,’ I said.
Matt looked pleased. Evidently that meant he could continue liking John Bryant.
‘Now, I have to say,’ said Matt, ‘I’m finding it hard to do good deeds.’
‘Are you?’ I said. ‘I remember you saying that in an email, but are you really?’
‘Yes. People just don’t seem to want me to do any for them. What are other joinees doing?’
I thought back to that morning’s emails, and tried to come up with a few examples.
‘Well, one bloke cleaned his neighbour’s car,’ I said.
Matt raised his eyebrows.
‘Someone else sat with an old man on a bench and then took him to the pub for a pint. Someone else bought a homeless lady a sandwich. Someone else helped the cooks at his university canteen tidy up. Stuff like that.’
‘Right. Well, I’ve had to come up with a plan of my own. I’ve been putting up posters like this . . .’ He indicated a small piece of paper, Blutacked to the side of the pub, ‘. . . all over the place.’
He’d placed it there while I got the drinks in. I stood up to read it.
WANTED
CAN I HELP?
Are you happy? If you think I could make you happy then please contact me at the following address.
[email protected]
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That’s nice of you.’
‘I’m going to spend the afternoon putting them up all over London. I’ve pretty much deluged Berkshire and Hampshire.’
‘Any responses?’
‘Mainly from people being a bit critical. Just saying “What on earth makes you think you can make me happy?” And one from someone claiming to be Robert Mugabe. But I think that one’s fake. And if it isn’t I’m not going to help him. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is.’
‘How many of these have you got?’
‘Hundreds.’ He opened his bag to reveal a thick wad of photocopies, and passed me one. ‘Hopefully it’ll work out.’
I was touched by Joinee Whitby’s efforts. Ian had been wrong about him. This was a genuinely nice man doing a genuinely nice thing. There was nothing scary about what he was doing at all. He wasn’t my nemesis. I liked him. He was one of the good guys.
A homeless man walked by our table and asked us for money for a cup of tea. I know what it’s like to be desperate for tea, and have often thought it’s the one thing that could probably lead me to homelessness myself, and I think there was a definite moment when I felt our souls connecting. I’m pretty sure he did, too, although he hid it well. I fished about in my pocket for some change. Matt did the same. Charity was just in the air today.
Moments later the landlord of the pub walked out to collect some glasses and we watched as he tore Matt’s poster down and screwed it up. Matt silently and patiently fixed four more balls of Blu-tack to the back of another poster, stood up, and placed it carefully on the wall.
‘There,’ he said, proudly, smoothing it out, and sat back down.
I considered the poster. It was another example of email and the Internet making things that little bit easier for us. Asking for help can be awkward, but this way, anyone who needed it wouldn’t have to show their face, or talk to anyone they didn’t want to, or be embarrassed in any way. They could just write a note to a faceless stranger, anonymously if they wished, and wait to see what happened. We were like getting in touch with the Samaritans, only without the embarrassment of getting in touch with the Samaritans.
The Internet had been good to Matt for other reasons, too.
‘I met my girlfriend on the Internet. She was downloading something, and I could see her doing it online, and there’s a programme where you can send messages to each other, so we started messaging, and that was that. I was lucky, really. They usually turn out be to be forty stone and living in Alabama. Mine was lovely and living in Yorkshire.’
‘People are always trying to get me to do that messaging thing.’
‘I use it to keep in touch with some of the joinees, actually,’ he said. ‘I have about forty-three I correspond with. I speak to lots of them throughout the day.’
‘That’s nice,’ I said, but feeling somehow like I was the one who should have said that. Was I neglecting my joinees? Shouldn’t I be the one checking up on them throughout the day to make sure they were okay? I was a bad Leader.
I was feeling deeply ashamed of myself for having even contemplated what Ian had said to me about Joinee Whitby. Sure, he’d known my address, but that’s because he’d done what anyone who spends their day in front of a computer does. He finds his job boring, so he surfs the Internet. He looks stuff up. He clicks about a bit. So what? I’m sure other people have found my home address before. It’s not such a big deal. He was probably just bored.
‘You have a lovely apartment, by the way.’
The words hit me like a bullet. They’d come out of the blue, and they’d confused me. My mind raced. There must be a logical explanation for what he’d just said. Had he been there before? Had I invited him over? Did he know my neighbours? I didn’t know how to take his statement.
‘A lovely apartment?’ I asked, slightly shocked. ‘Do I?’
‘Yes. It’s lovely.’
I was still confused . . .
‘Er . . . how do you know I have a lovely apartment?’
‘I’m not saying this in a stalker way, it’s just . . . you know. You have a nice place.’
‘But how do you know? I don’t understand . . .’
‘They’ve got pictures.’
‘Who have?’
‘Some of them are for sale, so . . .’
‘What are?’
‘The apartments. The owners of the building or the estate agents were selling some of them, so I took a look at a few pictures of properties similar to yours . . .’
‘What, in the newspapers?’
Well – fair enough – maybe he’d recognised the name of the building I was in while house-hunting, or something.
‘No, I wanted to see what your apartment was like, so I looked up the buildings on the website of an estate agent I found that was local to you, and tried to find a flat similar to yours . . .’
Oh my Lord. He had wanted to see what my apartment looked like. And instead of leaving it at that, he had done some extensive photographic research.
‘You are a very scary man,’ I said, almost involuntarily.
‘No, not at all. I have a thirst for information, that’s all. Not about you in particular, but about everything.’
I wanted him to prove it. I wanted to get a pack of Trivial Pursuit cards out and then test him. On everything.
‘So long as you don’t have a thirst for balaclavas and hunting knives, that’s fine . . .’
I was slightly in shock at all this. But I put it down to the fact that we live in entirely different worlds. His, where every piece of information, public and private, is immediately to hand and technology rules the day, and mine, where if the toaster isn’t working properly I hit it with a shoe.
I felt Matt was similarly shocked. Shocked that I’d reacted like this to what he saw as a perfectly normal, everyday procedure. I decided I’d overreacted. So he’d been interested in what my flat looked like. So what? I was interested in what his house looked like. And his village, for that matter. So I asked him. And he told me. And I felt we were more even.
I still had twenty minutes before I was supposed to meet Ian, and both Joinee Whitby and I were hungry, so food seemed a sensible option. I say ‘food’. I took him around the comer, to Regent Street, and the nearest McDonald’s, where I bought him a burger and found us
a table. But before I could sit down, he was up at the counter again. He’d spotted a homeless man outside, and had instinctively headed for the tills to buy him a cheeseburger and fries.
I was impressed by his actions in the name of Join Me. He was a truly sensitive soul.
‘I’m prone to crying at soppy things,’ he said, when I mentioned this to him. ‘The running joke at home is that I cried at Twins.’
‘You’ve got twins?’
‘No. Just one kid. Max. No, I cried at the film Twins.’
I cast my mind back. ‘What . . . the Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger vehicle? The one where it turns out they’re twins? But that’s a riotous 80’s comedy . . .’
I could think of not one single moment in that entire ridiculous film that could possibly make a grown man cry.
‘I may have had a bit to drink.’
Aha.
* * *
Joinee Whitby and I left McDonald’s soon after and he walked with me towards Oxford Street, pausing every ten or fifteen feet to fix another ‘Can I Help?’ poster to a wall, or bus shelter, or phone box. He handed one to a German student and her Korean friend, who looked slightly lost, and they read it like they’d been waiting for something to read all their lives. I bid him goodbye outside Borders, and headed towards Camaby Street to meet Ian.
Just before I got there I could feel my mobile vibrating in my pocket. Ian’s number came up. He was probably ringing to tell me he’d be late.
‘Hello?’
‘Dan . . . guess where I am?’
‘Somewhere that means you’ll be late?’
‘I’m nearer than you think.’
Ian was being mysterious. It’s not good when Ian’s being mysterious.
‘Where are you? And why are you being mysterious?’
I scanned the road, but couldn’t see him anywhere.
‘What’s the most unlikely vehicle for me to be in right now?’
I rescanned the road. Virtually opposite me was a huge, white, stretch limousine. The type you see over and over again on a Saturday night cruising down Charing Cross Road, and despite knowing that it’s either a debauched hen night or some kind of local radio winner, part of you always wonders whether Leo Sayer might pop his head out the door, or you might catch a glimpse of Richard Stilgoe on his way to some audition or other.
‘You’re not in the limo, are you?’
‘Yep.’
‘Is Richard Stilgoe in there?’
‘What?’
‘What are you doing in the limo?’
‘Waving at you!’
I couldn’t believe it. I crossed the road, smiling, and stood next to the limousine, studying my own reflection in its blacked-out windows.
‘I don’t understand!’ I said. And I didn’t. This wasn’t his car. I’ve been in his car lots of times. I would’ve remembered if this was it.
‘I’m still waving at you, you rude bastard.’
I stood there, an incredulous look on my face, and started to wave at the general area where I thought Ian would be sitting. I knocked on the glass, smiling.
‘Peter the driver is waving at you now!’
I stepped back and started to wave at Peter the driver. His window wasn’t blacked out, and I continued waving while he just stared at me, a rather worried smile on his face.
‘Hello, Peter the driver!’ I tried.
‘Why don’t you come in?’ said Ian.
‘Okay!’ This was exciting. I’d never been in a stretch limo before. I reached for the door handle and tried to open the door. The limo started up and inched away from me slowly. I heard the central locking chunk-click.
‘What are you doing?’ I said.
‘Just standing about.’
‘In a limo?’
‘No, outside Starbucks.’
I looked up. Ian was grinning at me, mobile in hand, while I, his supposed friend, was apparently attempting to break into a parked limousine, and waving at God knows who. Maybe one day I’d see Richard Stilgoe talking about that moment on some confessional chat show as one of the most frightening of his life.
‘You tit,’ I said, as I sat down with my tea.
‘I’m sorry. You should have seen your face. I’ll pay for your tea by way of apology. So. How many joinees have you got?’
‘Enough, thank you. Although I’d have one more if you’d join me.’
‘I’m not joining you. You’re not getting that pint off me.’
‘I don’t want a pint off you! Will you stop going on about that pint! It’s not a bet! So just join me, will you?’
‘No. So. Where’ve you been?’
‘With a joinee.’
‘That’s nice. How’s the average joinee shaping up, statistically?’
‘He’s Belgian.’
‘Eh?’
‘It’s all I’m getting at the moment. Dozens of them. Every day.’
‘I see. And which joinee were you meeting today?’
‘Joinee Whitby.’
‘Whitby? I didn’t think you were actually going to go through with that! He’s trying to get control of your Join Me thing, Dan!’
‘He’s not trying to get control of Join Me, actually. You’re very wrong about him. He happens to be a kind and generous man, who gives money to tramps and buys meals for the homeless. He’s even printed his own posters to help him do his good deeds.’
‘Can I see?’
I dug into my pocket and found the poster Matt had given me. I unfolded it, straightened it out, and gave it to Ian, who regarded it with some suspicion.
‘I see.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, look at what he’s doing. Read it, Dan.’
I read it.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you see one mention, Dan, of Join Me on there? Of your website? Hmm? Of anything you or the others are doing? About the Karma Army?’
‘But it’s the spirit of the thing that matters . . .’
‘No, Dan. Whitby is quite clearly preparing to launch his own thing. I warned you about him. He’s had enough of Join Me. He’s launching . . .’ He paused while he read it again. ‘He’s launching The “Can I Help?” Collective.’
‘He’s not launching The “Can I Help?” Collective. He just wants to help, and he’s asking if he can. He’s been having trouble doing good deeds.’
‘Doesn’t sound like it. You said he gave someone some money. And bought someone else some food.’
Ian was right. It had seemed to come awfully easily to Whitby. Almost like he’d been doing good deeds all his life. That bastard.
‘Mark my words, Dan, he’s up to something. I was right. He’s definitely after your joinees.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said, ‘how could he even think . . .’
Hang on . . . he’d said he was chatting daily to forty-three joinees, hadn’t he? Forty-three of my joinees. What was he talking to them about, exactly? What was he telling them? Was he poisoning their minds? Turning them against me?
‘Who arranged the meeting?’ said Ian urgently.
‘We both did, kind of. I mean, he chose the time and place, but he only suggested meeting up in the first place because he wanted to say hello—’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Ian. ‘I don’t think he just wanted to say hello. I think that was a cover. I think he was information gathering. What did he ask you?’
‘Nothing. Well, he just asked what some of the other joinees were doing.’
‘Aha! And what did you tell him?’
‘I just gave him a few examples.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Nothing. He just raised his eyebrows.’ I raised my eyebrows, to show Ian what it looks like when someone raises their eyebrows.
‘Interesting,’ said Ian. ‘That’s interesting.’
‘He wouldn’t need me to gather information from anyway. Not when he’s got his computer and the Internet.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I just me
an he’s able to find out lots of things from the Internet. It’s like a talent he’s got. He’d be able to find out what other joinees were up to very easily without me. He’s already found out loads of stuff.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
‘Just the usual. My address, what the inside of my flat looks like.’
‘What? That’s not the usual! What school you went to – that’s the usual. Finding your address and what your flat looks like is not the usual! Dan, that’s not normal!’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘What else does he know?’
I was terrified as I realised the truth.
‘I have no idea. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.’
‘Sssh,’ said Ian, his eyes darting nervously around. ‘He could be anywhere.’
* * *
I left Ian a little later and wandered back towards Oxford Street. I was meeting Hanne as agreed just after she finished her weekend shift, at 5pm or so. I was looking forward to it. I knew it’d do me good to think about something else for a while, especially after my day with Whitby. The truth is, he’d made me a little paranoid. I thought about the afternoon I’d just had over and over again. Could Whitby really be readying his own troops? Was he really about to launch The ‘Can I Help?’ Collective? Surely not? The world already has one group of strangers performing random good deeds and cheering people up – the last thing it needs is another one.
But thinking about it, was it really so far-fetched? In the early days, he’d been almost overly keen, always the first to take on a challenge, always the most willing. He’d set up his own website because I hadn’t been fast enough for him. Perhaps things just still weren’t happening quickly enough to keep him interested. Perhaps it was all leading to one thing: a coup.
But hang on – Whitby just didn’t seem the type. He was mild-mannered. And bespectacled. When had anyone with glasses ever done something like that? We’re not like that. We wouldn’t do it. Especially not against one of our own. There’s honour amongst the miopic. You can trust us. We’re honest about our disability – not like people who wear contact lenses, the deceitful bastards. But Whitby . . . Whitby’s one of us. It just didn’t make sense. Valued collaborator, or evil nemesis? I simply couldn’t work it out.
They say keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. I decided, for now, to keep Joinee Whitby somewhere in between. Somewhere between arm’s length and a hug. Close enough for a high-five, but far enough away for a knife-fight. I also decided to rearrange the furniture in my flat, just in case he’d commissioned a blueprint and was planning a night-time invasion.
Join Me Page 27