Join Me

by Danny Wallace

  But whatever. I could forget about that now. Because I was going to meet Hanne. My girlfriend. The person I can always lean on. My rock.

  * * *

  ‘Danny, I think we shouldn’t see each other for a while.’

  She may as well have punched me.

  ‘What?’ I said, a bit too loudly for the restaurant we were in.

  ‘I think we shouldn’t see each other for a while. I’ve been thinking it over. And I’ve been talking to Janne.’

  Janne. Hanne’s flatmate. She’s never liked me much.

  ‘And what does Janne think?’

  ‘She thinks you’re odd. She thinks you’re not giving enough time to me.’

  ‘Well, she’s right. Not about the “odd” bit, but about the “time” bit. And now that you’ve told me that, I can—’

  ‘Danny . . . all the excuses you’ve been making lately. Going to your parents. Working in the bath. Being with all these new friends who I’ve never met. It doesn’t add up. I mean, I phone you up one day, and you’re in Loch Ness with a vicar. And I’ve decided I don’t believe you were ill the other night, either.’

  ‘You heard me cough a bit!’ I tried.

  Hanne didn’t look impressed.

  ‘Look, maybe I wasn’t as ill as I made out,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve had things on my mind. I’ll make this up to you.’

  ‘You always say that. But there’s always some excuse. And what have you had on your mind? Maybe I can help. I’m your girlfriend. I understand these things . . .’

  Was this the moment I’d tell Hanne? Was this the moment I’d finally come clean and tell her everything I’d been doing? Everything I’d done since that Chinese meal when she’d first criticised Gallus? I only needed a few hundred more joinees before I reached my target and my quest was complete . . . but would it sound like I did all this to spite her? Would it sound like I’d done all this because she’d mocked him? Or could I impress upon her the global significance of what was now happening to complete and utter strangers on this once cynical earth?

  Well, no.

  Because she said, ‘So long as it’s not another stupid boy-project . . .’

  I stopped in my tracks. She’d said it as a joke. She’d smirked after she’d said it. She didn’t have a clue that that was exactly what it was. My mind stalled. I’d been on the brink of telling her, but now auto-pilot took over and the part of my brain designed to maintain and preserve my relationship kicked in.

  ‘No,’ I said, squeezing her hand. ‘And now that we’ve had this chat, it’ll all change, I promise, Hanne.’

  And she smiled, and she squeezed my hand back, and I knew that I’d bought myself some more time.

  But I also knew that if she ever found out, I’d be in it up to my neck.

  * * *

  Email

  To: Dennis M. Hope, President of the Lunar Embassy and Galactic Government

  From: Danny Wallace, Leader, Join Me & The Karma Army

  Dear Dennis!

  I have just taken a look at your website and I see that you are in London this week, visiting some of your Lunar Ambassadors in the UK. I’ve been doing the same as you and trying to meet as many of my joinees as possible. As Joinee Saunders told me, personal contact really is the key!

  But if you’re in London, do you fancy meeting up? We could swap notes and develop strategies, and perhaps even show each other some pictures of our people? Maybe we can find a way of involving our joinees in each others’ projects.

  It would be like if Jesus and Buddha met up for a coffee and a catch-up.

  Hope to see you soon!

  Danny

  PS. I think the amount of time I’m spending on this is taking its toll on my girlfriend. Any advice?

  * * *

  Email

  To: Danny Wallace, Leader, Join Me & The Karma Army From: Dennis Hope, President, Lunar Embassy and Galactic Government

  Dear Danny:

  Greetings from the Lunar Embassy and the Galactic Government.

  Thanks for the invite. Unfortunately I have returned to the USA. I would have loved to be involved in your project and if you find a way to make it work I still would be. Thanks again for the invite.

  With warm regards from the Galactic Government and the Lunar Embassy,

  Dennis M. Hope

  CEO/President – Galactic Government

  AKA: ‘The Head Cheese’

  PS. As for your girlfriend, remember: in this life, we need to cherish those that we love . . .

  * * *

  CHAPTER 21

  10. And so the army of Daniel was swelled by folks of divers complexions, from every city and province.

  11. So long as they were pale.

  FOR A WEEK or so, I absolutely changed my ways.

  Ladies – you may think your man is perfect, and if you don’t wish to become disillusioned with what you’ve got, then I would look away now. Because for that week – yes, all of it – there was no boyfriend in the world more perfect than Mister Daniel Frederick Wallace.

  I was attentive. Supportive. Thoughtful. Loving. I bought her a Chocolate Orange and ran her a bath. I listened to her talking about shawls without once interrupting. I started using my oven gloves and bought a stainless-steel peppermill for my flat. I found the Ikea catalogue and read to her from it. I told her I was considering learning Italian, and said wasn’t feminism great? In short, I was the man of every girl’s dreams. And Hanne seemed to be enjoying it; with some degree of reservation at first, with open arms later on.

  ‘Let’s go shopping!’ she’d say, and I’d say yes, and off we’d go.

  ‘Let’s go to the park!’ she’d say, and I’d say yes, and off we’d go.

  ‘Let’s go shopping!’ she’d say, and I’d say ‘But we went yesterday,’ and she’d look at me like I was mad, so I’d say yes, and off we’d go.

  I was still writing reviews for the magazines, and made sure Hanne could see all the work I was doing just to keep her in Chocolate Oranges. But my work was suffering. Suffering, because I was only really working when Hanne could see me. She assumed, of course, that I spent much of my day doing the same things. And I did nothing to imply otherwise. But I wasn’t spending my days doing that. I was spending my days doing secret, covert things. I’m not proud of misleading her. But I am proud of what I achieved.

  I used buses, coaches, tubes and trains. I travelled cheaply and efficiently, and with great stealth. If a mate of mine was driving somewhere on business, I’d catch a lift to wherever they were going, so long as there was a joinee somewhere on the way. I was limited in the distances I could travel, of course – I had to be back in London at my flat by the time Hanne finished work in case she decided to pop round unannounced, as was happening more and more now I was actually someone worth visiting. I’d gone back to basics, spreading the word, keeping the interest alive, face-to-face. I would leave leaflets in every town. I would sticker a lamppost whenever the mood took me. But most importantly, I would meet people.

  In Oxford, I met Joinee Davies, an ambulance driver.

  ‘I got my degree here,’ he told me.

  ‘Oxford University?’ I said.

  ‘Oxford Ambulance College.’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  In Brighton, I met Joinees Hope and Graham, the first a barman, the second a trainee accountant. We sat, the three of us, in a café by the sea, and I made them understand just how important it was to do their good deeds every Good Friday. They nodded solemnly when I finished my speech, and I left them as they discussed the kind of things they could do.

  In Leicester I met Joinee Cross, who’d just picked up some photos from Boots. He shared his life with me through pictures. I saw his parents, his dog, and lots and lots of photos of a shiny blue car he was trying to sell.

  ‘And this is Chloe,’ he said, pointing at a picture of a brunette girl in a little black dress, ‘My girlfriend of six years.’

  I was surprised. She looked a lot older than that.


  In and around London I travelled every corner of the tube map, meeting and greeting those joinees who’d decided to live closer to me. In Watford I met Joinee Armstrong, a carpenter. In Ruislip I met a Moroccan man called Joinee Sabry, a university lecturer specialising in semiotics and the work of Noam Chomsky. In Edgware I met Joinee Fordham, unemployed but having the time of her life. In Ladbroke Grove I met Joinee Tatem, a geologist and keen amateur footballer, who spilled his coffee on my trousers and then laughed like a girl once he’d done so.

  Some meetings lasted an hour. Some a matter of minutes. But I was always home in time, always back at my desk at a reasonable hour, always finding the energy to do something of an evening if Hanne wanted to.

  ‘That’s what I love about our relationship,’ she said one night, after a bad day at work. ‘We’re there for each other.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I said.

  ‘We can rely on each other. Trust each other.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. And my stomach churned and my guilt rose like you wouldn’t believe. I just couldn’t work out whether I was a bad man or not.

  * * *

  ‘Ian, am I a bad man or not?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Am I a bad man or not, for keeping this from Hanne?’

  ‘I don’t know why you just didn’t tell her in the first place.’

  ‘Because then there wouldn’t have been a second place. I’d have been stopped.’

  ‘I dunno, Dan. It’s tricky. I wouldn’t have kept it a secret. But then, I wouldn’t have started something like this. Anyway . . . let’s see ’em, then . . .’

  Ian had come round to the flat specifically to look at my collection of joinees. I opened the drawer and brought out the small box packed with passport photos.

  ‘So this is them?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s someone else’s box of passport photos. I don’t know how it got here.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Just under 700. And before you ask, they’re fifty-one per cent male, forty-nine per cent female, probably living on the ferry between England and Belgium, and they’re very happy with their lot, thank you very much.’

  ‘Seven hundred, eh? Some way off then, Dan. Don’t be expecting that pint too soon.’

  ‘It’s not a bet, Ian. Stop making out it’s a bet.’

  But he wasn’t listening. He was studying my people.

  ‘Look at this bloke,’ he said, picking up a photo of Joinee Garden. ‘He looks like a lot of fun. And this one – she’s fit. Wouldn’t mind joining her.’

  ‘Oh, so you’d join her, but you won’t join me, eh?’

  ‘I meant “join” as in . . . you know . . . sex, and that.’

  ‘That doesn’t even make sense. And anyway, that’s Joinee Harfield, leave her alone, she’s getting over a break-up. She’s been on a few dates with someone, though, so I’ll think she’ll be okay. And she was on The Weakest Link, too.’

  ‘Phwoar, who’s this one?’

  ‘No one says “phwoar” any more. And that’s her flatmate, Joinee Watson. She works for Morgan Stanley. Leave her alone as well, this isn’t some kind of dating agency. Anyway, she’s been seeing a Spanish bloke recently, so I don’t think you’re her type.’

  ‘Cor! This one?’

  ‘Who says “cor”? And that’s Joinee Summers. She’s a trainee teacher, very neat handwriting.’

  ‘How do you remember this stuff?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Do you remember her number?’

  ‘No, and you can’t have it. Not unless you swallow your pride and join me, and even then probably not. These are my joinees. They joined me for pure purposes, not to have some letch like you trailing about after them.’

  He continued to leaf through the photos, pausing every so often to ask a random question about a random joinee. I was pleased he was interested. Maybe now he’d looked into their normal, loving eyes he’d finally consider joining me.

  ‘They’re great,’ he said. ‘A top bunch. One thing, though . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, it’s a little bit . . . unrepresentative, isn’t it?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s hardly society-at-large. Not a very broad range of people.’

  I didn’t get what he meant. There were men, women, kids, pensioners. There were long-haired people, short-haired people, people with glasses, people with piercings, people who looked friendly, people who looked scary . . . you couldn’t get a more diverse bunch.

  ‘Thing is, Danny . . . they’re all white.’

  Ah. Fair point. My God.

  I scattered the photos over the carpet and studied them. He was right, to a certain degree. I’d never really noticed it before, but I had nowhere near enough non-white people in my collective. And that was a very shocking thing indeed. Maybe I was being too politically correct with this, but I couldn’t help but feel concerned. It just wasn’t right. Why was I basically only appealing to white people? What was I doing wrong?

  ‘Are you a racist, Dan?’ said Ian.

  ‘What? No! I’m going out with a Norwegian! And don’t ask me why no one from an ethnic minority has joined me – they could’ve done if they’d wanted to.’

  ‘So you’re saying it’s because they’re lazy?’

  ‘No! Stop trying to make me into a racist! I’m not a racist!’

  I studied the pile again.

  Salvation!

  ‘Look! This is Joinee Wong!’ I half-shouted. ‘I’d forgotten about him! He’s Chinese! See? I’m not racist!’

  ‘Whatever you say, Dan. I just think it’s a little sinister. You can’t expect me to join you and this band of white people you’ve collected together for this cult of yours.’

  ‘They’re not all white! And it’s not a cult – it’s a collective. I wish people would remember that.’

  Ian had a point, though. There was something not quite right about the fact that Join Me was lacking in the ethnic minorities department. There was no way I could ever claim that my collective represented humanity in all its vast, sprawling glory. It didn’t even represent society. Hell, it didn’t even represent a normal street, or office, even. I didn’t know what to do. How could I appeal more to ethnic minorities?

  I remained puzzled for the rest of the day.

  Puzzled, until that evening, when I was absentmindedly flicking through cable TV. I found Sky News. I left it on in the background while I fixed a broken pen and looked up just long enough to see a man on my screen. He was confident, and smart, and talking extremely smoothly about something which had affected the Asian community. But I’d stopped listening now, because I was reading, and trying to commit what I was reading to memory. His name and job title were on the screen. ‘Amar Singh, Editor, Asian Xpress’.

  Of course! An Asian newspaper! An appeal in one of those would be sure to bring ’em in. It was surely a sign.

  I dashed to my computer and found the website of the Asian Xpress. And there I found deep encouragement. Underneath the title of the newspaper, was its slogan: The Voice of British Asians. If I wanted to talk to British Asians, I should surely do it using their own Voice. And the man I’d seen on TV, Amar Singh, was in charge of that Voice. He was the boss. The man at the top. The man who could claim, above all others, to be the Voice of British Asians. I decided I should try and meet Mr Singh face-to-face, to convince him to publish an appeal.

  I looked for where the paper was based. And I discovered something I couldn’t quite believe straight away. Something which startled me.

  Their office was at the end of my road. I could see it from my window. Fair enough, it’s a small world. But you’re not supposed to be able to see it all from your window.

  * * *

  That evening, I went to that address. It was a two-minute walk to the Bow Business Centre, a building I’d walked past every single day since moving to the East End, but never bothered to find anything out
about. The Asian Xpress had an office in there, but there was no sign, no poster, nothing that would lead you to believe that the Voice of British Asians came from this rather faceless grey office block in Bow. I scribbled a note for Mr Singh on to a piece of paper and pushed it through the letter-box. Hopefully he’d call me back, and we could discuss how to make Join Me a better, less white affair. The next day he did.

  We arranged to meet at the pub right opposite his building – the Bow Bells – and at 4.30pm precisely I watched the man I recognised from Sky News cross the road and walk towards where I was seated, at one of the picnic tables facing Bow Road. He was on his mobile. I’d told him how to recognise me and he obviously did, because he sat down right opposite me, abruptly finished his call and said, ‘Right, I’m very busy, we’re on deadline and I haven’t got long. What do you want?’

  At first I was amazed at the scene. Here we were – the Voice of British Asians and the Voice of Polish Butter – in many ways two classic cultural icons, sitting together for probably the first time in the history of the world. But there was something about Amar’s expression and manner that made me feel like a junior scriptwriter having to pitch his big idea to a Hollywood fat cat. I could afford no mistakes. I only had one shot at this.

  ‘I need some Asians,’ I said, in as straightforward manner as I could muster. ‘Or some black people if you’ve got them.’

  Amar Singh looked me in the eye and I realised just how tough this man looked. Shaven-headed, with one of those permanent, sinisterly placid expressions you see on the faces of trained killers just before they pull the lever that lowers you into the sharks.

  ‘I see. And what do you “need” these Asians for?’ he said.

  ‘For the past few months I’ve been asking people to join me. I’m collecting them together, and we do good deeds and stuff. I’ve got lots of them. But then when a friend came round my flat yesterday to have a look at them . . .’