Friends Like These

by Danny Wallace

  I laughed, as much out of delight at the speed of the reconnection as at the fact that Grisha had apparently and inexplicably changed his name to ‘Ben Berlin’. Oh, and I also liked the fact that he was now working in IT.

  But Tel Aviv! How cool was that? It was incredible to me how my friends had travelled, and once again I wished I could map out a route of their movements over the years… a vast map with lines darting across the globe, like a map of airline routes from the seventies to today…

  And so I typed in more names, almost at random… Many I could find nothing for, or just mere mentions that they’d been in a place or done a thing but after that the trail ran cold… but for others – so many others – I was tracking and tracing with great success. I was on fire. If I discovered a technique for finding one person, I’d try it with the others – and, crucially, for the Big Five.

  A page on MySpace for someone I only barely knew at school linked me immediately to the page of someone I’d known very well, but had never seen again. Quickly, I made my own MySpace page, for the sole purpose of saying hello. And so I typed another name into the site – someone else I hadn’t seen in around twenty-five years – Eilidh McLaughlin.

  Eilidh was a little girl I used to hang around with in Dundee when I was four… we did everything together. When a kid down my road broke my arm, Eilidh made sure to break her arm by falling off a swing just a week later. And within minutes, thanks to MySpace, I knew where she was (Glasgow), what she was doing (translating Gaelic programmes for the BBC), and even what she looked like (the same, pretty much, and not much bigger). Underneath her photo was the word ‘Online!’, and I smiled in disbelief. Right now we were both online, both looking at a screen, both on the same website… literally connected to each other… I fired off a hello, and she wrote back, delighted…

  I found a number for Big Al through my friend Little Dan, and sent out a text… Al was now apparently a policeman in Liverpool, and was probably on duty, so I held out no great hopes – but moments later, I had my reply…

  Danny! Hey mate how are you? I saw you on some weird TV programme recently – what’s all that about? What’s your address?

  I texted him back, and he said:

  I’m getting married! Hope you can come to the wedding!

  From never seeing the man to being invited to his wedding – reintroduced to the bosom of his friendship! – and with just the press of a few buttons in between. I swelled with pride, and texted back:

  Wow! Of course!

  This was what it was all about.

  I pressed on. I found out that my mate Bob from university was now teaching English in Osaka. That my friend Rob from Bath – who I’d met while doing work experience at school – was now editing a magazine in Sydney. Brian from Berlin was a dad and working in Aurora. And Amy was in Washington.

  I don’t really need to tell you what Amy was doing.

  Okay, then.

  She was working in IT.

  I fired off email after email, referring from time to time to the contents of the Box, finding clues, and titbits, and things I might try… I found a small note from Leanne Davis, a girl I’d been ‘going out with’ before moving to Berlin – when who you were going out with was decided by their friends and consisted of awkwardly drinking a milkshake at the Wimpy once a week. I looked at her name and realised that, technically, we’d never actually broken up. I’d just moved to Berlin and gradually the letters had stopped. I was horrified. We’d never ended it! For nearly two decades I’d been going out with a thirteen-year-old girl! Obviously, she may have grown up just as I had, but what if she hadn’t? The scandal! A quick look around revealed not just her picture and her location, but her company’s name and her position as head of corporate affairs!

  And then I found Alex Chinyemba… Alex was a kid from Zimbabwe I’d known when I was about ten… we’d spent a childhood holiday together in a disused water mill up in the highlands of Scotland, and gone climbing and horse-riding and eaten sweets and burnt pizza. We’d also spent a day at a local water park, when we’d told girls he was an African prince and charged one of them 50p to touch his hair. He’d popped into my head, and within ten minutes I’d found a clue… one phone call to an East Midlands karate centre later, and I’d found out that he was now an estate agent with four kids and taught karate on the side. We talked and laughed, and six minutes later he texted me a photograph of himself with a large moustache. Four kids and a moustache! Here was a man comfortable with turning thirty.

  Plus, he agreed to help me work on my block.

  And it didn’t stop there.

  An inspirational moment had reminded me of a way of finding Tom… his dad, the builder that Tom had insisted had invented the Sprite logo, had founded his own company… could they possibly have a…

  They did!

  The website proudly proclaimed they were part of the Federation of Master Builders, but, more worryingly, also provided a definition of what a builder is…

  Builder n. One who builds; one engaged in the trade of construction

  Just what kind of market was this website catering for? If someone doesn’t know what a builder is, how did they even manage to turn the computer on? Actually, I thought, maybe I should show this to Paul.

  There was a Contact Us! button, and I rushed out an email to Tom. The day was just getting better and better. I asked whoever got these emails to forward mine to Tom, saying it would be great to see him! That I’d been revisiting my childhood! That I wanted to update my address book! That we should meet up, hang out, finally get together! That I’d love to see him! That I hoped I wasn’t coming on too strong! This could be another address updated!

  The success was making me giddy, and as the sky outside my windows darkened, I found the clipping from the Loughborough Echo which mistakenly reported that both Tim Sismey and I had both won the conker championships of ’87… and then found Tim Sismey’s email address hidden away on a website about music… I wrote to him apologising for such a devious media cover-up, and he replied, saying:

  Thank you so much for your concern about the Echo article. I feel it’s important that we, the people who make the news, do not let the people who report it use our lives to further their own causes and I applaud your honesty.

  And guess what? In clearing out a wardrobe in my mum’s house a year ago, I discovered a Harrogate Toffee tin, which actually contained the remains of the winning conker from that brutal battle. How weird! Take care, Tim.

  That was weird. A memory that I’d assumed was probably just mine had been remembered from a slightly different angle only a year before… how often do shared memories pop up around the world? What happens if two people have the same memory at the exact same moment? Are they connected for a split second? Does the memory get stronger, somehow?

  This was all a little too philosophical for me, and my head had started to hurt, so I made a cup of tea and had a sit-down.

  I ate a Hobnob and thought about the names that I’d tapped out on my keyboard today. I knew that – granted – it was fairly unlikely I’d ever get to recreate my conker battle with Tim Sismey again. Nor would I see Bob in Japan, or Grisha in Israel. But it suddenly hit me that with all the tools at my disposal – texts, MySpace, Facebook, Bebo, Google, email, iChat, Skype, everything – I had no excuse whatsoever for letting any of these friendships ever slide again.

  And then I sat back down at my desk, and looked at all I had achieved with my day. It had been nine hours since I’d started. I decided I should probably think about lunch, and then I’d earn myself a few MPs. But then I heard Lizzie’s key in the lock. It was evening.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said, not entirely brightly.

  ‘But I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  We were eating our dinner in front of The National Lottery. Neither of us had bought a ticket but we’d both been pretending it was interesting all the same. Paul’s ladder w
as now in the corner of the room, mocking my lack of manliness.

  ‘It’s not fine, baby. You asked me to do one thing.’

  ‘Seriously, it’s cool.’

  ‘It’s not cool, either. You asked me to get you that form from that Post Office and I didn’t.’

  ‘Relax.’

  ‘But the Deal!’

  ‘You can get it tomorrow.’

  I looked at her.

  ‘You’re not making sticking to the Desperados Pact very easy. Perhaps if you were nastier I’d get more done. It’s making me feel very guilty.’

  ‘And that’s exactly what I’m relying on,’ she said, putting her fork down. ‘So have you found Chris yet?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘But he’s the big prize, right?’

  ‘Kind of. I mean, I want to see all twelve, but Chris was first, y’know?’

  ‘You’ll find him. And as for the Deal, you’ll have all next weekend to work on that…’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘Yup. Sarah’s thirtieth, remember?’

  Ah, yes. Sarah’s thirtieth. Another brave twentysomething warrior stepping into the unknown. Another birthday closer to it being mine.

  ‘She’s booked a hotel in Brighton for the girls… is that cool?’

  ‘Of course it’s cool,’ I said, feeling somehow more guilty than ever. ‘And I’ll get to work, really I will. I’ll finish painting the shed. And also, Paul’s coming round to sort out that canopy.’

  Lizzie smiled. I made a mental note to ring Paul to get him round to sort out that canopy.

  ‘The reason I can’t sort out your canopy,’ said Paul, very slowly, ‘is due to the nature of the corrugated plastic which we all agreed would be the best material for the job…’

  I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t seem to have much more to say. And then I realised that I’d never actually talked about corrugated plastic with him before. I’d never talked about it with anyone. If anything, I find corrugated plastic to be a boring topic of discussion, but I do realise that’s quite a controversial thing to say.

  ‘But Paul – I don’t even remember really wanting this canopy,’ I said. ‘I just wanted my guttering sorted. She was the problem!’

  ‘Who was?’

  I pointed.

  ‘The guttering… lady!’

  ‘The guttering will be sorted, Danny,’ he said, very calmly. ‘Leave it with me. But the canopy has to go up first, you see, and then I can begin work on the guttering.’

  It made no sense to me, this builder logic. As far as I could see, the two jobs were entirely unrelated. It was like saying, ‘I can’t punch a tiger because my aunt likes ceramics.’

  ‘Well… do you still need to leave your ladder here?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  And then he said he had to go because he said his daughter had been mugged.

  ‘She wasn’t mugged,’ said Ian, shoving some bacon into his mouth.

  We were at a small café off Poland Street and Ian had gone for the full English.

  ‘I know she wasn’t mugged,’ I said. ‘But how do you tell a man his daughter hasn’t been mugged?’

  ‘You could ask if you can meet the mugger.’

  ‘Why would I ask to meet someone’s mugger?’

  ‘Just say you’re interested.’

  ‘I am not interested in meeting someone’s fictional mugger.’

  ‘So why have you asked me here, taking me so far away from the beauty of Chislehurst, if you’ve already decided not to meet someone’s fictional mugger? I’m not dressing up as a bear again – I don’t care how much Kung Po chicken you’re offering…’

  ‘I think I’ve done something stupid,’ I said, and Ian looked thrilled.

  ‘Brilliant!’ he said, his mouth full of sausage.

  Just hours after Paul had left, I’d been attempting to rack up some more MPs. The excitement of finding the names of those people not in the Book had died down somewhat, and their replies and hellos had stopped trickling in. I’d popped out to buy more filler as well as an electric screwdriver, which I thought might get me more excited about the prospect of screws and their driving. I’d decided to tidy up the shed, too, but it had started raining by the time I got home so I made a cup of tea and wandered around the house, working out what my priorities should be, and how many MPs I could expect to earn from each one. The problem, as I saw it, was that as far as MPs were concerned, I was flying blind. There was no system in place. What made one bit of DIY more valuable than another? And how much was an MP worth, anyway? A phone call? An email? A trip?

  And then I’d heard the familiar bing-bong of New Mail…

  There were two emails waiting for me.

  The first was from – joy! – Akira’s dad…

  Dear Daniel

  Thank you for your mail.

  I remember clearly you and your family.

  I often remember our life at Loughborough.

  My son Akira became a medical doctor and works at the Yamanashi University Hospital now.

  I will tell Akira your email address and write his below.

  Yours sincerely

  Isamu Matsui

  I sat back and smiled. So Akira had done it! He’d achieved his childhood dream – the dream he’d told me about on his postcard. He was a medical doctor. And now I had his email address! His direct email address! I was one step closer to reconnecting with him.

  I patted myself on the back, and then realised that was quite an odd thing to do.

  The second email was from Ben Ives.

  A rather nervous Ben Ives.

  ManGriff (what’s your real name, by the way?)

  Sorry, but I’m now guessing this is actually some kind of joke after all…

  Shit! He knew!

  … in retribution for the article perhaps?

  Ha! He still thought it was them! Even if it was a joke, he thought it was ManGriff the Beast Warrior’s joke – not mine!

  I smiled, with relief. The trick was still on. But then… an ultimatum.

  I also think that if we’re going to meet it should be just the two of us, and not at the office. But next Friday is now the only day I can do. I am very busy at work and this is the only time I will be able to fit you in for the foreseeable. It will have to be very quick, I’m afraid.

  Many thanks

  Ben

  I’d winced when I’d read the final paragraph.

  Because I knew nothing more could now develop. I’d hoped to carry this on, to keep making him worried, perhaps cancelling the 21st and arranging more meetings for the future, each one more bizarre and more worrying, before finally phoning him up, and yelling, ‘It was me all along!’ But somehow, with this email, Ben had gained the upper hand. He’d forced me to quit early. He’d firmly told me that there was to be no more messing about – that this one date was the only one he’d be able to do, and the implication that this would be an end to things was clear. There would be no cancelling, no rearranging, no making things bigger or better – it was now, definitely, all about the 21st. In fact, I realised with a strange sensation in my tummy, it was all about next Friday.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Ian. ‘Have you lost your nerve?’

  No. It wasn’t that. Although I had slowly begun to feel a little unsure about what I’d been doing to Ben. I mean, yes, I owed him. And no, it wasn’t malicious. But perhaps this was the wrong way to get him back. Was this really the best way of getting back in touch? Was this truly better than just turning up and saying hi, it’s me, how are you, like I’d done with the others?

  ‘Or,’ said Ian, suddenly having an idea, ‘is it that you think he knows it’s you?’

  ‘It’s crossed my mind,’ I said.

  I’d started to think about my first proper job, when I’d been a journalist. Letters from members of the public were an occupational hazard, and those who did take the trouble to write, in order to proffer a correction or disagr
ee with an opinion, were, more often than not, a little bit nutty. And then there were the letters from people like me and Ben, teenage hoaxers, giggling as we spewed out random opinions from made-up characters… which had started to make his at first blind acceptance of them all the more worrying…

  ‘Nah,’ said Ian, mopping up brown sauce with a slab of bread. ‘It’s LA. The fact that some people who enjoy dressing up as animals would take offence at an article making fun of people who enjoy dressing up as animals probably happens twenty or thirty times a day over there. And they’re probably always turning up at journalists’ offices all dressed up and waving their poetry about.’

  And he was right. For about a quarter of a second.

  Because this was Ben Ives we were talking about.

  Was he actually, secretly, on to me? Was this an elaborate double bluff? You could never be sure with Ben. I thought back to my days at Argos, at the pristine, white A4 letter that had been pinned so carefully to the staffroom wall… the way he’d looked when he’d told me I’d never get him back… the way he’d always been one step ahead…

  ‘So what is the problem?’ asked Ian, sitting back, full of beans. Literally full of beans, I mean. ‘Because I’m not being funny, Dan, but there’s a fete on in Chislehurst today.’

  ‘Well, I wrote back,’ I said. ‘And I arranged a meeting.’

  ‘You’d already arranged a meeting,’ said Ian. ‘The made-up meeting.’

  ‘No,’ I said, slowly. ‘I mean, I arranged a meeting…’

  The fact was, this was Ben’s fault. This was what I kept telling myself. This was Ben’s fault for getting all jittery and precious and trying to force ManGriff the Beast Warrior’s hand. Paw. Hand.

  Had Ben not made it absolutely clear that this was ManGriff’s one chance of a meeting for who knows how long, perhaps all that would’ve happened was, two or three minutes before the agreed meeting time, I would’ve phoned up and laughed down the phone at him.

  But now, the way things had developed, I wanted more… I didn’t want Ben calling the shots. I was in control. And I wanted to see Ben. Not in the same way as I’d wanted to see Tarek or Cameron, but in a more base and visceral way. Plainly speaking, I wanted to see Ben’s face when he realised that it wasn’t an annoyed group of Furries who’d come to see him after all. It was me. Danny Wallace. A wronged man. A wronged man finally wreaking his revenge. A wronged man who’d never had genital exfoliation, actually, and who’d—