97. And even there were fourscore and seventeen.
98. And even there were fourscore and eighteen.
99. And even there were fourscore and nineteen.
A WEEK LATER and I was back in the Horse & Groom with Ian.
‘Well, I did it!’ I beamed broadly, sitting down. ‘Buy me a pint to congratulate me!’
‘You did what?’ he said, blankly. Evidently he needed a little more proof of my having actually done something before rewarding me with a pint for having done it. I wish life was that simple; I’d probably have a lot more free stuff. ‘Well, I did it!’ I could say. ‘Buy me a caravan!’
‘I did what I set out to do,’ I said. ‘The grand adventure is over. I have my hundred joinees.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘My joinees. Remember I told you about my great-uncle the other week?’
‘The nutjob?’
‘No, the visionary. Well, he needed a hundred joinees, and I got them for him. Job done. Buy me a pint.’
‘Hang on, you actually went ahead and did that? How?’
‘Small ads. The Internet. Word-of-mouth. It grew ridiculously quickly. A hundred was nothing. I don’t know what Gallus’ problem was.’
‘Maybe it’s because he didn’t have the Internet, and . . . you know . . . he actually wanted people to physically live on a farm with him.’
‘Well, that’s all in the past, now, and we can finally lay it to rest. He has his joinees. I got them for him. Pint, please.’
Ian stood up, begrudgingly, and wandered over to the bar, while I sat there, still beaming, still thinking of the moment I’d got my hundredth passport photo in the post.
And the thing is, I feel I owe you an apology somehow. I didn’t make the most of that moment. I’m sure if I were a better writer, or this was a made-up story, I would’ve prolonged the agony, stretched it out a bit, made reaching that impossible target seem all the more impossible and impressive. Maybe, in the final chapter, when I received that elusive hundredth passport photo, I’d have got a party popper out and released it, there and then, in my flat, and to hell with the consequences.
But the truth of it is, I’d somehow stumbled across, or uncovered, or tapped into, groups of people who were actually quite into this whole Join Me concept. Groups of people so trusting and open that they were willing to join a complete stranger for no reason whatsoever . . . all I was telling them was that I needed them . . . and they were all too happy to be needed.
Now, if it’d been me who’d seen that small ad in Loot, or found an odd request for passport photos on the Internet, or been badgered into joining by one of my more strange friends, I’m not sure I would have done anything about it. I’m not sure you would, either. It might sound all right now . . . but if it had happened to you, and you didn’t already feel like you knew me a bit . . . would you? Honestly? Me . . . I’d have turned the page, or clicked elsewhere, or told my pal to stop frightening me and delete my number from his phone.
But the people I was now in everyday contact with were more open than I was. They all had their different reasons for their involvement, I suspect, but the sad thing is, now that I had all hundred of them, there was really no more involvement to be had. Nothing for them to do. Nothing I needed them to do. They’d done their bit. They’d joined me. And I’d done what I’d set out to do. I’d proved to myself that I could find a hundred willing joinees for my great-uncle Gallus. My tribute was complete. He had his people, at long, long last.
‘So who did you get to join you?’ said Ian, placing my pint on the table. ‘I mean . . . no offence . . . but who’d join you?’
Aha. I’d prepared for this. I’d studied my questionnaires, done some maths, and made some notes. I knew exactly who’d joined me. I pulled a tatty piece of paper out of my shirt pocket and read from it.
‘Well . . . my collective is 100 per cent British. It’s 54 per cent male, 46 per cent female, 0 per cent other.’
‘You’ve worked this out?’ said Ian, in disbelief.
‘Yes. The average age is 29, the most common name for a boy is Matt, and the most common name for a girl is Sarah.’
‘I don’t believe you’ve worked this out!’
‘The average joinee also lives in the Midlands and has one quarter of a child.’
‘They should ask for their money back,’ said Ian. ‘This is all very odd. But. . . . y’know . . . well done, I suppose. So are you happy you’ve finished?’
‘Kind of I’d sort of been enjoying myself as the Leader. And it’s a pity, because they’ve all started talking to each other and making friends with each other and deciding how to take Join Me further. When in actual fact there’s nothing to move further. That’s all there is. A hundred people. No reason or point. I’m going to have to tell them that.’
I had started to think, that day, of how I was going to come clean to my joinees. Maybe I had a picture of Gallus somewhere. I could put that on the website, along with an explanation as to what had been going on, and a final, farewell message. And a heartfelt thank you, of course. I’d take the forum down, delete my email address, stop asking people to send their passport photos in.
The photos flashed through my mind. They were beautiful. Humanity in all its varied glory. Coming from different backgrounds, heading in different directions. My own personal micro-society. But it was over.
‘Seems a bit of a shame,’ said Ian, ‘to break their hearts. They were probably really hoping they were part of something much bigger. What does Hanne think?’
Oh yeah. Hanne. I’d have to tell her, of course. Have to explain the reason that I hadn’t been around much lately, and why I’d accidentally stood her up a couple of times, and taken her to that takeaway in Camden. Have to tell her that those two blokes on my fridge, and, in fact, the other ninety-eight people whose photos were currently in my desk drawer, were my joinees; my followers. She’d understand. She’d forgive me. She may even find it strangely funny.
‘I’ll tell her. I don’t know how she’ll react. You know what she’s like about stuff like this. She’d prefer me to collect stamps rather than joinees.’
‘I don’t blame her,’ said Ian. ‘So you’re just going to give up on these people?’
I knew what Ian was getting at. These people were too good to waste, if you ask me. Imagine what we could achieve, the 101 of us, if only there were something we wanted to achieve.
‘But Gallus was after a hundred people,’ I said. ‘And I’ve got them for him.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Ian. ‘But they’re not exactly packing their bags in order to move to Switzerland with you, are they?’
‘It was a tribute. A gesture. I don’t exactly want to move there myself. And to be honest, I doubt there’d be room. I’ve seen his land, I don’t know how he imagined a hundred people living there together. What if the response had been greater? What if his whole village had wanted to move there with him? A thousand people all having to decide whose turn it is to buy the toilet paper.’
‘Now that would have been an achievement.’
‘Buying toilet paper?’
‘No, getting the whole town on board. Imagine if he’d done that. A 1000 people all joining him.’
‘I think a hundred’s enough.’
‘No, 1000 would be an achievement. Something to be proud of.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m just saying. A hundred seems a bit paltry. If you’d managed to get one joinee for every man, woman and child in your great-uncle’s village, well . . . I’d definitely have bought you a pint for that.’
‘I can see where this is headed, Ian . . .’
He looked at me innocently, but I knew what he was up to.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No no no. I don’t do drunken bets. Not now I’m 25. I’ve moved on.’
‘Did Hanne teach you to say that?’
‘I’m just saying. This is not a bet.’
‘You’re the one going on about bets.’
‘No I’m not. And neither are you. And anyway, if that’s what you think should happen, why don’t you help me? Why don’t you be my 101st joinee?’
‘I’m not joining you! You must be mental! I may as well give you that pint right now and give up!’
‘Why are you treating this as a bet? We haven’t bet anything! And there will be absolutely no betting today!’
And there wouldn’t. But the damage was done. The idea was in my head. A 1000 joinees. One for every man, woman and child in Gallus’ village. Ian was right. That would be an achievement. I’d have the whole village on Gallus’s side! That’d make him proud!
But this could be difficult. The bigger this thing got, the harder it would be to cover up and hide from Hanne. And the bigger it got, the harder it would be to cover up the sheer pointlessness of it all. I could certainly try and get 1000 people to join me . . . but for what? I still didn’t know. I just hoped my joinees weren’t the inquisitive types. I’d have to instil faith in them, somehow keep them interested while I sucked another 900 people into my world.
So I finished the rest of my pint, said goodbye to Ian, and headed home.
I’d gone to the pub thinking it was all over.
Turns out, it had only just begun.
