18. Then those over whom Daniel had dominion, who were called Join-ees, did each divide their first-born into four parts.
19. And three parts they cast away.
I WALKED INTO the Horse & Groom to find Ian waiting for me in the corner.
‘Well, I finally did it,’ I said, sitting down.
‘You don’t seem very happy about it,’ said Ian.
‘I am. Honestly. This is what I’ve been working towards, after all.’
I sullenly placed my ten still unopened envelopes on the table in front of me.
‘You haven’t opened them!’ said Ian.
‘It’s a historic moment,’ I said. ‘It didn’t seem right doing it on my own.’
‘This is exciting!’ said Ian.
‘Well, prepare to buy me that pint,’ I said.
‘Oh. So all of a sudden it’s a bet, is it? Now you’ve done it?’
‘For the last time, Ian, it’s not a bet. But if it was, I won. So . . .’
I picked the envelopes up.
‘My final ten joinees. The last ones I need to complete my collective of 1000. This is it.’
Ian sat forward in his seat, evidently far more keen to see who’d joined me than I was. I felt like making a short speech, about how far we’d come, about what we’d achieved, but I’d probably have embarrassed myself, so I picked up the first one and just got on with it.
‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Ian. ‘So you’re nearly there. You don’t seem happy. When you’ve opened these envelopes, you’ve done it! That’s it! It’s over!’
‘And maybe that’s the problem. I don’t want it to be over. Hey . . .’ I said, having an idea. ‘How about we have a little wager? How about you bet me I can’t get . . . say . . . 2000 joinees?’
‘Eh? I thought you were too old for bets? I thought you’d moved on?’
‘I’m not going out with Hanne any more. I’ve moved so far on I’m back where I started.’
‘Forget it. You wanted 1000. You’ve got 1000. I’m excited! I want to see who’s joined!’
‘Okay,’ I sighed, and picked up the first envelope.
‘Hang on!’ said Ian. ‘A reminder of the averages, please. I need to know who’s ended up joining you.’
I smiled, took out my wallet, found a tatty piece of paper, and looked at my joinee stats.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘remember that the next ten envelopes could change everything by almost a tenth of a per cent each, so don’t go thinking that these are definitive.’
‘Fine.’
‘Right. My collective is . . . approximately fifty-four per cent male, forty-six per cent female. The average joinee is about 5ft 9in tall, thirty years of age and has probably spent around two years of that time in Belgium. They have nearly a quarter of a child. And – but this is just a personal viewpoint – they are very nice indeed.’
‘You may proceed.’
I opened the first envelope.
A photo fell out.
Joinee 991. A man. A man who would now be known as Joinee Long. A technician from Marlborough.
I smiled a bittersweet smile, and opened the next one.
Joinee 992. Another man. Joinee Hopkins. A Scottish plumber. Welcome.
Joinee 993. A woman. Joinee Jennings. Works in marketing, in London. Writes with glittery ink.
Joinee 994. Joinee Jack. A nine-year-old boy who wrote ‘I made a CD of the Join Me song from the Internet and I listen to it every day in the car with my dad.’ I’m willing to bet that his dad goes insane within the year. For some reason, that fact made me oddly proud. People were getting a kick out of Join Me in so many different ways. It was fun for all the family. And this moment here, in the Horse & Groom on Great Portland Street . . . this was the climax. I could feel the enjoyment creeping up on me again. And as I started to open the envelope of Joinee 995, I had to stop . . .
I suddenly found myself getting very, very excited. The sight of these new joinees, spread over this pub table, and the sight of an ever more excited Ian, made me realise . . . we were getting there. We were really getting there. Within a few seconds, I’d have my 995th joinee . . . and then my 996th . . . and just a few minutes after that I would legitimately be able to claim that I had 1000 joinees. 1000!
‘Get on with it,’ said Ian.
And I did.
Joinee 995. A woman in her thirties. Joinee Simms. She’d found a Join Me leaflet in her local library in Bristol. Hello!
Joinee 996. A Dutchman! Joinee Bos lives in Hilvershum and read about me in De Telegraaf. ‘I am happy to be with you!’ he wrote. Not as happy as I now was, Joinee Bos.
I picked up the next envelope and opened it with a smile.
Which is to say I smiled while I was opening it, not that I have some kind of magic smile which can open envelopes.
But disaster!
‘No!’ shouted Ian, before laughing. ‘Well, it serves you right for getting so cocky!’
Gah! There was no picture with this one! It was a mere letter, from someone calling themselves Laura Fulford, requesting more information about joining . . . curses!
‘There’s still hope,’ I said, a desperate tone in my voice. ‘Sometimes people send me two at once. A boyfriend and girlfriend deal, that sort of thing. Or a mother and child – that’s happened a couple of times. It could still work out!’
Ian just smiled and sat back in his chair.
‘So close . . .’ he laughed.
I tore the next one open. There was only one picture, but thank God there was a picture at all. Joinee 997. Another Joinee Smith. My tenth. I quickly put him to one side and tore the next one open.
Joinee 998. Still only one picture. Joinee Allison. Shit. Why didn’t she have a twin? Why are some people so inconsiderate? Come on. Please . . . the next envelope has to have two pictures . . . don’t tease me like this . . . don’t make me fight for 1000, then not want 1000, then want 1000, then not have 1000 . . . this has to be over . . .
I opened the envelope.
I took out a piece of paper.
I unfolded it.
And I found just one, single, solitary passport photo.
Joinee Selby. Joinee 999. A man who looked, in his photo, like I felt. Deflated. Beaten. And largely disappointed with life.
‘Christ . . .’ I said. ‘I thought that’d be it. I thought I’d be done today.’
‘I think it’d be quite funny if you gave up at 999 joinees,’ said Ian, a little unhelpfully.
‘This isn’t a joke, mate. I know I have to make it to 1000. If I stop, or if I fail, it sets a disturbing precedent for the rest of my life. If I give up, it might mean I’ll always give up. It’ll make me a quitter. It’ll mean I started something I couldn’t finish.’
‘You’ll get another joinee,’ said Ian. ‘You can’t help it. You’ll be up to 1000 in no time.’
‘But I’m exhausted. I genuinely thought that would be it. I was getting all excited. But there’s always tomorrow’s post, I suppose. See if anyone else joins up.’
‘So you’ve still not won the bet.’
‘It’s not a bloody bet!’
‘No, I know . . . thing is, though, there’s still one envelope left . . .’ Ian was pointing to an envelope tucked behind the pub menu. I’d apparently overlooked it.
‘Eh? How did I miss that?’
It was white, slightly creased, and marked ‘Join Me, PO Box 33561, London E3 2YW’, but interestingly, there was no stamp on it. How did it get here? Maybe it had fallen out of one of the others? I held it up to the light, and yes – there was what looked like a passport photo inside. I realised just how badly I wanted this to be it.
‘This could be the final one!’ I said, not quite believing my luck. ‘Oh, thank God! My 1000th joinee!’
I tore it open. I took the picture out. I studied it. And I couldn’t quite take it in.
It was Ian.
‘Well . . .’ he said, smiling. ‘I’d been waiting for the right moment . . .’
I shook his hand, more firmly and with more manly meaning than I think I’ve ever shaken anyone’s hand with before. There was high emotion in the air. But I just didn’t know what to say.
‘Now,’ said Ian, standing up, ‘I reckon I owe you a pint.’
Well . . . a bet’s a bet, I suppose.
* * *
When it sank in, a few moments later, I felt brilliant. Brilliant, as Ian and I drank our celebratory pint. Brilliant, as we phoned some friends and told them where we were and got them to celebrate with us. Brilliant, at midnight, in a curryhouse in Soho, sharing six bowls of Chicken Dansak and ten naan breads between the lot of us. And brilliant, as I awoke the next morning with a hangover that I felt, for once, I had well and truly earned.
I was shattered by the strange mix of emotions; delighted that I’d done it, disappointed that it was over. But today wasn’t a day for sitting in bed watching Kilroy and regretting the drinks of the night before. So I sprang into action. I made a few phone calls and got dressed. I found a colour photocopier in the print shop down the street. I scattered handfuls of passport photos across it, and took dozens of photocopies, until I had a duplicate of each and every joinee. And then I went home and put the originals into a small box, I put the small box into a small bag, I caught the tube to Paddington, I clambered aboard the Heathrow Express, I checked in at the airport, and I caught a plane to Switzerland.
There was now just one thing left to do.
