Join Me

by Danny Wallace

  But they weren’t from Denise the journalist.

  They were from Hanne. She’d sent the first at 10am that morning. I hadn’t seen it because I’d been too busy being interviewed.

  YOU AWAKE? MY FLIGHT WAS DELAYED. NOT WORTH GOING JUST FOR FEW HOURS. ON WAY HOME.

  Oh, shit.

  The next message had been sent an hour later.

  WHERE ARE YOU? AM IN YOUR FLAT.

  Uh-oh.

  How was I going to explain where I’d been and why I hadn’t answered her text messages? Should I come clean? Maybe it was time. Maybe it was finally time I told her what I’d been up to.

  But as it turned out, I wouldn’t have to.

  The next message I read told me that much.

  YOU SAD WANKER.

  Hanne had found out about Join Me.

  CHAPTER 23

  26. Happy is the man that locketh his drawers; for he shall prolong his days.

  HANNE WASN’T IN the flat when I got back. I hadn’t expected her to be. But she’d left me a note. One which made my heart all but stop.

  Danny

  There is something very wrong with you.

  Hanne

  It had been left where I would find it, and in a place which would make its context clear.

  Hanne had found my secret Join Me drawer. A drawer I’d forgotten, in my haste to leave that morning, to lock. A drawer packed with passport photos of complete and utter strangers. A drawer which also had newspaper clippings from odd newspapers, with pictures of me holding up small signs and being greeted by foreigners. A drawer which, to be honest, could look a little confusing to someone from the outside. Someone who should never have been on the outside in the first place.

  I read the note again. There was nothing about it which gave any clues as to Hanne’s mood. How had she reacted? There were no block capitals, no exclamation marks, no signs of annoyance. But, equally, there was no little kiss at the end of her name, no little smiley face, no playful doodle. Just our names, and those seven calm, cold, emotionless words. There is something very wrong with you.

  How did she feel? Was she amused? Was she being dry? Or was she so angry that that was all she could think of to say? I re-read her text message. YOU SAD WANKER. Could that have been written in a jokey way? I tried to visualise her texting it happily, with a vast grin on her cheery Norwegian face, but every time I did so, she appeared to have a knife in her other hand.

  I picked up my mobile to dial her number but couldn’t quite face it yet. Jesus, I felt so stupid. I should have told her ages ago. I should have come clean, and admitted it all to her. She loved me, after all. She’d understand, if anyone could. Would she really have been angry, or thought I was odd? Well . . . yes. But possibly only for a little while. It suddenly became clear – I’d taken a big risk in not telling her, when I should have taken a smaller risk and done the opposite. Somehow it had felt the other way round before. When had that changed?

  I dialled her number. Her answerphone was on. What should I say? How should I react to finding her note? Should I treat it as a joke? Did I take it very seriously? Do I apologise? I panicked and said nothing, just hung up, leaving a few seconds of silence for her to listen to at her own convenience.

  My stomach churned. I looked again at the drawer. What had she seen that could possibly annoy her? Well . . . we’ve established that. Hundreds of passport photos. Letters from joinees. Those newspaper clippings. A CD of the official Join Me song. A death threat. A photo of me with the Magnificent Seven. And . . . shit. A book called How to Succeed with Girls.

  I was in a lot of bloody trouble.

  * * *

  ‘Janne, is Hanne in?’

  Hanne wasn’t answering her mobile. She wasn’t answering her work phone. She wasn’t responding to my emails. So I’d hopped on a bus bound for Islington and turned up on her doorstep. And now here I was, standing, hopeful, in front of her flatmate, Janne. I’d put my best shirt on and combed my hair a bit.

  ‘No, Danny, she’s not in.’

  ‘Can I come in and wait for her? Please? I think she’s angry with me. Possibly very angry. But she might not be. She might be impressed with me. It’s very hard to tell.’

  ‘She’s angry with you,’ said Janne flatly, dashing my hopes in an instant.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I said desperately, ‘because the two emotions are very easy to confuse.’

  ‘She called you a useless twat who keeps pointless secrets and wastes his life on stupid boy-projects.’

  I weighed the words up in my mind.

  ‘But did she sound impressed when she said it?’

  Janne just looked at me.

  ‘Danny, what have you been doing?’

  ‘Nothing bad, I promise! The exact opposite, in fact! I’ve been improving people’s lives!’

  ‘Not Hanne’s life.’

  ‘Well . . . no. But not mine either. I didn’t want to keep all this a secret from Hanne, please believe me.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have. She’s your girlfriend. She should be your priority. You should be improving her life, not other people’s. She told me some of what you’ve done. What if she’d done all that to you? All these new “friends” all the time? And what if you’d needed her to be with you and then found out she was on the other side of the world when you thought she was tucked up in bed?’

  ‘Belgium’s not the other side of the world! And I’d have been happy for her! I’d love to go out with a minor Belgian celebrity!’

  ‘So Hanne’s not good enough for you now? You’re after Belgians now?’

  ‘Of course she’s good enough! Look, Janne, let me in. Let me sit and wait for her. I’ll explain everything to her.’

  ‘She said you’d say that. And she said not to let you in. She’ll call you. Don’t call her.’

  Janne’s stem face melted a little. Now she looked sad.

  ‘Danny, just give her a little time to get used to things. A little time to make up her mind.’

  Hang on . . .

  ‘Make up her mind? About what?’

  ‘She’s been . . . low . . . lately. You’ve not been there for her. Give her time so she can work out what she wants to do. What’s best for her.’

  ‘I’m best for her! It’s me! I promise I’ll be a better boyfriend now – just tell her that from me, please?’

  Janne nodded. She seemed to understand. I could see it in her eyes. She knew what I’d done was wrong, but so, so right at the same time.

  ‘You get it, don’t you, Janne? It was about good deeds – random ones. All I was doing was encouraging people to be nice to each other. That’s all. You see the point in all this, don’t you?’

  She was looking at her feet as I said this, but then met my eye to say . . .

  ‘No, Danny. And neither does Hanne. And that’s why she’s leaving you.’

  And she closed the door softly, and put the chain on.

  I walked my way back to the bus stop, never once looking up from the ground.

  * * *

  Hanne didn’t return any of my messages that day. Or the next. A more paranoid man might have thought she didn’t want to talk to me.

  I knew Janne was right. Leave Hanne alone for a bit, let her get things sorted out in her own head. But I knew what she’d seen, and I wanted to set things straight. After all, there was nothing evil about what I’d done. Nothing bad. Plenty of boyfriends do far worse things. I explained this in about half a dozen emails over three days, hoping she’d read even one of them. My week became one of depressing isolation. Whereas once I’d rejoiced in communicating with my joinees, now their emails and letters became a sad and constant reminder of what I was close to losing.

  There was only one person I wanted to speak to. And she didn’t want to speak to me.

  * * *

  I spent the afternoon in the Royal Inn, waiting for Ian to turn up and give me a man-talk. About four pints in, he called me and told me he’d been delayed at work and wouldn’t be able to make it, bu
t we should talk as soon as possible. I said okay, and told him I needed to talk to someone, and that I’d be around later on if he could make it. So, slightly dejected and lonely, I left the pub, staggered for a moment, and walked along the road, into Victoria Park. An old man in an electric wheelchair with a radio on his lap buzzed past me, and I sat on a bench facing the bandstand while I considered what to do with myself.

  I had a grumpy face on. A lady with a dog walked past. She also had a grumpy face on. The lady, not the dog. The sky was grey, the grass wet, and I’d just noticed I’d trodden in something I’d rather not have done. I was scruffy, sluggish and fairly drunk, and must have been rather a depressing sight that day, as I sat there, trying fruitlessly to slide my shoe along the grass to remove the offending smear from the front of it. I probably looked like figure 3 in the evolution of man to tramp. I kicked at the grass to try and clean myself up, but as I did so, I disturbed a slightly longer patch of grass and noticed something hidden amongst it. It was a tiny, round, rusty badge. With a message on it. A message that, in my current state of mind, I chose to take as one meant solely for me.

  Call Paul Kenny

  Call Paul Kenny? Who was Paul Kenny? What did Paul Kenny want with me? There were more clues . . . under his name was written ‘GMB Union’, and, crucially, there was a freephone number. Maybe this was a sign! Maybe Paul Kenny had the answer to my problems – where was I going in life? Was what I was doing worth risking Hanne? How could I make sure I got her back? I got my mobile out and dialled the number.

  It rang twice.

  Then someone picked up. A woman. I reasoned this probably wasn’t Paul Kenny.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, yes, I’ve been told to call Paul Kenny,’ I slurred.

  ‘Right, sorry, who told you to call Paul Kenny?’

  ‘I found a badge and it said to call Paul Kenny on this number.’

  ‘Er, okay . . . are you a member of the GMB Union already?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what it is.’

  ‘Would you like one of our information packs?’

  ‘No, I just want to talk to Paul Kenny. My girlfriend’s left me and I want to talk to Paul Kenny. Put me through to Paul Kenny immediately.’

  ‘Er, I don’t know if—’

  ‘I have to call Paul Kenny. And I want to know why Paul Kenny wants me to call him. Who is Paul Kenny anyway?’

  ‘He’s the Regional Secretary of the GMB Union.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s . . . a general union and—’

  ‘Well, what’s that got to do with me? Why does Paul Kenny want me to call him?’

  ‘I don’t know if . . . it’s . . . he doesn’t actually work in this office, so—’

  ‘Then why on earth did Paul Kenny tell me to call him on this number?’

  ‘He’s—’

  ‘He’s a timewaster, that’s what he is. Tell Paul Kenny from me, he’s a bloody timewaster. Why’s he hiding badges in parks telling people to call him when he’s not even there? That’s no way for a grown man to behave. He’s a bloody timewaster and you can tell him that from me.’

  And I swiftly hung up.

  Was I just a bit drunk, or was I was going mad?

  Not for the first time, I had to ask myself . . . what the hell was I doing with my life? Why had I been risking my happiness just to make others happier? Was it worth it?

  * * *

  I awoke in my flat, a few hours later, to the sound of my phone ringing. I stumbled out of bed, knocked a glass of water over, whacked my shoulder on the doorframe and limped for the phone. I should always remember to put my glasses on before getting out of bed.

  I picked the receiver up, slightly breathless.

  ‘Danny? It’s Ian.’

  ‘Hello, mate . . .’

  ‘Sorry, did I wake you?’

  ‘No, no, no . . .’ I said, which I always do, as if being asleep in my own home is the most shameful thing I could have been doing. ‘I was just a bit . . . asleep.’

  ‘Cool. So . . . you and Hanne . . .’

  ‘Yeah. It’s bad. She found out about Join Me. But she won’t let me explain it from my side.’

  ‘Let’s meet up.’

  * * *

  It was nearly 9pm, and I was back at the Royal Inn.

  Ian was waiting for me in the corner.

  ‘Good day?’ he said, which was stupid.

  ‘Not really,’ I replied. ‘Bit of a bad one. I stood in some dog poo and then took out my frustrations on the Regional Secretary of the GMB Union.’

  ‘I’ve been there, mate,’ said Ian, nodding. ‘But I’m still not joining you.’

  ‘I don’t care about any of that, Ian. I care about Hanne.’

  ‘Talk me through it.’

  And I did. I talked about how Join Me had got out of hand, and how I should have stopped when I had my first hundred joinees, and about how that would have been the best time to have come clean to Hanne. I talked about how guilty I felt, about what a bad boyfriend I’d been, about all the dinners and films and happy times I’d missed out on and denied her because I’d . . . well . . . got carried away. And Ian listened patiently, and said ‘right’ in all the right places, and at one point even softly mock-punched me on the arm, which I thought only really happened in father-and-son scenes in made-for-TV movies.

  ‘I don’t think all’s lost,’ said Ian. ‘I think Hanne’s teaching you a lesson. Showing you what it’s like to be without the person you love for a while. She’ll be back. But you can’t blame her for feeling confused. You’d hidden all that stuff from her. It must have been like finding out you had a bit on the side. Only in this case your bit on the side was . . . well . . . a cult.’

  ‘It’s not a cult. It’s a collective.’

  ‘You take my point.’

  I sighed. He was right. I did understand it from Hanne’s side. I just wished she could understand it from mine. But she didn’t seem to want to hear my side of the story. If only I could reach her. Ian put his pint down on the table and looked at me, seriously.

  ‘Thing is, Dan,’ he said. ‘I know where Hanne is.’

  ‘How do you mean? It’s a Thursday. She’ll be at home in bed, she’s got an early shift tomorrow.’

  ‘No . . . she’s not. You see, I emailed her when you told me about you two. I wanted to find out what was going on.’

  ‘But she’s not answering her emails, mate.’

  ‘She answered mine.’

  ‘What?’

  Why would she answer Ian’s emails and not mine? But at least she was answering someone’s emails. Maybe that meant she’d read mine. Mine, explaining how everything had gone crazy, and how I loved her, and how it was all going to be better from now on. Maybe it was all going to be okay.

  ‘She says she just needs some time to sort everything out.’

  ‘I know all that. Janne told me. But why won’t she at least acknowledge me? Will you ask her to meet up with me?’

  ‘Might be difficult.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s gone back to Norway for a while.’

  And I nearly dropped my pint.

  * * *

  I didn’t sleep much that night.

  I ignored my emails. I didn’t open the next morning’s post. My joinees just didn’t matter any more.

  I’d made two decisions in the night.

  I couldn’t care less about getting 1000 joinees.

  And I was going to go to Norway and get my girlfriend back.

  Fagernes

  CHAPTER 24

  3. A cold north wind did blow, and the water was congealed into ice, and Daniel trembled in his nakedness.

  4. And Daniel was almost lost.

  5. But Hanne the Norwegian had pity upon Daniel, and did fashion for him a coat of many colours from the hairs of her beard.

  IT WAS SNOWING and all I had on was a flimsy leather jacket with no buttons down the front and a dodgy cotton T-shirt. Well, and t
rousers and socks and stuff, but you get my point.

  I was freezing.

  Freezing, as I walked out of the airport and onto the train. Freezing, as I tried to find my way from the train station to the bus station. And freezing, as I wondered what on earth to do with myself for the one freezing hour and twenty freezing minutes I’d have to stand around in a freezing Oslo waiting for the bus to leave.

  I jogged into the Europa shopping centre and, when my hands were warm enough to work again, sent Hanne a text message. I AM IN NORWAY. If at any point she decided to turn her phone on, that was a message I was sure she couldn’t let lie. I’d just have to wait for her response.

  I ambled around the shopping centre for a little while, looking at this and that, and watching crowds of Norwegians brace themselves as they prepared to leave the warmth of the shops for the bone-chilling cold and sharp winds of the outside. I knew it’d be my turn next. It’s usually at times like this that I start to wish I still lived with my mum and dad. There’s no way my mum would have let me go to Norway that day wearing what I was wearing. She’d have laid my warmest socks out on the bed that morning, and demanded I wear the mittens my grandma insists on making and sending every Christmas, and she’d probably even have made me wear some of my dad’s thermal underwear from the 70s. And it’s usually at times like this that I start to realise I’m glad I don’t still live with my mum and dad.

  But the time came to leave that shopping centre, and with a cup of coffee clenched between my fists like a hot water bottle, I made a break for the station.

  On the bus, a few minutes later, my phone beep-beeped to tell me a text message had arrived.

  It was Hanne.

  WHAT? PLEASE SAY YOU ARE JOKING. YOU ARE NOT IN NORWAY.

  It was too late. I was in Norway. And what’s more, I was on my way to her house. I rested my head against the window, watching the wide streets of Oslo narrow as we made our way out of town. And then I closed my eyes, and tried to think about what the hell I was going to say to Hanne when I got to Fagernes.