‘You know. Moon man. That American fella.’
‘Dennis Hope? I’d forgotten about him. I’m nothing like him.’
‘You bloody are,’ said Ian.
‘I’m bloody not. And don’t knock him. He’s a visionary. Like Gallus.’
‘You’re all odd, the lot of you. But hey – at least I can say I know a cult leader now.’
‘It’s not a cult. It’s a collective.’
And with that, I drained my pint, bade Ian good day and moodily returned to my lodgings. Cult leader indeed. And why shouldn’t I want to meet Chris? That didn’t make me odd. I kicked off my shoes and sat down at my desk. I’d write Chris Jones a letter right this moment, requesting to meet him to discuss the future of Join Me. It would be an informal meeting, I told him, perhaps over a beer, and he shouldn’t worry about dressing up or preparing a speech, unless he really felt the need to. I popped it in an envelope, addressed it, and then started to lose confidence. I began to wonder whether Christian would lose his nerve when he read my letter. Whether he’d want to back out, or pretend he’d never written to me in the first place. Better to have a joinee for life and never meet him, rather than have him back out when you try and say hello, surely? I suppose Ian was right, in a way. It was a bit like a dodgy dating service. It’s one thing replying to an advert, another thing entirely to actually turn up on the night. And then I got all embarrassed and decided not to send it off.
Instead, I made a cup of tea, checked my emails and tried to let the moment pass.
* * *
Email
To: Dennis M. Hope, President of the Galactic Government From: Danny Wallace
Dear Dennis,
I hope you don’t mind me writing to you out-of-the-blue like this. I’m emailing you from London, and was hoping I could get your advice.
I have been interested in your organisation since I heard someone talking about it on a bus a year or two ago.
I think it’s great that you own the moon.
And it’s great that, in the 23 years since you claimed ownership of Earth’s nearest neighbour, the UN, Russia and the USA have all respected your claim and left you be. That’s one space race you won fair and square!
I was reminded of you recently while talking to a friend about the funeral of my great-uncle.
Like you, my great-uncle had new ideas for society. Like you, he wanted people to join him in beginning something new, somewhere new. Like you, he wanted to make things better. He inspired me.
He had a quest, of sorts; one he never finished. He gave up. Well, I want to complete his quest for him. To find good, dedicated people who my great-uncle Gallus would have approved of, and ask them to Join Me.
I know that you are planning to take your people to the moon at some stage, and that you are currently looking into the practicalities of space travel. I’m not sure if I can really afford to do that with the people I hope will join me; I’ve no land like you, and my flat is barely big enough for me, let alone 100 others.
What I’m essentially saying is . . . is what I’m doing stupid? Should I quit now? One person – a complete stranger – has already joined me. I don’t want to let him, or anyone else, down.
Please advise.
All the best,
Danny Wallace
London
* * *
Email
To: Danny Wallace
From: Dennis M. Hope, President of the Galactic Government
Dear Danny:
Greetings from the Lunar Embassy and the Galactic Government.
I think you are the type of individual that understands the concept of “following the little voice inside.”
Your story is intriguing and relevant to what we are doing even if it has nothing to do with space or space travel.
You have found a spark of passion albeit originally from your great-uncle.
Remember this: If Albert Einstein had not understood the interests of the other mathematicians of his time he would never have been inspired to combine all the theories into one “General Theory of Relativity.”
The source or journey to our passion is really unimportant.
The important part is to follow the path you feel is laid out for you. If you ever find yourself near Lake Tahoe, feel free to drop by.
Good luck, Danny.
Dennis M. Hope
President – The Galactic Government
AKA – “The Head Cheese”
www.lunarembassy.com
PS. If I were you, I would meet with the person who has joined you.
* * *
Joinee Cobbett
CHAPTER 4
1. In the year one thousand nine hundred seventy and six was born to the family of Jones a son; and his name was Christian.
2. And he was to become the First.
DENNIS M. HOPE – aka ‘The Head Cheese’ – was a very wise man indeed. He’d been right when he’d said I should meet the person who’d joined me. I suppose I’d just been slightly nervous of being rejected or branded odd. Slightly nervous of losing my first joinee and then having to start again from scratch. But hey – this is probably what Gallus went through, and if he’d given up at this stage he’d never have got his second and third joinees.
And so I had posted Chris’s letter, heartily congratulating him on his decision to join me, explaining that I wasn’t a nutter, and asking him if he fancied a pint. I enclosed my email address, and a day later he replied. He was up for meeting!
We would meet local to him, back in Camden, at the World’s End pub, at seven o’clock, on Tuesday night.
Before I knew it, I was there. I’ve always liked Camden, despite its slightly seedy feel, something it perfected in the Victorian era when it was a fantastic place – if you liked slums and filth. The gentrification of the last twenty years has done a lot to change that, but for me, cleaning a few buildings up is a nice effort, but if you can’t stop mad-eyed men offering me crack every ten minutes, I start to forget to look out for the freshly painted windowsills.
Once in the World’s End, I ordered a pint, and found myself a table near a doorway, in what turned out to be a vast and sprawling pub, populated by students, men with beards, and, it seemed, anyone who’s ever even considered being a goth.
Joinee Jones wouldn’t know what I looked like. Perhaps I should have specified I wasn’t a goth, and didn’t have a beard, but I figured we’d be on safe ground, because I knew what he looked like. Provided he still had a head and two shoulders. But despite being able to recognise his face at will, I still found myself double-taking and staring at every man, woman or child who walked through the doors of the pub, just in case one of them was Christian Jones, my loyal joinee, my soon-to-be friend.
Most of them weren’t Christian Jones. But one of them was.
I watched as he negotiated his way through the door – at over six foot, he was taller than he’d looked on his passport photo, and he was wearing a different top, but it was definitely him. His eyes were scanning the room, trying to locate anyone who might be trying to establish eye contact with him. I was trying to do just that. I was even raising my eyebrows, smiling, and nodding my head, willing him to see me, but somehow he didn’t, and wandered through to the next room, where I feared I would lose him among the bearded men and goths of Camden town . . . but then, for some reason and without explanation, he stopped dead in his tracks. He turned round, faced the room I was in, and scanned it one last time. I raised my hand in a friendly hello and he spotted me. He smiled, walked towards me, and sat down.
‘Pint?’ he said.
* * *
Christian Glenn Jones was born seven months before me, in April 1976, in Kendal, Cumbria.
‘It’s famous for mint cake,’ he said flatly.
I was about to say the same thing, but with more enthusiasm.
‘It’s always the first thing people say when they hear the word Kendal.’
I bit my lip. I tried to think of something else Kendal-
related to say to impress him.
‘Yes. I’ve eaten some of that.’
It wasn’t really good enough, but at least it was my own unique spin on the whole Kendal mint cake thing. Christian ignored it.
‘I guess you can’t blame people for that. I mean, I lived there for eighteen years and it’s the only thing I know about the place.’
‘Really? There’s nothing else?’
‘Nothing. Well, nothing interesting. I mean, “K Shoes” come from there. That’s where they get the “K” from. Kendal. Because that begins with a “K”, too.’
I tried to look impressed, but I could tell it wasn’t working.
‘And I suppose there’s the River Kent, which when it’s raining is the fastest flowing river in England.’
‘I’ll have to check that out,’ I said, attempting to give the impression that the very next chance I got I’d be up in Kendal with an umbrella and a stopwatch.
We both took a sip of our pints and put them back on the table, in near perfect symmetry. And then we said nothing for about ten or twenty seconds.
Finally, Chris decided to speak. He’d been building up to something.
‘So . . . er . . . Danny . . . this “Join Me” thing . . .’
‘Yes?’ I replied brightly.
‘Well . . . I’ll be honest with you. I have absolutely no idea what it is.’
He smiled apologetically, as if it was somehow his fault.
‘That’s okay, don’t worry about it.’
‘None whatsoever, I mean.’
‘It’s fine!’
I flashed him a reassuring, slightly over-the-top, really-doesn’t-matter smile. The type you’d flash at a very important dinner guest who’d just poured red wine over your poodle the night before Crufts.
‘No, you see, what I mean is, I don’t know what I’ve joined. I just responded to that ad for a bit of fun. I hope I’m not wasting your time, because what I’m basically trying to say is . . . what the hell is Join Me?’
Oh.
I hadn’t been expecting that.
What was I going to say?
It sounds strange now that I think about it, but I really hadn’t been expecting Chris to be quite so inquisitive. I’d been focused on discovering who he was, what he liked doing, why he’d joined . . . I’d forgotten he might possibly have a few questions of his own.
The fact of the matter was, I didn’t know the answer to his question. What the hell was Join Me?
‘Er . . . well . . . what do you think it is?’ I tried, looking as mysterious and confident as I could, hoping to give the impression I knew exactly where I was going with this.
‘Well, I don’t know. Some kind of sinister cult?’
He started to laugh, but I cut him off.
‘It’s not a cult,’ I said, raising my finger. ‘It’s a collective.’
‘A collective of what, though?’
‘Er, you know . . . of people.’
‘Right,’ he said, considering my answer. He nodded to himself and took another sip of his pint. I sat back, relieved, hoping that was the end of the grilling.
‘And how many people are in this collective?’ continued Chris, annoyingly. He wasn’t giving up. This man was the Columbo of Camden.
‘Well, numbers aren’t important at this stage, it’s early days for the collective, and—’
‘But, y’know . . . how many to date?’
‘Um . . . what, in total?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well . . .’ I took a deep breath. ‘Two.’
I watched, worried, while Chris did the maths.
‘Two,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘Right.’
I suppose it must have been a bit odd for him. He’d responded to an advert saying Join Me, and that’s just what he’d done. Joined Me. Me and No One Else. He was now in a ‘collective’ of precisely two people. I could have called it a ‘partnership’, but he might have thought I had other ideas in mind.
I could tell he didn’t quite know how to react. I could tell this because he’d gone all quiet and was avoiding my eye, and he’d muttered the words, ‘I don’t quite know how to react to that.’ I’d essentially just told him he was in the world’s most pathetic club. We were two grown men, strangers twenty minutes earlier, and now the only two members of some kind of apparently utterly pointless organisation.
What must I have seemed like to this man? A loner, reduced to advertising for friends in Loot. A man who, until Chris had stumbled into it, was the only member of his own club.
I looked up at Christian Jones. He was considering something. I hoped this wouldn’t be the moment he said goodbye and walked out of my collective forever.
‘Well,’ he said, tapping his fingers on the table. ‘Do I at least get a badge or something?’
I laughed, relieved, but there was still high embarrassment in the air. His embarrassment at being there, and my embarrassment at making him. I knew what might make it better.
‘Another pint?’
‘O . . . kay,’ said Chris, not quite straight away. ‘Um . . . do you mind if I call my flatmate and ask him to come over?’
I think it’s safe to say I had terrified Joinee Jones.
* * *
We decided to meet Chris’s flatmate, Dave, at a pub closer to their home, a five minute walk away. Possibly so that Chris would have a shorter distance to run, if it came to it. But he’d eased up now and was getting more into the idea of what we could achieve together.
‘So it’s essentially a blank page at present?’ he asked.
‘Well, yes. I mean, it’s just important for me to have people join me.’
‘How many do you need?’
‘I’d like a hundred at this stage. But I’d take three, to be honest. At least that way I’d equal the record.’
‘The record?’
‘It’s a family thing.’
The Hawley was dimly lit, and wonderfully warm. It reminded me of the kind of pub you’d see highwaymen wander into in films; a dark, but friendly place, with candles spilling miles of wax on to rough wooden tables.
‘Carlsberg?’ said Chris, which kind of spoiled the effect. I was hoping for some mead, and maybe a bag of oats for my horse.
We took a seat and continued our chat. Looking back, I’m not surprised Chris decided to stay with Join Me, despite having no real idea what it was. He was already officially a charitable chap.
‘I’m a property administrator for Help the Aged. It’s mainly stapling, filing, the usual office rubbish. I’m a fiend at double-sided photocopying, mind. And I like it there. I believe in what Help the Aged stand for.’
‘It’s always good to make an old man happy,’ I said, thinking of Gallus.
‘I might have indirectly made a few of the lovable lads crack a smile in my time,’ said Chris. I liked his tums-of-phrase. I knew we were going to get on. Once he’d stopped being afraid of me.
‘Can I ask,’ I said, ‘exactly why you . . . you know . . . joined me?’
Chris looked a little embarrassed. ‘I dunno. I was bored. And I wanted to see what would happen.’
‘Me too!’ I said, delighted. Maybe I’d found a kindred spirit here.
‘Hello lads,’ said a tall, very unshaven man, suddenly by our table. It was Chris’s flatmate, Dave. Chris looked relieved to see him.
‘Sit down,’ he said eagerly.
And he did.
Chris and Dave had met at university, and bonded through the constant use of a Sega Megadrive. I’d worked for a Sega magazine in my teenage years, having been just as addicted as them, and so we got on brilliantly, the three of us, as we compared favourite videogames and swapped stories of broken joypads and exchanges that went horribly wrong. I once swapped a Mega Bomberman for a Tank Command. I think you can see what I’m saying.
Dave was about to start work as a teacher at a school in Stoke Newington, and was currently in the middle of a real career dilemma.
‘I don’t know whether to shave my
beard off or not,’
We considered the problem carefully.
‘I mean, I would remain bearded if I thought I had the choice. But I feel that a school might not look at me in such a good light if I had a big unruly beard.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘I think you could argue that it suggests knowledge.’
‘Mmm. I think it suggests lazy-twat-who-can’t-be-arsed-to-shave,’ said Dave.
We both looked to Chris for his opinion, but he’d drifted off into his own thoughts. Clearly, this topic had been mulled over many a time in their flat, and Chris had nothing more to add to the debate.
But suddenly, and out of absolutely nowhere, Chris looked me in the eye and said a sentence I honestly did not see coming.
‘I really like giant squid.’
I looked at Chris. Then I looked at Dave. Dave exhaled heavily. ‘Here we go,’ he said.
‘They are my favourite animal ever. It used to be the puma. But now it’s the giant squid.’
It was weird. It was almost as if Chris was confessing some kind of sin to me. It was like he had to get this out of his system before we could move our friendship on. He’d clearly decided to stick with Join Me, but knew that if we were to embark upon something like this together – whatever it was – there were a few things he would need to get off his chest; a few things I had to know about him. I tried to look as serious as I could, and nodded, gravely.
‘It’s the daddy of the ocean. They can grow to one hundred feet in length. Their eyes are as big as dinner plates.’
He used his hands to show me how big a dinner plate was, and then showed Dave, who waved him away. I smiled him on, encouragingly.
‘It’s the largest eye in the animal kingdom. Imagine that. And they’re jet-propelled.’
‘They have jet-propelled eyes?’ I said.
‘No, jet-propelled bodies. There are at least two million of them in the world today. They’re shooting all over the ocean. And the weirdest thing is . . . no one’s ever seen one alive!’
I didn’t quite know how to take all of this. One moment we’d been discussing beards, the next we were discussing giant squid.