The letter arrived with no stamp or address, just my name on a printed label stuck on the outside of the envelope. I hadn’t heard it come through my door. I opened it and found a single piece of A4 paper folded into thirds. On it were the words:
I have stolen your joy.
If you want it back, bring £2,000 in cash to the cafe at the train station at 10am on Thursday.
Initially I assumed it was an oblique advertising campaign, and examined all areas of the letter and envelope, expecting to see a company logo or the address of a political party somewhere, but finding nothing. I knocked on the door of the neighbouring flat and asked if they’d received one, but they had not. I went back to my own flat and tossed the letter and envelope in the recycling.
However, I kept wondering who would post such a letter through my door, and why they chose me. Had I struck them as a person with an abundance of joy, who would miss it terribly if it vanished? Or had they selected me at random? I became curious enough that I decided to go to the station cafe at 10am on Thursday (did they know I was on the afternoon/evening shift at work that week?) and see who turned up. Naturally I was conscious this might be exactly what they wanted me to do, and was on my guard: but this could be my only chance to know.
I arrived at ten to ten. At exactly 10am a woman with curly dark brown hair and a long black coat came in, ordered a coffee, paid in cash and sat down opposite me.
I don’t have the money, I told her.
She looked up from her coffee and raised her eyebrows. The note was clear, she said.
Yes it was. But so is my bank balance. It’s not that I don’t have it with me: I don’t have it at all.
Then you won’t get it back. Your joy, I mean.
Now this is the point that interests me, I said, leaning forward. Was the idea that by troubling me with questions about who would do this, and why, and why me, you would stop me feeling joy and I would want to buy it back by paying you? Because if so, you clearly don’t realise I overthink everything anyway. Your letter didn’t change anything.
No, she said. That wasn’t the idea. I have the power to steal people’s joy. I really did steal yours, and I want money to give it back. This isn’t complicated.
But like I said, I don’t feel any different.
Don’t you?
No.
You’re not just putting on a show of false bravado?
No. I’m always like this. Last week I was obsessing over a remark I made during a colleague’s leaving do, which I think might have made him think I was homophobic. And I can’t find out if he thinks that, or do anything to change it, because I no longer see him. So he’s out there in the world, possibly with that opinion of me, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
How long have you felt like this?
Like I said, it happened last week. And I’m not homophobic, by the way.
I meant how long have you felt like this about everything.
Oh, always. As long as I can remember.
Maybe that’s why it didn’t work on you, she said, looking into the middle distance.
The joy thief may have been delusional, but I found her easy to talk to – partly because I didn’t care what she thought of me, but she also seemed genuinely interested in my psychological difficulties, which I’d never talked to anyone about before. We ordered more coffees and by the time I stood up to leave, an hour and a half later, I’d decided to seek professional help, which was a big breakthrough for me. I thanked her for her time, and wished her well.
I returned home to find my flat had been burgled while I was out.
Well, that last line was a kicker!