A Place to Dump Guinea Pigs by David Hartley

A Place to Dump Guinea Pigs MP3

Read by Greg Page

Heard his ‘eartbeat before I saw him and yeah I was excited but I was also like; ay up, a live one. What fun ‘n games we got now? Immortal? Hero? Or just someone badly lost?

It had been a while. The longest while. I’d figured ‘em all dead; that I’d long taken my last boat-load over. But why would I still be here? So maybes they’re all immortal now - one of Zeus’ millennial whims, some bizarre pact between him and a wronged lover or summat. But I’d have heard somethin’. Hades would’ve been over in a flash to sort that shit out.

Maybes there’s another way over my river, or under it, or around it that I don’t know about. Or perhaps they’ve all buggered off to Elysium. I even wondered if there was anyone left over t’other side; tempted more than once to row over and have a look. But, nah; if I was supposed to know, I’d know, and I’ve been stuck here thousands o’ years, what’s a few more? I ain’t interested in nowhere else to live.

Had some hangers-on to keep me company. The chancers who didn’t have enough coin first time ‘round and were paying their hundred-year penance. Some of ‘em were alright as well, we had a laugh. But I punted ‘em over one by one when their long-awaited time came, until there was no-one left but little old me.

And then this guy comes. This bloke. With his heartbeat and his bag full of guinea pigs.

So I says, Greetings.

And he says; How much is it for ‘alf-way across?

And I says; I don’t go ‘alf-way, I go all’t way. There’s no ‘alf-way.

And he says; well I don’t wanna go all’t way, I wanna go ‘alf-way.

Part of me wanted to keep arguin’ toss with him cus I definitely don’t go ‘alf-way, but he was the first bloke I’d seen for a couple of thousand year, and I hadn’t seen any coin for that long either.

So I says; How much you got?

And he checked and said; Twenty-eight quid.

He puts the stuff in my hand. I don’t know ‘quid’. I figured its some sorta new currency what must of developed. Bits of coloured paper and a few weird-looking coins of different shapes, sizes an’ metals.

I said; I only do silver obols, and he pointed at some of the coins and said; That’s silver, and these ones ‘ere are gold, and that bit of paper is worth twenty of them golds, and in’t that enough?

I figured I maybe should just take what I can get these days. So I says; Aye, alright, I’ll fetch me boat.

And he says; Cheers mate, appreciate it.

And I says; You sure you only want to go ‘alf-way?

And he says; Aye, ‘alf-way.

And I says; What’s in’t bag?

And he says; Never mind about that.

So I gets me smallest boat and we head out. And I must admit, it feels reet good to be back on’t river again.

He says; Just take me to the deepest bit.

And I looks at him and I see he’s got hold of some little rocks and he’s opened’t bag and he’s puttin’ the rocks in there. And every time one of them rocks hits whatever’s inside, I can hear ‘em whining louder, an’ squealing, an’ making this weird little rumbling noise.

I’m not ‘appy about this. I’ve not got a good feelin’. I mean doesn’t he know the etiquette? Doesn’t he know that you’ve gotta treat the ferryman with the utmost respect? That no-one; not the dead, not the living, not the trumped-up heroes, not even’t Gods can disrespect the ferryman. Without me, no-one gets nowhere. Without me, everyone stays the wrong side of the Styx.

So I stop rowing, sit down and he says; Is this it?

And I say; No this in’t it. I says; I ain’t going any further ‘til you tell me what’s in that bag.

And he says; You don’t need to know.

And I says; Yes I do need to know. Unless you wanna spend the rest of your every breath here in this boat, on this river, with me, I do need to know.

And he says; Well I’ll just row myself.

And I says; The Styx won’t let you do that, which is bullshit but it sounds good.

And he stops for a bit. His face goes all red and his gloomy eyes bulge. Then he huffs an’ opens the bag wider.

He says; They’re guinea pigs.

They’re what?

Guinea pigs. Animals. Little rodents.

I look inside and there they are. Three fat furry blobs, all pressed up against each other. One’s white, one’s brown and t’other, smaller one is a patchwork of both colours. The white fella lifts its head and I can see a tiny nose sniffing the air, two black eyes and funny flappy ears on the sides of its ‘ead. They almost don’t look real. Like someone’s drawed ‘em on parchment and they’ve somehow come to life.

So I says; What you doin’ with them?

Getting rid.

Why?

They’re a pain in the arse, that’s why.

I sit back down. I’m hit with this horrible wave of sadness, like the Styx itself has just reached up and swallowed me. I ain’t never seen a guinea pig before, ain’t never ‘eard of ‘em before, but it’s clear that this is not right at all. This bloke is planning on dumping them poor buggers overboard and they won’t have a fightin’ chance in all creation. I can’t imagine those tiny things ever doing any hurt to no-one, least of all this man with his fat neck.

Can’t do that, I says.

I’ll do what I want, he says.

Why can’t you just give ‘em to someone else?

Tried that, no-one wants the bloody things. Fact is, right – and he starts counting this off on his fingers – they’re too bloody expensive, too bloody dirty, too demanding, and they keep getting sick all’t time, and multiplying. They’ve got to go. Nothing else for it. Should never have bothered in’t first place.

Why’d you get ‘em in the first place?

For’t kids, but they’re not interested no more, and youngest is allergic. Look I don’t wanna have to do this, but I’ve got no other choice.

And I’m gripping side of the boat now, proper hard, because of course he had other choices, of course he coulda done more, of course it didn’t have to come to this. I don’t want to be any part of it, so I says so, I tells him; I’m not going to let you do that.

And he stands up. Yes you are mate, he says. I’ve paid you good money for you to do your job. That’s all you’re ‘ere for; rowing. So don’t give me no grief, pick up your fuckin’ oars, take me to the deepest bit, then take me back. That’s it. That’s your job. I’ll let you do what you do, and you let me do what I’ve got to do. Alright?

And that sadness hits me again. The fight goes out of me. He’s right. He’s paid for my services and that’s what I’m bound, by ancient laws, to do. So I pick up the oars, let him sit back down, and I set to the rowin’ again.

Fact is, I don’t know where the deepest bit of the Styx is. I don’t know nothin’ about anything under the surface. In all my years I’ve never had cause to go down, and no-one’s ever come here to measure it. So I takes boat around in a couple of wide circles and stop when I feel like stopping. It’s dark out here, he can’t tell.

All right then, I says.

And he says nothing. He pulls the string tight as it’ll go and lowers the bag to the surface. It bobs there for a second, and I listen hard at those tiny heartbeats as they thump faster, like they know summat bad is coming, and then Styx takes them down, and the bag disappears.

The fella’s long since stopped watching. He looks shrunken now; like by losing the bag he’s somehow lost ‘alf himself too. This ain’t making him happy. I doubt there’s anything that actually makes him happy.

Right then, he says.

It’s my turn to say nothing. Just do what I’m here to do. I row.

He steps ashore and takes one deep breath; in and out. He turns to me.

Listen, he says. Thanks for that, all right? Sorry it had to get a bit… y’know.

He puts his hand out and I copy him. He takes my hand in his an’ squeezes it, just a little too hard.

Which way’s out?

I point him up the slope and he strides away.

I sit for a while, my toes in the water, thinking it all through. Thing is, there’s something he don’t know about the Styx. Something him and his lot must’ve long forgot. Styx ain’t like a normal river. Its waters are just as dead as everything else around ‘ere. But it’s still a living thing too, in a way. It’s the soul of a river, ‘alf-way between life and death, bit like myself. So you can chuck stuff in it, weight it down, but that don’t mean it makes them things dead. The Styx’ll just hold them. Freeze them in time. So likely those guinea pigs are still alive, still wriggling over each other, pushing at them rocks.

And I’m having strange thoughts. I’m thinking; I could just go on in there and fetch ‘em out. Nothin’ stopping me. No rules about it. No-one around to see.

So that’s exactly what I do. Get back in the boat, row to the spot and lower myself in. I can feel the Styx askin’ me a million questions, wondering what in the ages is happening, but I ignore her as only I know how, and put my head under.

It’s as clear as day beneath the surface for my eyes and it don’t take long to find t’bag. And I’m right, the fellas are still wriggling, hearts still goin’. And for’t first time in a long time I feel important. I feel proper important. Not just needed, not essential, but significant. I push myself down to the bag and take it in both hands.

Back on my shore, the guinea pigs are trottin’ around in the little space I’ve made, shaking themselves dry, sniffing the air with their funny snouts, chattering away to each other in their ancient language. I’m mesmerised. Besotted. Big stupid grin on my face.

Everything they do is another tiny delight. Wiping their faces with their front feet. Squaring up to each other. Their shrill little calls; wheek wheek wheek. The littlest one keeps running about doing all these daft little skips.

I says to them; Hey, guinea pigs, if you want to get across you have to pay me one silver obol each.

Wheek, wheek they say, so I’m like; Ah well, you’ll have to stay here wi’ me for’t next hundred years.

But they seem fine about that. So I’ll let them stay. Maybe even longer if I can swing it. Us abandoned ones are best stickin’ together.

And while I’m sitting there thinking of some good names for ‘em, my thoughts drift back to the man. I wonder if he’s realised yet, that I took him to t’other shore. I wonder if he’s fallen foul o’ Cerberus. Perhaps he’s made it all the way to the throne of Hades. The fella’s heart still beats, of course, so he’ll not be allowed to stay down here forever. But Hades can have him for a while. And when our mighty Lord gets bored, he’ll find somewhere else for the bloke. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere cold. Somewhere dark.

I’ll call ‘em Hera, Athena and Hebe. I’m sure the ladies won’t mind.

(c) David Hartley, 2016

David Hartley is a writer and performer from Manchester. His latest collection of weird flash fictions Spiderseed(Sleepy House Press, 2016) very nearly won a Saboteur Award. He can be found online at @DHartleyWriter and com. He has eight rescue guinea pigs who helped him write this story.

 

 

Aged six, Greg Page was cast as Joseph in his infant school nativity. Somebody put a tea towel on his head & he became someone else. He hasn't been himself since. A critic recently compared Greg to the late Sir Alec Guinness, saying “Sir Alec Guinness was a much better actor.”