by Graham Storrs

"Do you know," the saleswoman said, "the markings on each one's tummies are completely unique."

"Gosh," we said, smiling happily at the thought. One little fellow climbed up onto another's back and we all laughed heartily at his antics. "Oh they're so sweet!" It was excruciating. We had to have them. How had we gone so many years without realising just how much we needed a tank full of terrapins? So we bought them. They were cheap too. Well, if you didn't count the cost of the tank, and the water heater, and the filter and the filter pump, and the thermometer, and the gravel, and the rocks, and the bit of weed with a lead weight on it.

"What should we feed them?" we asked, barely white-faced at all despite the shock of the bill so far, knowing that we must bite the bullet to give our new little friends the best possible start. "Bloodworms," the woman said, confidently. "Fine, we'll take a packet," we said, remembering our childhood days of sprinkling pinches of fish-food into little glass bowls. The woman disappeared for a short while and came back with several polythene bags full of wriggling, writhing worms in a pale, pink liquid, like the stuff you rinse your mouth with at the dentist. We looked balefully into her eyes but she stared us down. She knew we'd come too far. "And I thought you might need these too," she smirked, plonking little tubs of dried things onto the counter along with a variety of vitamine supplements. "Thank you," we said, weakly, pulling out the credit card.

It took the rest of the day and half the night to set up the tank and its equipment. We arranged the stones in the gravel with the care of a Frank Lloyd Wright and set our little charges free in their new world. There were two of them: Huey and Dewey. When we asked for four, the saleswoman had looked alarmed and said; "Do you know how big they grow?" Full of anticipation, we watched as Huey and Dewey fled like hunted beasts to the deepest, darkest corner of the tank and hid there, immobile for hours. "They'll get used to it, soon," we comforted each other and went to bed, exhausted and uneasy.

They hardly moved for days. The most excitement we had out of them was when one of the cats managed through great stealth and patience to hook one out of the tank and chase it behind the sofa. "Bit boring, really, aren't they," my wife said. "I don't know why you wanted them in the first place," I said. Later, after the shouting had stopped, we noticed the smell. It was the kind of smell you might expect from a tank of stagnant water in which two small animals had been relieving themselves for several days while well-meaning but stupid humans had been ladling spoonfuls of live and dead organic matter which had been slowly integrating itself with the gravel at the bottom.

"Oh, the poor little things!" we cried, apalled at how badly we were treating them. We rushed them to the sink, tipped out the festering, foetid water, washed and scrubbed the stones, the heater, the filter, the gravel, the tank. Wet and exhausted, we went to bed.

The smell became a regular feature of our lounge. "Try feeding them in a separate tank," the saleswoman suggested. "They can be very messy." After several days of experimentation, it was obvious that they would sooner starve than eat anywhere but in their stinking tank. Pleading with them, shouting at each other and railing at the Heavens had no discernable effect. "We could let them go in the river down the road," I suggested but I knew we couldn't. Neither of us would have the heart for it, however much we were growing to hate the ugly little green monsters.

It was not long after this that my wife decided they looked ill. My spirits soared. Were they dying? In the ensuing battle, our consciences got the better of our judgement and we took them along to the vets'. For half an hour, we sat among the great danes and howling cats clutching our bucket of dying terrapins, feeling like prats.

The vet didn't really know much about terrapins. It wasn't her speciality. Mrs Watson does the exotics. But she knew enough to take the poor little things in for a few days while they gave them vitamine injections and to lecture us at great length on the care and feeding of terrapins. We left, poorer by the cost of a week's shopping, but nevertheless impressed by the vision of someone injecting a two-inch long baby turtle.

After that, we went back several times. We even got to see the exotic Mrs Watson who told us that everything that everyone else had told us was nonsense and gave us yet another lecture. We changed the filtration system completely and bought them a separate tank for feeding in. They still don't eat anything but that doesn't seerm to bother them. The damned things are immortal.

Since the Summer started, the tank has had a problem with algae but I'm past caring. I don't even really notice the smell anymore. Since my wife left me and took the cats, the terrapins are my only company. Huey's quite big now. He goes for my fingers when I try to move him between tanks. It was the first time he did it that my wife walked out. All I said was. "Your fucking turtle's just bitten me! I don't know why we couldn't have got tropical fish like I wanted to!" Maybe it was the constant, brain-numbing hum from the air pump. Sometimes it seems to fill your whole head. Anyway, she screamed, snatched up Tigger and Pooh and left. What the Hell? The buggers would never sit on my lap anyway.