I used to write journals.

They were diaries, really, but I felt awkward calling them such. I wasn't a wimpy kid, for a start. So, journals. Not daily, because, as much as we're meant to write at least 300 words a day (1,000 if you want to officially think of yourself as a 'proper' writer), sometimes I just couldn't be bothered. I could procrastinate the socks off any task I had to do. Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow, isn't that how the saying goes?

No?

Well, all my journals were of a similar style. Leather bound, with some grotesque image carved into the front cover. A shop in town, one of the few still remaining that wasn't a vape or phone shop, had a whole raft of them in a clearance sale. For some reason, no one wanted what the owner called 'ugly books'. I thought they were fascinating, so bought them all. Twenty or so, each with a unique design. And I began filling them with my thoughts and feelings and experiences.

Even the bad ones.

I was quite pleased I didn't have one with me now. There's nothing exciting about being stuck on a boat with a load of miserable looking farts, none of whom want to even respond to my upbeat 'hello'.

I suppose I couldn't blame them. It wasn't exactly a luxury yacht. There was no bar or sun loungers. There were only long, hard benches to sit on, and only the river water to drink, which I wouldn't recommend. But, if you pay pennies for your passage, you can't expect an ocean liner.

I tried again with the man closest to me. As with the others, he was staring down at his feet with half-open eyes and a sullen, down turned mouth. He appeared to be drifting off to sleep, but unable to manage that final step of dozing off fully. There was no onboard team to keep us entertained, so I could understand his boredom, though he could at least pretend to be interested in the voyage.

"What's your name?" I asked, putting a spark in my voice that I hoped might energise him. "What brings you here?"

He lifted his head by the odd gesture of pushing it up with his hand against his forehead, as if it were a heavy weight and his neck muscles needed some help. He looked at me through those sleepy eyes for a moment, then released his head. It fell back down to its previous position.

I frowned. This wasn't the party boat I'd have chosen, if choice were an option. I shrugged.

"Suit yourself," I muttered. "Just trying to be friendly."

Someone pushed their way through the similarly morose figures, stepping over each seat in turn. A boy. He was dressed the same way we all were, dark clothes to match the overall mood, but his expression wasn't as forlorn. If anything, it was quizzical.

"Mister?" he said when he was in front of me.

"Yes, son?"

"Where are we?"

"Don't you know?"

"No. I... I woke up here. Where is it? I don't like boats. I can't swim."

"Don't worry. It's perfectly safe. You're not likely to go overboard, and I can swim, so you'll be fine."

The chances of any of us falling over the low edge of the boat were minimal. It glided – which I always want to pronounce as glid, like slid – across the water smoothly, carried by the current and guided by the steadily held rudder.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," I said calmly. "What's your name?"

"Stephen," he said, perking up slightly at the question's distraction.

"Hello Stephen. I'm..."

I paused. I couldn't actually remember my name, which was odd. I know I knew who I was, but my name escaped me. I tried singing Happy Birthday to myself, in the hope it would prompt me to fill in the relevant part appropriately, but it didn't work.

"You know, I can't remember. Call me David."

I was sure my name wasn't David, but everyone knew a Dave, so it seemed the best bet.

"OK, David. Do you know where we're going?"

Now that, I could answer. I pointed.

We were approaching a small jetty. A wooden slatted path led up to a massive arched door.

"What's that?" Stephen asked quietly.

"It's our new home," I told him. "Hades."

The boat drifted to a stop and a tall man from at the rear climbed out. He wore a long cloak, with the hood hanging down the back. He walked to near where I was and held out his hand.

"Pay the Ferryman," I told Stephen.

The boy held out a penny, the only thing that had any light in this shadowy underworld. Charon took it and the massive doors slowly opened.