The Backtraps - Part II

catch up with part one here . . .

Author’s note

Over the years, I dug up several more incidents reported around the world:

Tutaekuri River, Napier, NZ. 1998. Males aged 14, 27, 41. Equipment and vehicle abandoned. Hiking boot found downstream. Toenail inside.

Ouche River, Dijon, France. 2001. Males 15, 17, 17. One shoe, one toenail with a shredded piece of toe attached.

Little Vaal River, Ermelo, South Africa. 2003. M 19, 20, 20. One shoe, no toenail. (Boys possibly barefoot).

Tonlé San River, Kok Lak, Cambodia. 2007. M 14, 14, 13, 12. Some kind of shoe thing, no toe/toenail.

Fuerte River, Tehueco, Mexico. 2014. M 23, 18, 15. One trainer, one scrambled toe/toenail husk.

Phew! Obviously a pattern is evident. Missing fishermen, abandoned equipment +/- vehicle. A solitary shoe/trainer/etc (with mangled toe +/- its nail) found in nearby water except in areas of a lower socio-economic standing, or where the footwear type/culture/area’s climate made it less likely that a toe would be found.

The other recurring factor: a lack of witnesses.

Except me!

Well, I reckon you can imagine how this made me feel. It’s giving me goosebumps right now! Haha. My skin is as white as Mum’s!

Ach, well.

The more I pieced together the global reports of Shakespeare’s feeding frenzies, a great sense of power passed through me. I don’t know if that’s a good thing, to be frank. But’s that how it was.

I became way more expansive with my Shakespeare research. Widened the parameters of my Google search, went back in time (Via VPNs, of course. I’ve gotten really clued-up with the online world!)

The first repeat incident I found was Bareilly, 1922. An article I found in British India Press told of two young men fishing the same stretch of river that the boys of ’97 were placed. Like the ’97 boys, they were out at dusk, seeking mahseer. I reckon they may even have hooked one before they disappeared.

A solitary sandal was found snagged on reeds in the margins of the Ramganga, a couple of miles downstream.

Blimey!

1992

Tom’s gleeful cry of “I’m in!” pulses around the Backtraps; “Jesus, it’s huge!” is quickly added as the barbel tears upstream. Mut and Tom reel in their untouched bait. Dav joins the boys on the water’s edge.

Mut grins, bashes Tom on his arm. “Woah, that’s gonna be a fucking biggie, mate!”

Edward dumps his rod alongside the bivvy and seeks out the landing net as Tom plays the fish, ignoring Mut’s advice on how to bring it to the riverbank; he is by far the most capable fisherman and lets the barbel takes small runs of line, happy to let it foray a few yards upstream, but refrains it from diving into the rocks and weed patches further along.

He lets the barbel seek refuge in this pool, knowing it will need its young, powerful muscles to be overwhelmed before it gives in; it must believe it will die otherwise.

The barbel is tiring but makes another attempt to propel itself upstream. It wants to head away from the Backtraps and lose itself among the cabbage-like weeds of the main river where it feels like a king, where it is now big and strong enough that not even a pike would try to overpower it.

Tom keeps it in check, the reel open, the line supple; too taut and it will break. He is ready for this moment, and as the barbel’s energy levels dip, he reels it in to his swim.

With shaking, frozen hands, Edward extends the aluminium pole and somehow erects the landing net. He garbles, “Got the net,” as he stumbles past Mut and Dav, who he sees share a sick little grin, which he hates. He fights away an urge to let this supress his enthusiasm in helping land the barbel, as its head breaches the surface, its red eyes electrified by the lamp light that Dav has plucked from the bivvy and is holding out over the water.

The barbel is exhausted and resigned. Tom grins; can see that the fish is smaller than his brother’s catch, but impressive all the same. He reels the fish in until it is within six feet of the bank, his heart thumping as he coerces its broken spirit closer.

Edward dunks the net in the water, slides it towards the fish. He is more nervous than Tom. He senses Dav and Mut’s eyes upon him as the barbel’s head is tugged towards his net. He can hear Tom saying, yeah, Ed landed it . . . he will ask to hold it and be snapped with the ancient Polaroid camera hidden among Tom’s gear, the same one that took Mikey’s picture.

Edward screams as the stream explodes. From upstream, thousands of gallons of water are forced into the dark air and rocks spritz out from the riverbed. One smashes him high on his left arm. The landing net flies from his grip, crashes into the bivvy behind him. A swirl of icy water blasts him with violent force, knocks him past the bivvy. He lands on his back and blacks out.

Author’s note.

As a pattern began to crystalise, I even paid a monthly subscription to an online search portal that allowed me to dig around old newspaper reports that would otherwise be archived beyond my reach. It’s amazing what £7.99 a month can get you. Happily, my first 14 days were free. Bonus!

Within a few days of taking out the subscription I have made quite the compilation of Shakespeare’s feeding history:

Wenatchee 1862, 1919, 1988. (13 males disappeared total)

Bareilly 1865, 1922, 1990. (11)

Loudwick Mill 1867, 1924, 1992(!). (9)

Napier 1866, 1923, 1998. (11)

Dijon 1869, 1926, 2001. (8)

Ermelo 1871, 1928, 2003. (7)

Kok Lak 1875, 1932, 2007. (9)

Teheuco 1882, 1939, 2014. (10)

Which meant, if my working out was right . . . THAT SHAKESPEARE WAS DUE IN WENATCHEE ON DECEMBER 20, 2020!!!

I was a right state when December 20, 2016 came around! It was only a Tuesday but I had booked the whole week off; with Christmas following, I had the best part of two weeks - which could be necessary! -for me to calm myself. If what I thought could happen DID happen, I would be in possession of rather sensational knowledge.

I would have cracked Shakespeare’s feeding pattern!

Wow, huh. Haha!

I kept my devices switched off all Monday, like I was building up anticipation. Mum kept herself out of my way, which was good of her. She can be such a pain. I held out until TEATIME Wednesday, at which point I assimilated all the pings and beeps that told me of recent WENATCHEE WASHINGTON STATE NIGHT BOYS MEN FISHING DEATH DISAPPEARANCE notifications.

Of which there were already several! They’re several hours behind over there but, dear me, reporting is getting faster and faster these days.

The articles spelt out that three late-teens in Wenatchee had disappeared on a overnight fishing trip along the Wenatchee River: poof, gone. Footwear found downstream, etc. But this time a few forum posts I found pointed that the incident was remarkably similar to the brothers’ disappearance of ’88. Same date an’ all, drawled a couple of trolls. Haha! Americans can type up their drawling and go all out all-caps with the best of ‘em!

Luckily the kind that populate American conspiracy theory forums tend to disregard the rest of the world’s plight.

Am I the only one who knows, I asked myself, more than once.

1992

The other boys are dead already. By taking the brunt of the water, Edward has survived. He comes to and the sight of what looks like an oversized, living, bubble wrap - with terribly thin, unnaturally strong arms with outsized pincers at the ends - holds Mut’s decapitated body in front of it.

Inside its mouth - a black slit as wide as a bike – is Mut’s head, which the thing swallows down into a central channel in the middle of the bubble wrap. The head is absorbed through the wall of the channel, as easy as sucking flavour from a Slush Puppy. Mut’s body is dropped and crashes onto the sand. The bivvy has been partially uprooted and lays uselessly on its side, like an abandoned, broken umbrella.

Edward’s brain records the ensuing events that his mind cannot percieve. Mut’s head is only one of many within the ghastly bubble wrap. Dozens of human heads are trapped within the bubbles, like frog spawn. His brain records the mouths, contorted open in eternal terror. Notes that the skins encompass all races, all colours. The lack of warmth in their eyes.

That the heads are suspended in the bubbles in a clear gel, which is peppered with black dots that float like inverse snowflakes in a dystopian snow globe.

The occasions where their eyeballs – insanely white amid the darkness around them - seem to pop out, to attempt to swim towards the wall of their own bubble. To come to him. At their closest, it records that their irises are fixed on his.

It records that they are alive.

Author’s note

By December 2018 I was a little bit arrogant, all told. When Bareilly came and went with four dead young men announced on Dec 21st, I was kind of riddled with a feeling that started with a rather muted excitement, dipped its toe in sadness, buzzed for a long time with power, then died out with an introspective anger I don’t care to detail right now.

That horrible feeling has not left my side since the Bareilly boys died. All of its emotions rage beyond my control at differring time. Of these, my sadness has - permanently, I reckon - increased.

Since Covid-19 and my subsequent furloughing (not many consider what I do to be a key role in a pandemic society – myself included. No one needs me.) I’ve had almost unlimited time to research and record Shakespeare’s adventures over time. I reckon he’s been up to his tricks since – this did make me smile for once, upon realising it – Shakespeare’s day. (William of course!)

Maybe I should call MY Shakespeare, “The Bard of the Backtraps!”

😊

1992

Some of the heads seem old, so old and wizened they must have been their for decades, maybe centuries. The gel has let them age, has allowed time to ravage their skin. The thing is keeping them as eternal prisoners. None of the heads can turn enough to see another. They are alone, together.

Now it raises his head so his eyes can record more. That among the broken bivvy and displaced groundsheets is laid not only Mut’s body, but Dav and Tom’s headless bodies, too. Tom’s right hand is still clutching his reel.

The thing has finished with the boys’ heads, and is moving towards him.

His eyes search for those of the thing. It must have eyes. It is close enough, moving slowly enough for Edward’s brain to recognise Mut’s head, forever wiped of his sick little grin. Mut’s irises fix on his.

The thing sees through its captives’ eyes.

The thing flops on to the bodies. The thing absorbs the dead boys, a sick, sucking sound its horrific byproduct.

Even though he’s about to die, Edward marvels at the thing while the black box recorder of his brain duly filming his final minutes.

It seems to be brightening, as if feeding instils it with phosphorous. He sees that the thing’s outer layers are darkening as it absorbs the skin blood organs of his friends.

Edwards waits to die.

The thing stops. It is swollen with the boys’ corpses and clothing and keeps perfectly still for a few seconds, before slithering up towards Edward and nestling against him. It seems curious as to his form. Its terrible black slit of a mouth falls open and the odour comes now. Like maggots, thinks Edward. Tinged with ammonia.

The mouth emits a strangled cry. The arm brushes againt Edward’s face then spears inside its own, awful mouth and pulls out Tom’s reel. Holds it up, centimetres from Edward’s brow.

His brain arbitrarily records Shakespeare – the reel’s manufacturer – as its final duty.

Edward does the only thing he can think of. He screams,

“SHAAAAAAAAAAAKESPEEEEEEAAAAARRREEEEEEE!”

The thing keeps still for a minute. Then a fresh wave of sweet maggoty breath climbs over Edward’s face, pervades its cavities like a sick and poisonous fog.

-shakespeare, it says, in a low whisper.

Edward screams again, louder:

“SHAAAAAAAAAAAKESPEEEEEEAAAAARRREEEEEEE!”

The thing repeats its agonising stillness, then again whispers,

-shakespeare.

Edward screams once more. Louder.

The pattern repeats. Pause. Response. Scream

Edward’s brain is firing an urge to live. He screams.

Scream, pause, response.

Again.

A tumble of footsteps come to a cacophony behind Edward and the thing, which lays flat on the groundsheets as Woolly and Flatcap charge to Edward’s side, Flatcap’s lamp casting a macabre light on the proceedings.

“Fucking hell, mate, what’s going on . . . we heard all kinds of scream . . . OH MY BLOODY . . . ”

Woolly’s words are cut off as the thing – Shakespeare – rises from the beach and shoots its arms out at the two men. It summarily decapitates the two, whose bodies fall on top of Edward. Through the spurting blood he catches glimpses of their heads being swallowed and engorged inside bubbles of their own.

Shakespeare slithers on top of the two and absorbs their bodies, their clothes, their lives.

Edward whispers, -Shakespeare.

-shakespeare, whispers Shakespeare.

And disappears.

Author’s note

It’s December 17th, and nearly 28 years to the day that the Loudwick five disappeared. I’ve spent a lot of this year wondering where Shakespeare goes in the years between feasts. Whether they are bigger, older. If Dav and Mut and Tom’s heads will have aged when they return to Loudwick Mill. I still see the heads of the others from the last century-and-a-half, suspended like tadpoles in those diaphonous bubbles, ageless, helpless. Alone, together.

My mum died in the autumn – I sort of killed her, really - so I knew that Christmas is going to be lonely-a-bonely.

Ah well. I’ve been talking up the Backtraps, fibbing about how many barbel I’ve caught there when night-fishing when I’ve been talking to the young men who fish Loudwick Mill these days. They don’t have a clue who I am, or have the foggiest idea of what happened there back in ’92, I reckon.

But they’ll see. And it’ll be nice to see Tom and the others again.

***

December 21st, 2020.

I reckon I’m done. That was beyond grotesque. Haha!

Ach, well.

☹

JS Harding is a novelist and humour writer who has written for BBC Comedy and NewsThump. His psychological thriller, Under Rand Farm, written under the pen name LJ Denholm is available via Amazon, while his forthcoming humour novel, The Good Dr Grevaday? is slated for release in early 2022.