The Well of Tears by Rob Campbell

Author:Rob Campbell [Campbell, Rob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-01-28T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

Try as I might, I couldn’t concentrate on Monday’s lessons. Harold Larkin’s stories about Arthur Curzon and his Satanist group, and then his revelation regarding his belief that someplace called the Well of Tears was hidden in Culverton Beck, seemed far more interesting than Shakesperian sonnets or the indigenous tribes of South America.

The possibilities wormed through my brain like some song that wouldn’t leave me alone. By lunchtime, I felt mentally shattered, and I was relieved that the proposed field trip to the reservoir had been cancelled, meaning that I could leave early and get on with what I really wanted to do.

The truth was that the additional intrigue that Harold had stirred up had given me a convenient excuse to postpone revealing to Monkey the contents of Anja’s text. I reasoned that getting Dylan’s thoughts on the information Harold had provided was far more important than something that had happened to Monkey’s dad more than twenty years ago.

Maybe.

Either way, I pushed Monkey’s family history to the back of my mind and made my way over to Dylan’s. I’d sent Monkey a text explaining that I’d catch up with him later, and his reply indicated that he was happy to let me do the talking for now.

“Harry Toliver?” Dylan said incredulously when I’d relayed the previous day’s conversation. “Here in Culverton Beck?” He offered me a seat in his small front room. With the curtains closed, it wasn’t much lighter than his cellar.

“I know, I couldn’t believe it either.”

“And he mentioned the well first?”

“Yes. He said he was searching for the Well of Tears in Culverton Beck.”

“And you didn’t say the well is the end of things before he mentioned it?” Dylan pressed eagerly.

I found myself biting the edge of my lip nervously. “Err, actually, I think Monkey and I had been talking about it.”

“Ah, so now we get to the nub of it. He must have overheard you.”

I couldn’t understand why Dylan was being so tetchy. I thought he’d be glad that we’d made some important discovery.

“So what if he heard us?” I said hotly. “We didn’t mention this Well of Tears. It was him that said that first.”

“True,” Dylan conceded. “But Harry Toliver. Here? Now?” He had the air of a man who’d discovered a fifty pound note blowing across the street and was so surprised at his sudden good fortune, he had to ask every passer-by if they’d lost it before he could rightfully claim it as his own.

“It’s the break we’ve been looking for, Dylan! I assume that you’ve not been able to work out what the well is the end of things means?”

“No,” he admitted sheepishly. “This Harry Toliver has written some creepy books. Did he say what his interest is in all of this?”

“Says he’s doing some research for his next novel.”

Dylan stroked his chin thoughtfully. I waited for him to say something, but when the silence had stretched to an uncomfortable length, I pressed the issue. “Dylan, he could be helpful.”

“Okay. Let’s get him in here and see what he knows.

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