Three middle-aged women barely deserved a second glance, even when dressed up for a night out in Oxford City. Strangers bustled around them, intent on taking photographs, checking their guidebooks and maps, only exclaiming slightly as one of the women suddenly halted, her attention caught by a faded poster stuck to the wall, under the iconic Bridge of Sighs.
Lizzy peered into the darkness, then swapped her distance glasses for reading ones to get a clearer view.
1 HOUR GHOST TOUR: PREPARE TO BE THRILLED!
Her two friends, Victoria and Belinda, towered over her, their strong perfumes instantly transporting Lizzy back twenty years.
“That looks hilarious!” Victoria said, stabbing the poster with beautifully manicured nails. “Why did we never do one of those tours at university? How about we do one right now?”
She hasn’t changed a bit, Lizzy thought, memories hurtling back to Victoria’s impulsive decisions to drop out of lectures for lazy days, punting on the river, or at night, to attend impromptu parties in stranger’s houses. At eighteen years old, it had seemed wildly exciting, albeit quite dangerous, to know the vibrant Victoria Benham. At forty, it was frankly exhausting.
“It might be a laugh. I’m in, if you two are. Whatever.” Belinda shrugged, managing to look and sound indifferent, yet coolly ready for any experience that came her way, in her floaty kaftan, gold bangles and expensive sandals. Her dark eyes swept over Lizzy’s face, as if challenging her to disagree.
Lizzy eyed her, resentfully. Yes, that had always been Belinda’s mantra. Never quite owning any decisions but adapting to any eventuality that came her way with a maddening nonchalance, as if nothing really mattered or touched her.
“It’s just another rip-off walking tour,” Lizzy said, trying not to sound petulant. “Oxford’s full of them; you know that. Can’t we just go for drinks?” She nearly added, I’m too tired and old for this, but held the words in.
Her feet were aching in high-heeled shoes she hadn’t worn for a year, and she was already regretting this yearly reunion with her old University friends, Victoria and Belinda. After all, what did they really have in common, except for those few short months at Oxford together, two decades ago? She’d almost called it off, after a particularly tiring day with her first-year students, and had only dragged herself out from a sense of obligation.
“Come on, Lizzy, put your big girl pants on and go wild!” Victoria ordered, flinging her athletic arms out, shaking her long braids out as if she was letting loose at a concert.
Lizzy shushed her old friend, laughing despite herself at the idea of herself ever going wild. She’d always been the nerdy, sensible one, making sure they had regular meals, got some essays done, took contraception on time; brushed teeth before lectures; the important things in life.
She looked round automatically to see if any of her students were lurking in the street’s cobblestoned alleyways, leading to an ancient, popular pub. The last thing she needed was to have some twenty-year-old wise guy whispering about the professor’s big girl pants during her next lecture on contrasting attitudes to marriage and sexuality during the Victorian era.
“I don’t think wild is the right word, Victoria. Exhausting is more like it. Two hours trailing around Oxford will wear us out!” She didn’t add that she’d have to be up early in the morning, to feed her ex-husband’s cat while he went away with his new wife. Wild was definitely not the word to describe her life these days.
“Not just any walking tour, a ghost tour,” Vicky said, pointing again to the poster. “Whoooooo…” she hooted, raising well-toned arms in an attempt to look frightening. “Bumps in the dark, thrills, the lot. Come on, it’ll be a giggle.”
“May as well,” Belinda agreed. “It starts at 8pm, by the Sheldonian, so we’ve got time for Lizzy to gather courage.”
There it was again, that slight edge to Belinda’s words, followed by that disingenuous smile. Lizzy bristled.
“And it’s bound to be historical; right up your street,” Victoria urged.
Despite feeling manipulated, Lizzy still felt a jolt of gratitude. So Victoria had listened when she told her about her specialism. That meant a lot, even after all these years.
She found herself giving in to Victoria’s infectious enthusiasm. After all, it was rare to be out for an evening with friends, and two hours was hardly anything to give up in an entire year, was it?
A hooded figure greeted them, his flag displaying a faded image of a white ghost with a mournful expression. “Prepare for the thrill of your life!” he droned in a monotone.
Lizzy snorted with derision. This was obviously some disinterested student, trying to earn a few extra pounds. “He’s not exactly selling it,” she murmured.
“I’m bored alreday,” Belinda said.
“Three tickets, please,” Victoria said, ignoring them both.
“Are we your only customers?” Lizzy asked.
The figure nodded. “You are.” He folded the flag up and tucked it inside his hoodie pocket. His dark eyes flickered over them all, landing lastly on Lizzy, lingering there. “Are you really ready for this?”
Lizzy felt icy cold tendrils tickling her neck, her pale, bare arms. She adjusted her pashmina scarf until it was wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl, nodding firmly.
“Then, let’s begin the story,” he said, gesturing the three women to follow as he zoomed away on his electric scooter.
Lizzy sighed, tempted to remove the stiletto shoes to manage the mix of uneven paving slabs and cobblestones. Why were the young so annoying and why was Oxford so old?
The young man led them back to the Bridge of Sighs in New College Lane, where the faded poster now flapped in the evening breeze.
The narrow street was deserted now, tourists now overflowing the pubs and hotels. The bridge cast a long shadow over the small group, the young guide’s face hidden in the darkness as he began speaking in a slow, eerie tone.
“This is the legend of the murdered students.”
“What?” Lizzy looked up at him, sharply. “There is no such legend.”
“Oh, but there is,” he replied. “One night, long, long ago, there were three young women,”
“Like us!” Victoria laughed.
“Three young women at Oxford University, studying hard for their future.”
Belinda grinned. “Definitely not like us.”
“Speak for yourself,” Lizzy muttered. “I always worked hard.”
“The three women were friends, despite being so different. One was confident, one was relaxed, one was quiet and restrained.”
“See, I told you. Like us!” Victoria said.
“Shush,” Lizzy urged. “I want to hear him.”
“Ooh!” laughed Victoria. “Taking it a bit seriously, aren’t you?”
Belinda smirked.
“Yet, they gravitated towards each other. This bridge was their regular meeting place.”
“Like us, again!” Victoria smiled, wrapping long, smooth arms around Belinda and Lizzy’s shoulders.
“Legend has it that something happened one dark, autumnal night, something to change their friendship forever.”
“What?” Lizzy gulped, her lips drying. “What happened?”
The young man gestured the three women further along the lane, turning into a dark alleyway, where only the dim lantern light illuminated their rapt faces.
“A young man arrived that year, a figure of considerable interest to the young women of Oxford. A dark soul, full of poetry and passion.”
Christopher, Lizzy thought, instantly transported back through the years. Images of him coloured her view, as she remembered standing in this very alleyway, close enough to smell him, close enough to reach out a trembling hand to touch his, close enough to see his surprised and scornful gaze, before he leant towards her.
“Sounds like a dish,” Belinda drawled.
And you loved him too, Lizzy thought, though you pretended not to care. Your dark, hungry eyes followed him constantly, as he stared off into the distance, towards the only girl who ever really captured his interest.
“A complete dreamboat,” Victoria agreed. “So then what happened?”
The hooded man pointed the way and the women followed, silently, as he led them to Catte Street, halting under the looming Radcliffe Camera.
“The young man dallied with all three of the women, promising each that she was the one.”
Lizzy removed her shoes, stretching her bare feet on the cobbled tones, just as she had all those years ago, the night air freeing her from inhibition. She remembered his kiss on her bare shoulder, and her desperate longing for him, her sorrow as his eyes darted away from hers.
“One night, he invited only one of them to an impromptu party. She was determined to go.”
Victoria laughed. “Now, that does sound like me.”
“She couldn’t wait to see him, reckless in her desire. Her friends followed her, worried for her safety.”
No, thought Lucy, that wasn’t how it was. She remembered remonstrating with Victoria, telling her she was drunk and out of control. They’d all been out drinking that night, and Victoria had already had enough to sink an entire ship.
Was I really concerned for her? Lizzy thought. A small internal whisper told her the truth; she had not been able to bear the thought of Victoria meeting up with Christopher, kissing him, sleeping with him, an inevitability with the way she looked and the way he looked at her. By then, it had been perfectly clear that Christopher had lost any fleeting speck of interest in Lizzy. She knew she had only been a vessel for him to meet her more glamorous friend, Victoria.
Belinda had joined in with the lecturing tone, much to Lizzy’s surprise.
“Vic, you’re asking for trouble. You don’t know most of these people. You could end up getting attacked, raped or murdered. That crowd are into drugs too, you know, including your precious Christopher.”
Lizzy had turned to stare at her, surprised at the bitter tone. Had she too been scorched by him?
“So what?” Victoria said, swaying slightly, grabbing the iron railing to balance herself. “At least they all know how to have a good time. Why can’t you just live a little? Put on your big girl pants! Go wild! Or are you too scared, too boring?”
She clambered up onto the top, her beautiful, statuesque body leering above them, like a Greek goddess.
“You’re being stupid,” Belinda said, shrugging. “But it’s your funeral. I don’t care what you do.”
“Get down, Victoria!” Lizzy screamed. “It’s not safe!”
Victoria laughed. “You’re such children. No wonder Christopher lost interest in the pair of you. Why don’t you just go home, like good little girls.”
Something snapped then. Lizzy remembered hands, hers or Belinda’s or perhaps both, pushing and pulling at Victoria’s lithe body, dragging her down to the ground. We were helping her, saving her from herself, Lizzy reasoned. We were hating her, punishing her, her mind screamed.
Victoria’s legs had buckled suddenly, losing balance as her friends shook her from her perch. She had tumbled down on to cold flagstones with a sickening thump, her skull crashing to the floor, spilling a stream of scarlet blood. Her cruel words were silenced forever.
“The two women were left in a quandary, not knowing what to do. Were they innocent? Were they guilty? Somewhere a line had been crossed, and they could never return.”
Belinda had backed away, dark eyes clouding over. “What have you done?”
“Me!” Lizzy ran towards her, almost tripping in her haste. “No, no, no … you can’t make me take the rap for this. Please. We’ve got to stick together, Belinda.”
“Together?” Belinda pondered the word. “No, Lizzy. There is no ‘together’ about it. You’re the one they’ll go for. He was your boyfriend, and she took him away from you. Simple”
“And from you,” Lizzy spat back. “I know you two had a thing too.”
“A thing?” Belinda laughed, shrugging. “Victoria was right about that – you are such a child. No-one’s going to believe I’d kill someone over a fling. Whereas you – boring, little, unloved Lizzy, dumped by the only boy who ever paid you any attention. Yes, that’s totally believable.”
“As the words drip-dripped themselves into the young woman’s mind, anger boiled within her. Fuelled by drink and fury, she tore at her friend’s throat. The sound of another skull crashing to the ground echoed around the square. The bells of St Mary’s rang out as the remaining woman ran away, never to be discovered.”
Lizzy stood trembling, clutching the low stone wall surrounding St Mary’s church, her heart pounding as the bells began to chime. “Then what?”
The hooded man stared at her. “Legend has it, that the remaining woman married that young man, comforting him in his grief.”
Christopher, Lizzy thought, the old, familiar ache gripping her. Hidden inside his pain and sorrow, unreachable and coldly indifferent.
The man beckoned her again to follow him, up Catte Street, past the Radcliffe camera, up through the Sheldonian theatre’s echoing courtyard, out onto Broad Street.
Lizzy trailed behind him, dull eyes taking in the gargoyles, the grandeur of the iconic buildings, sights she had seen almost every day for the last twenty years. They stopped outside one of the college gates, her workplace, and she turned to him, frowning.
“Why here?”
“The legend goes that the young woman never went further than these few streets for the rest of her days, unhappy and trapped by her secret crimes.”
Lizzy trembled, pulling the pashmina tighter to block out the sudden chill sweeping down the street.
“And every year, on a cold, autumnal night, she takes a trip to her old haunts, where her unfortunate friends met their end. If you look hard, you might find her, peering into the darkness, hugging her loneliness to her like a scarf, under the Bridge of Sighs.”