Mabel
Of all the things I’d done over the last few months– some of them of dubious legality, or which at least broke all the rules I’d set for myself–this felt by far the most dangerous.
Stopping outside the main door, I checked the pockets of my coat for the hundredth time. I didn’t want to risk pressing record on my phone. If Blake had sussed it immediately, Ashton probably would too. Better to make nice with him for a while before I got down to the important questions. And that meant letting the evening begin the way he wanted. Whatever that was.
With a deep breath, I reached for the handle and opened the door. After Ashton’s visit yesterday, part of me had been expecting him not to show up. I’d assumed even he would realise how ridiculous this was. But as I came outside, I saw him: standing in the middle of the grass, dressed in pale clothing, so that he was visible immediately even in the dusk.
His coat was open, his college scarf wound loosely around his neck. He smiled as I walked up and gave him a subdued greeting. ‘Fancy a stroll before we go to dinner? There’s a stall that sells mulled wine just outside Trinity College. We could grab some and wander around for a bit.’
My first impulse was to walk straight back the way I’d come. The thought of him somehow directing us to an area that was deserted was unnerving. There were always people around the college in the evenings, but still, Ashton would no doubt have figured out somewhere ‘suitable’.
‘The non-alcoholic kind. And I’ll get it.’
I saw Ashton suppress a grin, and he gestured for me to lead on. ‘I expected nothing less.’
Snow began to drift down as we left the stall and set off through Trinity Hall. Forgotten Christmas lights still hung between the trees that lined the paths, and the buildings glittered in the hazy moonlight. Every now and then, we passed students bundled up in winter jackets and woolly scarves that hid their faces.
Ashton was much better at small talk than I was. He asked me questions and filled gaps in the conversation with anecdotes about the university and its history, which I would probably have found interesting if I hadn’t been so focused on watching his behaviour rather than on his words. But… there wasn’t anything. He seemed genuinely normal: open, friendly, obliging. Which was precisely why I grew uneasier by the minute.
We reached the Bridge of Sighs, the most beautiful bridge in the whole university. St John’s College had been founded in 1511, but in the nineteenth century the grounds were expanded to the west side of the river, and a bridge was built to connect the older areas with the new. Today, the covered bridge, built in a Victorian Gothic style, was one of Cambridge’s most famous landmarks. Pretty much every punting tour passed beneath it on the Cam, and by day the bridge itself was thronged with students and tourists alike.
Now, in the gloom of a January evening, it, too, felt deserted, although there were at least lights on in the building we passed through to reach it, and the bridge itself was also lit, colouring the stone a warm ochre that was mirrored in the river.
Ashton stopped by the archway at the midpoint, looking out through the gaps in the metal grille. From here you could see the banks of the Cam, and more bridges. Barren meadows, bare, low-hanging branches, wan tracks that petered out into nothingness. The bridge itself opened on both sides onto colonnaded walkways that led to more college buildings and courtyards. I knew what a beautiful place it was, but right now I could only think how lonely it all felt.
‘This has always been my favourite spot, out of everywhere in the whole university,’ Ashton said after a moment of silence.
‘I never thought I’d hear you say anything so clichéd.’Imoved closer to him. The bridge was fully enclosed, after all– he couldn’t throw me over the edge. ‘You know this was Queen Victoria’s favourite spot, too.’
He turned to face me, leaning his shoulder against the bars. ‘It was named after a bridge in Venice, did you know that?’
I nodded, folding my arms. One look at the deep black water below me and I felt it tugging at my feet. ‘They’re not very similar, though, architecturally speaking. Except that they’re both covered. And I also know that some people say it’s only called the Bridge of Sighs because students crossing it thinkoftheir upcoming exams and sigh in frustration. And that– twice –students have floated a car underneath it using lashed-together punts and hoisted it up to dangle from the bridge.’ At moments like this, I understood why people called me a know-it-all. But the truth was, stating facts kept the gnawing unease at bay. I didn’t say things like this to impress other people, I said them to keep myself together, to stop myself from crumbling and losing focus.
Ashton raised his eyebrows appreciatively. ‘1963 and 1968, to be precise. You really do know a lot about this university.’
I took a step back, away from the balustrade and from him. ‘Not everything.’
‘No, definitely not everything.’ He smirked and took a sip of punch. ‘I think what I’ve always liked so much about this bridge is that it shares its name with something else yet it’s totally unique. Makes me believe in individuality, even though this world does its very best to grind down its inhabitants and make them all alike.’
‘And I thought you considered yourself a one-off.’ I couldn’t resist the note of mockery.
Ashton sighed, leaning back against the wall. ‘You really don’t trust me an inch, do you?’
‘Did you think telling me something personal would change that?’
‘No, probably not. I’m just trying to get to know you.’ Ashton sipped again at his mulled wine. The berries darkened his lips, but his eyes were still bright and friendly. ‘I’m sure we must havesomethingin common, if we look hard enough.’
‘Like what?’
‘Let me think.’ He grinned softly, the expression at odds with his next words. ‘Like a dead mum. Mine died ages ago. How and when did yours die?’
I tilted my head, confused, and the pearls on my hairpin cast a speckled light across our faces. Very briefly I thought of Blake, of the tiny moonspots on the bridge of his nose. I screwed up my eyes until the memory faded. ‘Car accident. I was fourteen.’ I shook my head. ‘But if that’s all we have in common, I’m not sure it’s a very promising start.’
‘Why not? That stuff has a huge impact. The early losses in our lives are the worst. The first time you lose someone in such a final way, it’s a sharp lesson in how much pain you’re capable of feeling. It’s fascinating and also terrifying how powerful the mind is. How badly emotional pain can wound you. More intensely and lastingly than the physical kind ever could.’ He sounded more grave than usual, calmer somehow. As if the words came straight from the windless depths of his heart. Although I hadn’t meant to, I began to let my guard down. This was the first time I’d seen an emotion in Ashton that felt entirely real. I hadn’t expected it to be sadness, of all things. ‘Who else have you lost, besides her?’
He was quiet, gazing into his cup. Then he lifted it abruptly and downed its contents. ‘Lots of people.’ He wiped his mouth and then the fake smile was back. ‘At some point I lost count.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I didn’t have to lie, whatever I might think of Ashton. I knew how much that kind of pain could change a person, and at that moment I found myself wondering reluctantly how much of Ashton’s manner was shaped by it. Who he would have been if he could have answered ‘no one’, like you’d hope most people our age could. Like you’d hope anyone could.
