Echoes

I set down my glass and leaned back into the worn leather seat. Everything in England feels old and vaguely superior, as if carefully maintaining its sense of propriety, especially against the intrusion of a jean-clad American collegiate. Smoke swirled through the air. I’d hated it three months ago, but now I couldn’t imagine a pub without the haze. A Townie girl with a green apron wiped down the bar while a television blared a game between two foreign soccer teams. At least it wasn’t cricket.
I looked down again at the newspaper in front of me. Two rapes last week in Headington Park, which, unfortunately, stood between me and my home. I mentally shrugged off the shivers and swilled the last sip of my bitter. I pulled out a 50p to lay on the table, remembered the British No-Tip policy and returned the coin to my pocket. Back to the library.
“Thank you,” I called over my shoulder as I passed out the front door. The bar girl nodded and turned back to the game.
I pulled on my gloves and buttoned up my jacket. Whenever that wind bites, I remember I’m still just a southern Californian wussy. The street lights were turning on and I looked at my watch: 3:55 pm. Each day gets a little bit shorter.
I wandered through some back roads and passed Oriel to arrive on High Street. I carefully looked to my right, then my left, and jogged across the cobblestones. I ducked onto Queen’s Lane, because it’s the shorter way to the Bodleian; unfortunately, it’s also small and winding. To my right, in what might have been the doorway of a church four centuries ago, a man stood with his back to the alley. He was taking a piss. Unbelievable. Charles II or Lewis Carroll might have walked on these very stones and he’s urinating all over them. Not to mention, he’s doing it in public. Oxford is a strange place.
I hadn’t noticed anyone enter the alley, but after I turned the corner, I heard footsteps behind me. Clop-clop-clop-clop; they seemed to follow my own walking pattern. I walked a little faster, and so did the shoes.
Shadows had engulfed the crooked street. I could look up and see the last traces of the navy blue sky or look down and make out the faintest outlines of the stones. I looked at my own feet swinging out and falling back as they propelled me forward. I hitched up the bag at my side and tried to ignore the beat of the soles behind me.
Was she a woman in high heels? Perhaps a professor off to give a lecture, wearing hard, black loafers. My sneakers definitely didn’t make that sound. The echoes bounced around, making it sound like there were five of us walking between the high stone walls.
I wanted to turn around; it would be easy enough. Just turn and look over my shoulder. Or, cough and glance surreptitiously to the side.
A street light, the only one for a hundred yard stretch came into view as I turned to the right. Whoever it was would see me clearly as I passed under it. The trick would be to see them in return after I’d passed through.
I walked on, gauging how far behind me the shoes were, but the echoes made that almost impossible. The orange puddle of light washed over me and I continued on. Four more seconds and the shoes would reach the lamp.
Just then, a third pair of shoes joined us in the alley. They were around the next turn, coming closer. A man stepped out, carrying a backpack slung over his shoulder, eyes on the ground. I realized I’d missed the opportunity to look at my follower; the footsteps were past the light now. This man in front of me, however, might give me a clue as to who was behind me if I could watch his facial expression. I trained my eyes upon him in the gloom, waiting for him to look up. We were within hand-shaking distance when he finally glanced into my face—just a flash of dark eyes, and then his gaze returned to his steps.
Only one more turn to go before I reached a street that had both streetlights and human beings. Something eerily kept me walking, walking straight ahead. The opportunity to look back was gone. Now it was just a matter of getting to the light as fast as possible.
I suppressed a panicked desire to sprint the rest of the way. I lengthened my stride and felt my heart pump in time. Those shoes filled my consciousness; they were louder than he church bells, tolling out the time. Why couldn’t they stop walking or turn back? Clop-clop-clop-clop—the walls threw them at me from every direction.
Five yards. Two. At last, I turned left and saw the Bridge of Sighs silhouetted before me. I panted with relief. Soon the Clarendon building was in view. Then I was under the bridge and I felt the superstitious tension pass from me. I looked backwards… Backwards into an empty alley.