Oxford
The sixth day

After two solid days of study, Ben felt ready to breathe some air again. The sun was shining through his window, and he felt the tug of the outdoors. Back in Ireland, he made a point of running ten miles every day.

He put on jogging pants and a T-shirt and walked briskly into town, where he picked his way through the shoppers in Cornmarket and walked down towards his old college, Christ Church. Entering through the main gates, he found himself looking across the vast main quadrangle. He took a deep breath.

He walked across the quad, gazing around him at the regal old sandstone buildings as they caught the gold of the sun. Distant memories flooded back. In the centre of the quad, surrounded by neat lawns and perched above an ornate stone fountain, stood the familiar statue of Mercury the winged messenger. He walked past it, trotted up some steps to the far side of the quad and headed for an arched entrance. Tucked away behind it was the smallest cathedral in England, which doubled as the college chapel. Ben hadn’t planned on going in, but now he felt himself drawn to the place. He slipped in through the door.

At the far end of the cathedral, a morning service was in progress. Ben didn’t recognise the priest in the pulpit, but he was sure he’d be meeting him sooner or later in the course of his studies. The man’s voice was solemn and gentle as he read from the Gospel of St Matthew. His words echoed off the thirteenth-century columns and walls and drifted up to the magnificently ornate ceiling. The small congregation was clustered near the front, listening attentively.

Ben stepped quietly across the polished mosaic floor, took a seat near the entrance and watched and listened from a distance. He tried to imagine himself standing there in the pulpit, wearing the dog collar and that earnest expression, conducting the service. That was his planned future up there: the role he was supposed to be preparing for, something that had been part of his life, on and off, for as long as he could remember.

Sitting here now, it seemed hard to imagine. He’d wanted this thing so much, dreamed of it so often – but was it really within his grasp to make it happen?

He stayed a few minutes longer in the cathedral, bathing in the soft light from the stained-glass windows, head bowed, letting the serene atmosphere penetrate deep inside him. Then he very quietly got up and slipped back outside into the sunlit quadrangle.

He turned left and made his way towards the sprawling meadow behind Christ Church. He jogged for half an hour, making himself feel the burn in his calf muscles as he ran along the towpath by the river. Then, satisfied that he wasn’t letting himself become too unfit, he jogged back towards the college.

He was so deep in thought as he walked back through the main quad that he didn’t see anyone approach.

‘I was hoping I might bump into you,’ a voice said.

Ben turned and saw the tall, grey-haired, tweedy figure of Professor Tom Bradbury approaching. He hadn’t seen Bradbury since his interview six weeks before with the Faculty Admissions board.

‘Professor. How are you?’

Bradbury smiled. ‘Call me Tom. I think we’ve known each other long enough for that.’

Tom Bradbury and Ben’s father, Alistair Hope, had been at Cambridge together. The friendship between a devout theology scholar and a law student might have seemed unlikely, but it had lasted many years and only ended when Ben’s father had died. That had been the year Ben broke off his studies and joined the army. He had few fond memories of that time, but he’d always remembered Tom Bradbury even though he’d lost contact with him all those years ago. As a teenage student he’d come to think of him as an uncle. His presence had always been warm and reassuring, with the aromatic smell of pipe tobacco ingrained in his clothes. His tutorials had been the liveliest of all the classes Ben could remember. His speciality was the Old Testament – scripture that was so ancient and dense and obscure that it was hard to bring to life. But Professor Bradbury could do that, and the students had loved him.

‘I wanted to talk to you,’ Bradbury said. ‘Are you free tomorrow lunchtime?’

‘I had a date with Descartes,’ Ben smiled. ‘But lunch with you sounds a lot more appealing.’

‘Wise choice,’ Bradbury said. ‘Not my favourite philosopher, I have to say. I was thinking you could come over to our place.’

‘Still up in Summertown?’

Bradbury nodded. They agreed on a time, and the professor smiled weakly and headed off towards his rooms in Canterbury Quad. Ben watched him walk away. Bradbury was a sprightly, upright sixty-three. He was normally jovial and full of life, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. But today he was different. There was something missing. He looked old and weary, subdued. Was he ill? If that was the case, why invite someone for lunch the next day? Something was wrong.