The Passage (3 page)

“Catholic, you say?  Well, I don’t suppose the Good Lord would mind if I were just acting, would he now?  It would be great fun, mind,” he added, beaming at me.

“I’ll have a word with the director,” I whispered confidentially, despite the fact that we were quite alone in the church.

“Really?”

“I promise.  Now, would it be possible to see the crypt?” I asked as I stuffed my gloves into my pockets and pulled the camera out of my bag.  Lawrence Spellman would want pictures from every angle so that he could plan out his scene.

“Oh yes, of course.  No one ever really goes down there anymore, but it’s quite impressive.  A few ancient Everlys are interred there, and there’s even a knight who returned from the Crusades only to die a week later of the fever.  He has a lovely effigy.  It’s just down those stairs.  Do be careful.  They’re rather worn and can be a bit slippery.  Do you need me to accompany you?” he asked, clearly hoping that I’d say no. 

“Thank you, but I’m fine on my own.  I just need to take a few photos and measurements.”

“Excellent.  Please join me for a cup of tea once you’re finished.  I’ll be in the vestry.”

“I’d like that,” I replied as I made my way toward the hole in the church floor from which well-worn stone steps descended into the underbelly of the church.  Thankfully, there was a light switch which activated a lonely bulb in the center of the ceiling.  A golden light filled the cavernous space, making it appear slightly less sinister, but spaces behind the thick columns supporting the ceiling remained lost in shadow, making me feel as if something would suddenly spring on me from the dark recesses of the crypt.  I stood in the center of the crypt and looked around.  The vaulted ceiling was fairly low, and the stone walls were decorated with fanciful carvings which at one point probably told a story, but were now nothing more than chipped and worn pieces of masonry.  There were several tombs lining the walls, the lids covered with a thick layer of dust that hadn’t been disturbed in decades, possibly centuries. 
This will do very nicely
, I thought,
a good place to set the scene
. 

The tomb of the knight was just by the back wall, and it was impressive, as promised.  The effigy seemed to have lost part of the nose at some point during the last few centuries, but the eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, an expression of boredom on what once might have been a handsome face.  I snapped a few pictures from various angles, but I wanted to get a better full-length shot of the knight’s tomb. In order to accomplish this, I had to back all the way into the wall, pressing my back against the stone in order to get the shot. 

I felt a slight poke in my lower back and then my ears were assaulted by the sound of scraping rock as a small door opened just behind me, nearly making me lose my balance and fall into the fetid space.  I jumped aside and rubbed my back, searching for the source of the poke.  There was a flower carved into the stone, the center protruding just a little, like a button.  I must have pressed it as I backed into the wall, releasing an ancient mechanism.  I should have just walked away, but curiosity got the better of me, so I glanced into the passage. 

Stone steps led upward toward a wooden door at the top. I noted that they didn’t look as worn as the ones I’d descended earlier, the stone still even and uncracked.  This was probably another way into the church or to the outside.  In centuries past, people often sought sanctuary at churches, and a secret door might have been used to smuggle them to safety or bring them messages and food from the outside.  I examined the stone door to make sure it wasn’t going to just close behind me and carefully made my way to the top. 

The wooden door opened easily enough; the hinges oiled recently from the looks of them.  I stepped into the church at the opposite side from which I descended earlier and found myself in a shadowed alcove.  I hadn’t noticed it earlier when I took pictures in the church, but it had been fairly unremarkable.  I stepped out of the alcove and froze.  This wasn’t the same church I’d left twenty minutes ago.  The stained glass windows which cast beams of colored light onto the floor and the pews were gone, replaced by solid stone walls, broken only by narrow arrow-slit-like windows high above.  The interior was dim despite the early hour, dispelled only by sullen light streaming through the narrow windows and several thick candles which smelled strongly of beeswax.  The air inside the church was frigid, making my breath come out in white puffs, which instantly dissipated like wisps of smoke.

A three-panel altarpiece depicting the birth, crucifixion, and resurrection of Christ graced the wall behind the altar, which was decorated with an embroidered altar cloth.  I looked around wildly.  Had I stepped into a different part of the church?  But that wasn’t possible.  I’d seen the church from the outside, and the interior matched the size of the building, or so I thought.  I was just about to take a photo when I realized that my camera was dead, as was my mobile which I’d charged only that morning. 

I was just about to go to the vestry and see if the vicar was there when the heavy wooden door which led to the church porch opened and a man strode in, walking purposefully toward the altar.  I quickly stepped back into the alcove, stunned by the man’s appearance.  The man wore knee breeches with stockings, a narrow, elaborately embroidered coat with lace spilling at the wrist and throat; square-toed shoes decorated with large bows, and a periwig of black curls.  A plumed hat was held loosely in his right hand and a sword in an ornate sheath swayed on his left hip as he walked down the nave; the heels of his shoes clicking on the stone floor and echoing through the empty church.  My mind was in utter shock, but I was still able to place the man’s attire as late seventeenth century.  The narrower breeches, almost knee-length coat, and curly wig became popular during the reign of Charles II and lasted into the beginning of the eighteenth century.

The man knelt in front of the altar, head bent, his lips moving as he prayed for a few minutes.  I heard a muffled “Amen” before he genuflected and got to his feet.  I wasn’t sure if I was more shocked by his appearance or the fact that he just crossed himself in a Protestant church, which was a singularly Catholic gesture. I held my breath in the hope that the man would leave, but he took a seat in the second pew and stared at the altarpiece with a look of fierce concentration that could only mean he was deep in thought.  I hoped he would just leave so that I could open the door and sneak back down to the crypt, but he seemed to be waiting for something or someone. 

A few moments later, there was another gust of wind as his companion arrived.  This man was similarly dressed, but his face was craggier and noticeably older beneath the honey-blond curls of his elaborate wig.  He wore a large cabochon ring on his finger, and jewels glinted in the hilt of his sword as he sat down.  The man exuded an arrogance which could only mean that he was a high-placed nobleman of some sort, the son of a great house.  The two men whispered urgently for a few minutes, clearly disagreeing on something of importance.  I could see that the first man was deferential in his manner, but clearly displeased with what was being asked of him.  Finally, the older man rose abruptly after issuing some form of order and stalked from the church as his companion said, “Good day, Your Grace.”

He waited for a few moments then departed, leaving the church in silence.  I pressed my back against the wall, breathing hard.  What had I just witnessed and how was it possible?  Who was the man addressed as “Your Grace”?  He was clearly someone of great importance.  And why was I even still here?

I ran through the door and down the steps to the crypt and catapulted back into the church the way I’d come earlier.  Gentle sunshine streamed through the stained glass windows, the smell of polish and evergreen boughs filling my lungs.  My mobile pinged, alerting me to a new message and my camera suddenly came back to life, the lens retracting back into the camera as the shutter closed.  I took a few deep breaths and forced myself to walk calmly to the vestry.  Reverend Lambert was sitting behind a small desk, writing something with a ballpoint pen.  At this point, I wouldn’t have been too surprised to see him scratching away with a quill as the curls of his wig brushed the parchment.  He set down his pen, invited me to sit and took the tea kettle off the hob.

“All finished?” he asked as he poured the tea into the pot and offered me a chocolate biscuit.  “What did you think of our crypt?”

“Very impressive.  I’m still spooked,” I answered honestly. The tea was hot and sweet, warming its way through my body, which was chilled by my recent experience more than the nearly arctic interior of the office.

“As it happens, the church was erected on the site of an ancient Celtic place of worship.  Some of the old stones were utilized in building the crypt,” the vicar informed me as he reached for a third biscuit. 

“What was the church like before the restoration?” I asked, knowing already that he would describe exactly what I’d just seen.

“There was a magnificent three-panel altarpiece depicting the birth, crucifixion, and resurrection of Christ commissioned by the first Lord Everly in the early sixteenth century and presented to the bishop as a gift.  The background was made entirely of gold leaf, and the frame was solid gold as well.  It was removed in the nineteenth century and placed in a museum since the elements were slowly destroying the artwork.  A terrible shame too; it was beautiful.  But we got the Jubilee Window which more than makes up for it,” the vicar finished triumphantly.  “Stunning, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, it is.”

I think it was the description of the altarpiece which finally pushed me over the edge.  I hadn’t imagined it
—
it had been real
—
as was the man who’d left such an impression on me.  I had no idea what had happened to me, but I felt an overwhelming need to flee and get as far away as I could from this strange place.  I hastily excused myself and ran from the church before the well-meaning vicar could ask me any questions.  My phone began to vibrate as soon as I stepped outside, but I ignored it, feeling unable to speak with anyone.  The cold air felt invigorating, and I took a deep breath as I gazed up Greensand Ridge at the imposing facade of Everly Manor.  Everything appeared to be back to normal
—
except me. 

An overwhelming fatigue stole over me as I began the climb back to the Ridge.  It left me weak in the knees and sweating profusely despite the cold air that seemed to find its way inside my coat and dry the sweat instantaneously, leaving me shaking with cold.  I felt physically and emotionally drained by the time I finally reached the manor, so I let myself in through the side door, which was kept open during the day and snuck up to my room where I shucked my coat, climbed into bed still fully dressed, and pulled the blanket over my head.

On the walk back to Everly Manor, I’d nearly managed to convince myself that what I’d experienced was a result of some rogue pregnancy hormones that were still coursing through my body, but in reality, I knew that couldn’t be true.  I’d miscarried over a month ago, so whatever hormones had been present were long gone by now.  My body was back to normal, even if my heart hadn’t quite recovered from the loss. 

The phone buzzed again, and I nearly threw it against the wall when I saw Evan’s number in the display.  We’d hardly spoken since I lost the baby, and I still wasn’t ready to forgive.  I was well aware that miscarriages frequently happened in the first trimester, but a part of me, well, most of me, blamed Evan.  He’d caused me round-the-clock aggravation since I told him I was pregnant, and I was certain that it contributed to the loss of the baby, which is precisely what he wanted. 

Tears welled up in my eyes as I put aside my weird experience at the church, and thought back to those two months which had turned my otherwise stable relationship with Evan into a battlefield.  I knew he wouldn’t be thrilled with my news, but the attack he mounted against my pregnancy was wholly unexpected.  His words still rang in my ears day after day, making me by turns angry and sad.

“Neve, I want you to terminate this pregnancy as soon as possible, so that we can put all this nonsense behind us and get back to normal,” Evan demanded, his normally calm face contorted with rage. 

“And what if I want it?” I’d asked, my voice shaking with emotion as tears rolled down my cheeks.  And I did want, more than I ever thought possible.  I’d never actively tried to get pregnant; the thought of being a mother terrified me after what I’d endured at the hands of my own mother, but once the surprise of the news wore off, I suddenly felt a fierce love for the little being inside me
—
a love that left me breathless with its intensity. 

Suddenly, the world didn’t seem so empty and cold, but full of promise and wonder.  I lay awake at night, dreaming of the tiny flame of life inside me, wondering if it would be a boy or a girl and whom it would resemble.  All kinds of images sprang into my mind unbidden, images that previously would have left me feeling threatened and forced me to emotionally shut down, but now seemed like the very idea of Heaven.  I wouldn’t be like my mother, who always put her needs and feelings first and ultimately drank herself into the grave.  I would be the kind of mother I’d always wanted: warm, caring, and nurturing.  I would put my baby first, and give it the kind of life I’d always dreamed of. 

I knew that having a child wasn’t a priority for Evan, but I’d never expected the kind of vehement revulsion he seemed to feel at the idea of having a baby with me.  It had been a shock to him, but I honestly thought he’d come around after a few days and possibly even embrace the idea of being a father again, but as the days passed Evan’s resentment seemed to grow stronger, as did his resolve to be rid of this child.

“Then you will be having it on your own,” he spat out at me, growing angrier by the minute.  “I already have a child, a child who tells me every other day that I’m rubbish as a father; a child who barely looks me in the face as she plays with her mobile or plugs her ears with buds in order not to talk to me,” he snarled as he slammed his hand against the glass table, making it rattle dangerously.

“She’s supposed to do that – she’s sixteen.  She’ll grow out of it in time.”  I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t hear me. 

“Neve, I’ve just been put forward for silk.  If my application is approved and I’m made Queen’s Council, I’ll be on the fast track to becoming a judge.  I don’t need or want the responsibility of another child.  I don’t even want the one I already have.  Get rid of it!” he bellowed, which broke my heart. 

Despite the awful relationship Evan had with his daughter, he had a child, but not with me.  Natasha was the product of his first marriage, a marriage that fell apart after three years.  Evan and Deborah, his first wife, actually had a more civil relationship now than while they were married, so Natasha spent a lot of time at our flat, lounging on the sofa in her pajamas and generally driving Evan to distraction with her insolence.  She was actually a good kid when she wasn’t sulking, arguing, or simply ignoring us, and I was sure she loved Evan beneath the sullen teenage exterior.  I think she loved me a little too, although she’d never admit it.  I was, however, very close with Deborah, who invited me to lunch at least once a month and listened to me talk about her ex-husband, shaking her head and smiling at my naiveté.

“Neve, Evan is never going to change,” Deborah said as she served me quiche made with spinach and feta cheese.  “His first priority will ALWAYS be Evan.  He’s smart, charming, clever, and great in bed, but he will always be selfish to the bone.  He wants to be a judge, and nothing will stop him.  He has no paternal instinct, if there even is such a thing.  He just wants to do what he wants to do.  A baby is a nuisance and a liability in his eyes.”

“So, what do I do?” I whined, pushing away the quiche as a wave of morning sickness assaulted me out of nowhere, leaving me breathless and clammy.

“You have a termination.  If you want a baby, have one with someone who wants a family, not someone who will only leave you high and dry and want no part of his child.  Sure, he’ll pay the bills, but that will be the extent of his involvement.  You’re still young, only twenty-five; either accept Evan as he is or find another bloke,” Deborah advised me sagely.

Deborah was right, of course, she always was when it came to Evan.  I hadn’t really listened to her before, but now I knew that I was at a crossroads, and Deborah painted a very clear picture of what would happen if I chose to keep the baby.  I did anyway.  I moved back to my own flat, which I’d been subleasing on a month-to-month basis.  Thankfully, the young advertising executive who leased the flat from me was looking to move in with her boyfriend, so losing the flat gave her the perfect opportunity to force the issue.  It felt strange to be living on my own again, but there was also a certain serenity in coming home to a place that was entirely my own, and enjoying the restful silence of the place rather than dealing with Evan’s attacks and loaded silences. 

Evan continued to call and harass me about the pregnancy, but I held firm.  Once I’d calmed down, I could see his side of the dilemma, but I wouldn’t be swayed by his arguments.  It certainly wouldn’t advance his chances of getting silk if his colleagues knew that he was having a child out of wedlock, old-fashioned as that might seem.  He either had to marry me – and fast – or get me to abort the baby if he wanted his application to be approved. 

I stopped taking Evan’s calls and concentrated on keeping calm and taking good care of myself, physically and emotionally.  I stopped drinking alcohol, excluded all processed foods from my diet and replaced them with organic produce, and religiously went to yoga at least twice a week in an effort to focus my mind and find some peace in the current turmoil of my situation, but  fate seemed to conspire with Evan.  I lost the baby in my third month, just two weeks short of reaching the second trimester.  I’d woken up in the middle of the night, unsure of what disturbed me.  The house was quiet around me, the January night still and silent, as the wee hours of the morning usually are, just before the morning commute turns the empty streets into a sea of humanity, and the rush-hour gridlock transforms the slumbering city into a heaving mass of revving, honking, fume-exhausting machinery.  

I felt a tightening in my lower abdomen, but that wasn’t anything I hadn’t experienced before.  There’d been some sudden sharp pains and a feeling of stretching, which the pregnancy manual assured me was all part of the embryo implanting itself and my uterus beginning to stretch and distend my bowels.  I pulled my legs up to my chest and wrapped my arms around my knees as I waited for the feeling to pass, but cramps began to roll through my stomach, making me feel as if I were about to get my period.  I felt as if I had, when a wetness between my legs forced me to run to the bathroom. 

Within mere moments, cramps turned into an unbearable pressure, the pain so intense that it left me trembling as I saw the blood running down my legs.  I hadn’t even had time to call for an ambulance as the bloody lump that had been my baby plopped down on the tiled floor of the loo, the sight of it making me sick with regret. 

I’d lain on the bathroom floor next to what had been my baby for what felt like hours, but eventually I forced myself to get up, clean up the mess, and get dressed for an emergency appointment at the women’s clinic.  The sympathetic doctor confirmed that my pregnancy was over.  She put her hand over mine, forcing me to meet her eyes.

“Neve, it wasn’t your fault,” Doctor Eastman said quietly.  “These things happen; it wasn’t anything that you did.  Nearly twenty percent of women miscarry in the first trimester.  It’s nature’s way of correcting mistakes.  That doesn’t mean that it will happen again.”

Again — a strange word under the circumstances.  I wouldn’t go back to Evan, not after the way he’d treated me, so who knew if there ever would be an again.  Perhaps this had been my one chance, and nature decided to correct its mistake, thinking I wouldn’t make a fit parent to my baby.  And again I was alone in my body; alone in the world.

For the first two weeks I had to keep reminding myself that I was no longer pregnant.  There was no baby -– not anymore.  At that point I went back to work, accepting the assignment for this film and throwing myself into research, jotting down various details about the time period and searching for suitable locations within a two-hour radius from London.  I needed to be away from London, away from Evan, and away from my nagging friends who kept assuring me that everything would go back to normal.  I just wanted to be alone.  I pulled the blanket over my head and allowed the tears to fall.  It didn’t matter where I was, I was still hurting.