The Passage

by Irina Shapiro

  “No, I never had a child,” I replied, my voice strangely flat.

  “But you might have.”

  “Yes, I might have in time. Evan has a daughter from a previous marriage, so he wasn’t all that interested in having more kids.”

  “He didn’t want a son?” Hugo asked, still perplexed.

  “Sons don’t have the same value they once did. Most people leave their estate to all their children. They divide it between boys and girls. There’s no longer the law of primogeniture, so being a younger son is no worse than being the eldest, unless there is a title, which few people have.”

  “Hmm, I see,” Hugo said. “So you didn’t feel insulted by his lack of desire to marry you?”

  “I would have accepted had he asked, but it wasn’t uppermost in my mind. I’m only twenty-five, which in modern terms is very young. Most people tend to marry closer to thirty. I wasn’t in any tremendous rush.”

  Hugo just stared at me. Now I’d really shocked him. “People think twenty-five is too young to marry? So how old are these women when they have children?”

  “People are having children well into their forties, fifties even. There are now ways to help women get pregnant artificially, and sometimes even without men.” I couldn’t help chuckling at the look of astonishment on Hugo’s face. He thought I was having him on, but I assured him I was quite serious.

  “So, what you are telling me is that the role of men has diminished significantly over the past few centuries. We are no longer needed for protection, marriage, or even conception. What do men do with themselves?” He was joking, but I could see that the information really affected him.

  “They have careers; they pursue their interests, such as sports, arts, etc. And, of course, they have families, which are just as important as ever, only different. Nowadays, men help with the raising of the children. They do everything from changing nappies to feeding the babies and giving them baths. Once the children get older, they spend time with them. Fathers are involved in every aspect of their children’s lives, even that of the girls. They take them to dance lessons, shopping, and even play dress-up. It’s a different world, Hugo. Come to think of it, I’d really like to see you play dress-up.”

  “One thing at a time, sweet,” Hugo grumbled as we pulled into the outskirts of London. He grew quiet as he gazed around, his face alight with wonder and worry. I just let him be, knowing he needed time to take it all in. There’d be plenty of time to explain things to him and educate him on how different things were in the twenty-first century. For now, he was on sensory overload, so I just turned on the radio and let it play quietly in the background as Hugo sank deeper into his seat, his knuckles white as he let the full force of London hit him.

  Surprisingly, Hugo took it all in stride, but what really shocked him was my flat. I carefully inserted the key in the lock, all the while praying that the flat hadn’t been burglarized in my absence, but everything appeared to be just as I left it. Thank God I had no pets, or I would be coming back to a slightly different smell than that of dust and spoiled food in the fridge. I collected everything into a bag and took it to the trash bins outside before returning to find Hugo walking around in consternation.

  “Is this it? Is this where you live?” he asked, confused.

  “Yes, why?” I was rather proud of my lovely flat in Notting Hill. It was a trendy neighborhood with lots of shops, restaurants, and young people; just the type of place I wanted to live in. I’d never have been able to afford a flat in Notting Hill on my salary, but my foster parents helped me sell my mother’s house after her death and invest the money wisely; something I didn’t think was important at the time, but was pleasantly surprised to find that I had a tidy sum by the time I finished Uni — enough for a down payment on the flat and a nice holiday abroad. I’d subleased the flat for three years, but moved back in as soon as the lease was up since I could no longer stay with Evan.

  I could hear the bustle from the street through the open windows, as the May breeze cleared out the stale odor of the past two months and filled the front room with the smell of flowers and spicy Indian food wafting from a nearby restaurant.

  “There are only two rooms?” Hugo asked suspiciously; obviously still thinking that I was having him on.

  “Yes, only two rooms and a bath. This is actually a very expensive neighborhood and flats come dear.”

  Hugo nodded in understanding, but I could just see the gears turning in his head. He’d lived alone at Everly Manor until Jane and Clarence came to stay, and here I was, a working woman, living in an apartment the size of his bedroom. I plonked down on the sofa, suddenly seeing the flat through Hugo’s eyes. It was tiny, and far from luxurious. He must have expected so much more. He probably thought I had a maid. Well, finding out that I had to clean, wash, lug groceries, and cook would come as a surprise.

  Hugo sat down next to me and pulled me to him, kissing the top of my head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart; I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s a lovely – what did you call it? – flat. I’m sure we’ll be very happy here. By the by, what is that smell? It’s rather appetizing in a revolting kind of way.” That made me laugh. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself. At least I was in my element, whereas Hugo was like a blindfolded man thrashing through the jungle. He had no idea what things were or what to expect from them.

  “Would you like to try it? It’s coming from the Indian restaurant. I get takeaway from them all the time.”

  “What’s takeaway?”

  “It’s when you order food, and they prepare it for you and give it to you to take home. Or you can just eat there. Which would you prefer? Or would you like to eat something typically English?” I asked, wondering if something so radically different might make him ill.

  “I would very much like to try the takeaway,” Hugo replied, “but I was under the impression that you were overdrawn at the bank.”

  I gazed at him in surprise. “Ah yes, but I do have a savings account, so I will transfer funds to my checking. As a matter of fact, I’ll do that right now.” I pulled out my laptop and turned it on, ready to access my online banking. Hugo watched in amazement as I clicked a few keys.

  “Voila, done,” I announced.

  “You don’t need to visit the bank?”

  “No, everything can be done electronically now.”

  “Right, I should have guessed.” Hugo looked a bit crestfallen, but I just pulled him to me and gave him a tender kiss.

  “Are you finding all this manageable or are you ready to run screaming back to the crypt?” I knew that he could hardly just go back, but I had to ask.

  “I am more than all right,” Hugo replied with a smile. “This is the adventure of a lifetime.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Now feed me.”

  Chapter 48

  My heartbeat quickened as I stepped out of the lift, greeted the receptionist, and made my way toward Lawrence Spellman’s office. I was actually surprised that he was in London during the shooting of the series, but he’d come up for the weekend and stayed through Monday, taking care of some paperwork before returning to Cranleigh tomorrow morning. I would have gone back to Surrey to speak to him, but this was preferable. I wasn’t ready to face the rest of the crew or Max, whose reaction to seeing me could be volatile. I still burned with anger every time I thought of Max. It was one thing to be a self-serving ponce, but to actually attempt murder against an innocent person was monstrous. The depth of his hatred frightened me, and I found myself frequently looking over my shoulder, expecting Max to be lurking in a doorway or turning the corner, his desire for revenge against Hugo clouding his judgment, if he had any, and driving him to commit a terrible crime.

  “Enter,” Lawrence called out, and I timidly stepped into his office. Lawrence Spellman always reminded me of an undertaker or a clerk in some Dickensian law firm. He was slight and balding, his round spectacles perched on his nose, and his “uniform” a black suit with a white shirt and conserva
tive, dark-colored tie. For a creative person, he looked like anything but. Lawrence had never been married, had no children, and as far as anyone at the office knew was probably still a virgin despite being in his early fifties. He made wonderful films though, full of romance, passion, and longing.

  “She lives!” Spellman announced as I walked into his office and took a seat.

  “Lawrence, I’m so sorry,” I began.

  “Neve, you know that I’m not a stickler for company rules, but you could have at least called – or texted. You don’t just disappear for nearly two months without a word to anyone.” Spellman tried to look stern, but his gaze was one of concern. “Are you all right?” he asked kindly.

  “I think so,” I mumbled, putting on my best “girl trying not to fall apart” act. “I just had some sort of breakdown. You know; Evan, and all that…” I let the sentence hang since Lawrence knew of my miscarriage.

  “Neve, I know you haven’t had an easy time of it, but you can’t just vanish. We were all worried about you. I called the police, but they informed me that you were just hiding somewhere. Where were you?”

  I made a vague gesture with my hand, indicating that I was here and there, but nowhere precisely. “Lawrence, I know you are angry, but please, can I have my job back? I promise it won’t happen again. I’ve been a model employee for years. This was my first transgression,” I pleaded. Being out of work right now was not an option.

  “All right,” Lawrence replied gruffly. “You can have your job back, but if you so much as disappear for a few hours without notifying me, you’re out.”

  “So, what projects are coming up?” I asked, hoping to distract him from my inexplicable behavior.

  “There’s a World War II drama in the works, but I’ve sent the script back to be tweaked, and a series about a posh hotel right here in London. Naturally, it will be filled with the shenanigans of the staff and the guests,” Lawrence said happily.

  “Naturally,” I replied, smiling. Lawrence was the only person I knew who’d actually use the word “shenanigans,” but if I knew the man, “shenanigans” would be an understatement. This was just the kind of thing Lawrence loved; developing characters who would grow and change throughout the series and take viewers by surprise when they least expected it.

  “Of course, the series will be filmed mostly on set since we can hardly take over an actual five-star hotel for the duration. I will, however, need you to find me some suitable locations for filming right here in London; clubs, spas, restaurants, places where wealthy guests would go while in London. You can start next week. Why don’t you take the rest of the week off and get your head on straight? You look a bit peaky.”

  “Thanks, Lawrence. I appreciate it,” I replied, grateful for the extra time off, which I assumed would be paid. I needed to figure out what to do with Hugo. “Is Glenn here?”

  “Yes, he’s in his lair, I believe,” Lawrence grumbled, already caught up in reading some letter.

  **

  I made my way through the office as unobtrusively as I could. Everyone knew of my disappearance, and the last thing I wanted was to answer a bunch of questions from nosy co-workers. Thankfully, most people were in Surrey on location, so the only people around were those who saw to the administrative duties of the company and were too comatose on a Monday morning to pay much attention to a woman who’d pulled a disappearing act, but had the audacity to come back and ruin a perfectly good mystery and source of water cooler gossip.

  Glenn Coolidge was in his studio, surrounded by equipment and tooling with something as I came in. His black spiky hair was wilder than ever, and his intelligent gray eyes danced with mirth as he saw me enter. Glenn was the resident computer genius, the person who supervised the Special Effects department and could create, hack, or manipulate any data he could get his hands on.

  “Neve, you’re not dead,” he announced. “Did you bring me a cuppa?” I set a cup of black coffee in front of him and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “No, I’m not dead, thank you for noticing. Only you would skip comments about the weather and just blurt that out.”

  “I’m American; I don’t do comments about the weather. Where’ve you been?” Glen invited me to sit down and took a sip of coffee. No one ever came to see Glenn without bringing a cup of black coffee with two sugars.

  “I’ve had some personal problems. You know how that can be.” If anyone knew about personal difficulties it would be Glenn. He was currently part of a triad with a married couple, sharing their flat and bed, and battling his ex-wife in court for visitation rights with his daughter. His living situation did not make a custody hearing any easier, nor did it help him make a favorable impression on the judge. I’m not sure how I would feel if the father of my child was openly living in a ménage a trois, but it was none of my affair, and I liked Glenn enormously, no matter what he did. He was one of the funniest, craziest guys I knew – and a real friend.

  “What is it, my girl?” Glenn asked as he studied me over the rim of the cup. “You look like you want to ask me something, but don’t really know how to phrase it.” No one could ever accuse Glenn of being obtuse. He practically read people’s minds as if he could access a microchip in their brain and download all the data a la Star Trek.

  “Glenn, how difficult would it be to obtain a… eh… fake passport?” I stammered.

  “For whom?” Glenn asked suspiciously.

  “For a friend,” was all I was willing to volunteer.

  Glenn set down his cup and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head and studying me as if he just discovered that I wasn’t at all what I’d been pretending to be. He was about to say something then changed his mind, shaking his head as if arguing with himself silently.

  “Glenn??” I prompted.

  “Look, Neve, I might know of some people who could furnish you with a fake British passport for a large sum of money, but you’re my friend, and I would not advise it. If there is any other way – take it.”

  “Why wouldn’t you advise it, and how much would it cost?” I asked.

  Glenn rubbed his chin as he looked at me, trying to gauge how serious I was about getting involved in criminal activity. “Look, years ago a passport was enough to establish an identity, but things have changed. We live in a digital world where your electronic trail begins before you’re even born. I’m sure MI5 could pull up pictures of your mother’s ultrasounds and determine whether you have your father’s nose or your mother’s ears before you were even born. A person needs more than just a form of credible identification. When the fake passport is scanned by a customs officer or a prospective employer, all kinds of flags will be raised. Where was this person born, where did they go to school, when did they get their driver’s license, and where is the record of their previous employment? You need a whole file to go along with your passport; you need a life.”

  “I see. They make it look so easy in American movies,” I quipped, feeling hollow inside. What was I to do now? This was my only idea to date. “Is there any way to make it work?”

  “I’m not really sure, but I think that if you use your fake passport to drive across the border in some remote spot, you might have a better chance than leaving from, say, Heathrow. The officials on the other side of the border will not be as interested in your past exploits as long as the passport looks legit, but re-entering the country might be tricky. Neve, what are you up to?”

  “Nothing. It was just a rhetorical question. I’m trying to write a crime novel,” I improvised. Glenn liked to gossip, so although I knew he wouldn’t blab about something as sensitive as this, I didn’t want to give him any ammunition against me, just in case.

  “Really? I tried writing once. I like horror, like Stephen King, but nothing I wrote was even remotely scary. I read a passage to my wife, ex-wife, and she just laughed in my face,” Glenn recounted with a grimace.

  “Is that why you divorced?”

  “No, we divorced because she caug
ht me in bed with a man, which was apparently much scarier than anything I could write,” he said bitterly. “It had nothing to do with her. I still loved her as much as ever.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to this, so I just thanked him and left, gutted that my clever plan had just gone up in smoke. I couldn’t risk Hugo getting arrested the minute he used his identification, and without it, how could he do anything? If Hugo were to stay with me in the twenty-first century, he needed to work. I’d thought that perhaps I could send him to some computer course, which would teach him the basics and enable him to get some sort of employment, but now I knew that wouldn’t work. Without legal ID, all Hugo could do was some kind of manual labor which paid cash, such as loading trucks or washing dishes for someone who was willing to cheat the government. And that would never do.

  I felt despondent as I walked down the street, reluctant to go home and tell Hugo that my grand plan had failed. I honestly had no idea what to try next, and I knew that Hugo was too much of a man to just live off me and accept a life of idleness and utter insignificance. The world had changed much over the centuries, but some things remained the same. A person couldn’t just drop into a place and build a life for themselves without help. From the beginning of time people have belonged to families, tribes, guilds, unions, and churches. Without the connections forged over a lifetime, a person would be relegated to living on the fringes of society, and that was never easy. Hugo had grown up a nobleman, a man who was secure in his position and comfortable financially and physically. He’d never done a day’s work. How could I tell him that he’d have to unload trucks or stock shelves in some grocery, not temporarily, but possibly for the rest of his life? He wouldn’t complain, but I knew it would be a terrible blow to his self-esteem, and would ultimately change him into someone either of us barely recognized.