The Swap

by Nancy Boyarsky

  His attitude surprised her. She’d always thought he was crazy about kids and imagined he would be eager to start a family as soon as she said the word. One of the things that had first charmed her about him was his relationship with his niece, Tiffany. Nicole loved watching him crawl around on the floor, making the little girl giggle. But now that Tiffany had grown into a wiry eleven-year-old, it was Nicole who had a relationship with her, not Brad.

  On Brad’s birthday, Nicole put a huge effort into a party, inviting his friends, coworkers, and bosses, many of them in a position to help his career. Looking around at the gathering, she realized there wasn’t a single person there she cared about or even much liked. As for Brad, he was in his glory, working the crowd, talking sports, and making quips about the latest political flap.

  Nicole stopped talking when she noticed her new friend’s attention had shifted to the next table. The two men were staring at them, openly eavesdropping.

  Alice threw Nicole a quick wink, then swung around in her chair. “Getting an earful, are we?” she said.

  The fat one raised his hand and stuck two fingers up at her, shaking them for maximum effect. Alice returned the salute. “Scum,” she said, in a tone loud enough to include the nearby tables.

  People turned to stare, and Nicole felt her face go red. Unperturbed, Alice gave Nicole another wink. “Sorry about that,” she said. “Please go on.”

  Lowering her voice, Nicole continued. She was trembling, and she couldn’t seem to stop talking. Although she wasn’t given to easy confidences, she found herself revealing her innermost thoughts to Alice. She even mentioned her suspicions about Brenda.

  “You’ve got to have a word with that man of yours,” Alice said in a low voice. “Ach, they’re all alike.” She made a sour face. “Always ready to make a fool of you, if you let them.”

  Nicole shifted uneasily in her seat. She wished she hadn’t been so candid about Brad to someone who didn’t even know him. “What about you?” she asked. “How long have you lived in London?”

  Alice confessed she was a relative newcomer herself, from a small town in Northern Ireland. “I lived in Ballycastle all my life. I came to London a little more than a year ago because of my brother Sean. He got himself into a spot of bother here. I was hoping to straighten him out …” Her voice trailed off.

  The waitress had arrived with their orders, salad niçoise for Nicole and lasagna for Alice. The two men stared as the women began to eat. When Alice caught the fat one looking at her—his eyes small and mean—she made a face, bugging her eyes out, like a schoolgirl rebuking a rude boy. His stare continued; he didn’t even blink.

  Nicole was struck by the thought that these men might not be here, sitting at the next table, by accident. What if they were the same men who’d been prowling the backyard two nights ago? What if they’d followed her and Alice into the museum? She told herself to stop being crazy. It was the break-in. If she looked at anyone long enough, she’d start imagining they had something to do with it: Like the man eating by himself in the corner, who bore a slight resemblance to Reinhardt. If he didn’t have that mustache, she’d probably be telling herself he was Reinhardt.

  Meanwhile, Alice had gone strangely silent. Something about the way she’d spoken of her brother, Sean, had piqued Nicole’s curiosity. She had the feeling he was in jail, living on the streets, or worse. But she understood enough about human nature not to push for more information. If she waited and moved the conversation back in that direction, she’d get the whole story.

  As the waitress handed them the dessert menu, a cell phone went off in Alice’s purse. She pulled it out and answered it, then listened intently for about thirty seconds. “I’ll be right there,” she said. Then she hung up and dropped the phone back into her purse.

  “I’m so sorry, Nicole,” she said. “It’s my own fault—something I forgot to take care of. I—I really must go.” She stood up, as if she were going to bolt, then remembered herself and sat down. Opening her purse, she pulled out a couple of bills, pushing them across the table to Nicole. “This is for my share of the meal,” she said. “Let me tell you how to get back to the house. The easiest way is by tube. There’s a station down the road. I have a map. I’ll mark the route.”

  “That’s okay,” Nicole said. “I’ll take a cab.”

  Alice shook her head. “I hate to see you throw your money down the drain.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Nicole said. “By the time I leave, I’ll be too tired to deal with the tube. I’ll just grab a taxi.”

  “All right,” Alice said, pushing back her chair. “If you’re sure.”

  After Alice was gone, Nicole paid the check and left the dining room. On her way down the stairs, she spotted Alice in the lobby, hurrying out through the double glass doors. As Nicole paused at the railing, she noticed the two thugs walk by. They were heading down the stairs in the direction of the exit Alice had used. Nicole thought of the alley they’d walked through on their way here. She pictured the men overpowering Alice, forcing her into a car. She debated running after her new friend to warn her. Then she realized how ridiculous that was. After all, it was broad daylight. This was London. And Alice was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

  When Nicole reached the lobby, she focused her attention on the list of exhibits. “British Impressionists in the Lake District.” That sounded lovely. It was on the upper level.

  She boarded an elevator and pushed the button for the upper floor. The door was starting to close when she heard the sound of running, and a man’s voice shouted, “Hold it.” (He dropped his “H,” so it came out, “’Old it!”) She punched the button, and the door sprang open.

  There stood the two men from the next table. The fat one stared at her intently as if he had something to say. The door began closing again, and the skinny man stuck his arm in. With a snap, the door retracted and the two stepped inside. As they moved to the back of the car, the door closed and the air was filled with the smell of unwashed bodies.

  Nicole drew in a breath and held it, wondering how long it would take to reach her floor. She noticed the men hadn’t pushed a button for their destination. Maybe they were headed for the same floor and the British Impressionists, but she didn’t think so.

  The elevator was new and virtually noiseless, except for a vibration and a barely perceptible hissing sound. She began to wonder if it was moving at all.

  As the seconds ticked by, she could feel them behind her, staring at her back. Her uneasiness grew, and it was hard to resist an impulse to punch the red emergency button. Take it easy, she told herself. Calm down.

  At last the hissing sound stopped. After a jerk and a dull thud, the doors flew open. To Nicole’s enormous relief, a cluster of tourists hovered by the door, waiting to get on the elevator. She shoved her way through and bolted off, leaving the two men to fight their way through the crowd. She didn’t wait to see where they were headed. Only when she got to the end of the corridor did she look back. No one was there.

  As she followed the signs leading to the exhibit, she wondered why she’d let herself get so wound up. Even if these men were serial killers, she reminded herself, the National Gallery was a public building with plenty of security guards. Even in L.A., with all its violence, the museums were safe.

  She entered the exhibit and was soon lost in scenes of unimaginable tranquility—small boats gliding on deep-blue lakes, woolly lambs grazing in green-carpeted meadows, fluffy white clouds drifting over fairy tale villages.

  An hour later, she put her glasses away and headed out of the exhibit, resigned to paying the cab fare home. She was much too tired to find her way back to the house on an unfamiliar subway.

  Nicole saw them as soon as she entered the hallway leading to the elevator—the two men in leather jackets. They weren’t doing anything, just waiting. The fat one was slouched against the wall under a no-smoking sign; the thin one crouched on his haunches, dragging on a cigarette.

  He
r heart froze. Their faces went alert when they saw her, and she could tell they’d been waiting for her. Although it made no sense at all, at that moment she knew her first instinct had been right. They had been following her.

  She stopped. Both were now standing at attention, poised and ready. For what? She had no idea. She just knew she had to get away. She turned and headed back along the empty corridor. Now that she thought about it, she realized the exhibit had been deserted when she left. Earlier, she’d seen a guard. Where had he gone?

  Just then she noticed a wooden sign. It showed a hand with its index finger pointing down a small sub corridor. Written on it were the words: WOMEN’S TOILETS.

  She turned and glanced back. The men were moving toward her at a normal pace, not in any great hurry.

  She darted down the sub corridor, walking quickly in the direction the sign had pointed. It was hard to keep herself from breaking into a run. At home, she was a devoted jogger, and these men looked anything but fit. On the other hand, their legs were longer than hers. Better to pretend she hadn’t noticed them and was simply on her way to the ladies’ room. When she got there, she’d lock herself in and scream for help.

  She reached the point where the hallway turned at a right angle before it continued on, but there was still no door marked WOMEN’S TOILETS. It occurred to her that the sign might have been pointing in the wrong direction. Perhaps these men had turned it to confuse her.

  As she entered the next section of corridor, her heart leapt. A WAY OUT sign, blinking red neon, was less than fifty feet ahead. Beneath it was an open stairwell.

  She took a deep breath and started to run. The men behind her began running, too, their shoes slapping against the floor. She ran faster.

  As she suspected, they were badly out of shape. After the first few steps, she could hear them grunting and panting as if they were ready to drop. Meanwhile, Nicole sprinted easily, widening the gap between them.

  As she neared the exit sign, her body relaxed in the certainty that she was going to make it. But on the very next step, her foot came down wrong, twisting her ankle with a sharp, searing pain.

  She managed to stagger on another few steps before the short man grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her face-first against the wall. She gasped, trying to catch her breath to scream. He seemed to anticipate this and clapped his hand over her mouth. It stank of stale tobacco and another smell that didn’t bear thinking about, sharp and repugnant. When she sank her teeth into the fleshy pads of his palm, he twisted her arm behind her back until it felt as if it were going to snap. The pain was excruciating.

  “This is how it’s gunna be.” He spoke in a low voice, his mouth next to her ear. “Scream an’ I break yer focking arm. Keep yer trap shut, and I let ’er go. You choose.”

  When she gave a nod, he released her wrist and took his hand away from her mouth. At the same time, he slammed his body against hers, pinning her to the wall. She could feel the weight of his great belly against her back. Against her left buttock, she felt the tip of an erect penis.

  “Nothin’ to get all aere-ated about,” he purred into her neck as he ground himself against her. “We’re just givin’ you a frennly little worda warnin’. Cause we don’t want nothin’ happenin’ to a nice little bit a skirt like you.” His breath was foul, as if every tooth in his head were rotting.

  “Tell yer old man he better pay the guv for that load a stuff. Cause Ben is ready to kill ’im. ’E’s got ’til 6:00 tomorrow night. You tell ’im. Maybe he gave us the slip, but you know where he is, and we know just how to find you.” This last part was hissed—or, rather, sprayed— in her ear.

  “Let’s get outa here,” came a second voice. “I hear someone coming.”

  “Remember wot I said,” the first man hummed against her neck. “Or it’s yore arse.” As he said this, he gripped her rear with both hands.

  Without warning, he took a step back, releasing the pressure of the great stomach that had pinned her to the wall. As she tumbled to the floor, the two men disappeared down the stairwell.

  Seven

  A long minute passed and then another. Nicole, still sprawled on the floor, propped herself on her elbows and listened hard. Beyond the thudding of her heart, there was only silence. It struck her that rescue wasn’t on its way. The men had thought they’d heard someone coming, but they were wrong. How long before they realized their mistake and were back?

  A fresh wave of panic forced her to her feet. Her ankle throbbed as she hobbled back to the main corridor. When she reached the elevator, she punched the button, stabbing it again and again. Her face was hot, and her breath came in quick gulps. The car was taking a long break two floors down. Finally, the floor indicator began moving almost imperceptibly as the car started its ascent. As she watched its progress, she kept looking back, but the corridor remained empty.

  At last the elevator arrived, and there was another awful moment waiting for the doors to open. To her relief, it was empty. She got in.

  As it started down and she began to catch her breath, she ran her fingers through her hair and tucked her blouse back into her skirt. Only then did she notice her hat was gone, lost in the scuffle. It was probably back there in the hallway, kicked into a corner somewhere. Remembering the lush pink roses on its brim, she felt a sharp pang of loss.

  The doors opened, and she stepped into the warm, noisy confusion of the lobby. Tourists were everywhere— consulting in tight clusters, setting off for one display or another, heading in and out of the automatic glass doors. How normal they all looked, as if their biggest problem was finding their way to the next exhibit. That was what amazed her. Here, in the buzz and excitement of all these people, the violence she’d just experienced no longer seemed real.

  She knew she should report the incident to someone in authority. Here in the lobby, guards were everywhere— flanking the front door, reinforcing the membership desk as well as the counter where coats and packages were checked. The need to stop and tell nagged at her, the voice of her fourth-grade teacher explaining the duties of good citizenship.

  But the urge to bolt was stronger. Instead of stopping, she limped on past the guards, out the front door. Her only thought was getting back to the house. She’d double check the locks and put in a call to D.C. Keaton. After that, she’d take a bath. Then, remembering the break-in, she rejected that idea and opted for a quick splash in the shower. Once she got rid of that horrid man’s smell, she’d get into her nightgown, pour herself a brandy, and climb into bed.

  She’d have to call Brad, of course, and found herself dreading it. He’d be quick to portray the whole thing as another symptom of her deteriorating mental state. Again she remembered the fat one’s threat, his preposterous notion that he knew Brad. But what if these were the same men she’d seen at the house? What if they were following her under the mistaken notion that she was someone else? She wondered if the English courts issued restraining orders, the way they did back home, to keep the crazies from stalking people.

  Looking around, she spotted a taxi stand across the road from Trafalgar Square. Painfully, she made her way over to join a short queue waiting for the taxis that pulled up to the curb every minute or so. No one gave her a second glance. She took this as a good sign. Despite everything, at least she still looked fairly normal.

  As the line moved forward, she glanced at her watch. Two o’clock. Something was happening at two. But what? Then it came to her, and her heart sank. At that very moment, Brad was catching a train for Liverpool to carry out his first official order of business, a two-day junket inspecting SoftPac’s Northern England operations. She didn’t even know where he would be staying. He said he’d call her when he got to his hotel.

  He hadn’t asked Nicole to come. But at least she had the satisfaction of knowing Brenda wasn’t going either. He’d made a special point of mentioning it.

  In the back of her mind, she heard the fat man’s threat. “We know just how to find you.” She realized she cou
ldn’t go back to Chiswick. She had no idea when Alice would return, and facing the house alone was unthinkable. It occurred to her that she could ask the neighbor, Mr. McGiever, to go in with her, but he’d be useless if there were any real danger. Besides, all that British politeness made her skin crawl. She could imagine how appalled he’d be if she told him about the fat man’s assault, the way he’d threatened her. No, she decided, she didn’t have the strength to put up with it.

  By now, she’d reached the head of the line. A cab was standing there, waiting for her. The driver , a nice looking man in shirtsleeves and a visored tweed cap , looked at her quizzically. “You all right, miss?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, stepping out of line. “But I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be needing a cab after all.” She felt his puzzled stare as she turned and limped back across the square and into the museum.

  In the administrative office, she told her story to the young woman behind the counter, bracing herself for the same incredulous reaction she’d gotten from Brad, or the dubiousness of the young constable. But the young woman seemed genuinely appalled. She was a pale-eyed, mousy looking girl of perhaps twenty, who emitted squeaks of horror as Nicole described the assault.

  She assured Nicole that violence of any sort was all but unheard of in the National Gallery. “Although we do have our pickpockets and bag snatchers. Oh, I’m so dreadfully sorry, miss.” She whispered this in a strangled tone, as if the whole thing were her fault. Then she picked up the phone and called the museum’s security office. As she hung up, she said, “It will take him a few minutes to get here. He’s over in the east wing. He’ll take your report, and then I’ll call an ambulance. I can see how much it’s hurting you to walk. Your ankle might be broken.”

  “I don’t want an ambulance,” Nicole insisted. “And my ankle couldn’t be broken, or I wouldn’t be able to walk. Anyway, it’s feeling better now.” In truth, her ankle was throbbing painfully. But she couldn’t bear the thought of being turned into a disaster victim, strapped to a gurney and whisked off God-knew-where.