The Exchange

Water dripped from a nearby severed rusty pipe, creating a splashing echo across the dusty warehouse. Cyra peered around from behind the relative safety of a crate, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead and away from the matted hair. A wave of fatigue passed over her. Gripping the straps of her backpack, she stepped out from behind the crate and straightened her back, pushing the growing fear to the back of her head.

Cyra cleared the rising anxiety from her throat. “I am ready to talk! Let’s get this over with.” She yelled, continuing to glance around her as she walked to the center of the deserted building. Silence. She scraped her torn boots on the gravel ground, shaking her head at the thought of how one simple decision had led her to this moment. She had spent all the years of her youth stealing, bartering, and aimless. She had long ago learned not to depend on anyone. Not even family, they are the first to let you down, she thought to herself.

Cyra looked up at the windows and slanted ceiling, at the rays of the winter sun breaking through the broken and dirty glass. She had not stopped running for three weeks, and hunger was gnawing at her. She shook her head, dismissing the straying thoughts of her past, and took a few steps forward, nervously waiting.

“Evening.” He said stoically, with that same inscrutable expression, walking towards her. He folded his leather-gloved hands in front of him, wearing the same perfectly pressed black suit as the first day she had encountered him. Shaved dark hair, black eyes studying her crumbled and exhausted form.

He remained silent, staring at her. Cyra’s agitation increased and she clenched her jaw.

“Why do you want it so badly?!” She hissed at him, attempting, rather feebly, to hide the fear from her quivering voice.

He did not move, his eyes boring into hers.

“Stop staring at me and say something!” She yelled, forming fists out of her dirty hands.

He stepped forward quietly adjusting his right glove. He held out his hand, gesturing for her to hand something over.

“I agreed to talk to you, not to hand anything over to you! How do you know I even have it anymore?!” She glared at him. She suddenly did know why she had even agreed to meet with him. This was idiotic. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small black envelope.

“Child, here’s the $20,000.” He was now looking at her with more of a contemptuous glare. She had tested him slightly by continuing to evade him, even if unsuccessfully. He held out the envelope to her, the air between them thickening.

Cyra’s eyes filled with angry tears. She took a step back. She was angry. Angry that she had knowingly thrust herself into the middle of this ridiculous situation. What was she thinking she would achieve by stealing the notebook with all those unrecognizable names? Was it worth it?

One night, Cyra had drunkenly entered a house party, or rather, a mansion party, as she schmoozed a group of the impressionably drunk elite rich looking kids on a university campus. She spent much of the night bored. She had found herself sitting in the middle of an expensive -ooking couch, in an oddly displaced and ornate house (probably one of the kids’ parents) listening to chatter about campus gossip, the hot legal philosophy lecturer and being sooo drunk. As she drained her glass, Cyra grew less concerned about whether any one of these vapid kids would ask her what she was studying at the university, and once they found out she wasn’t, what she was doing here. She felt out of place, as always, but it didn’t matter because she was invisible. Cyra waited in the periphery for the group to become drunk, so she could take her time walking around the house, looking to fence some elite goods. No one would even notice if she took an expensive-looking crystal or two. They had more than enough to go around.

As the bourgeoisie became more drunk, falling over each other, and spilling beer on the Persian carpet, Cyra darted out from the lounge area and ran up the flight of decadent spiral stairs. She glanced around the four or five bedrooms (she had lost count) and paused at the entrance of a grand study, resembling a mini library. Switching the light on, her mouth hung open as she tried to take in the sight of shelves and trolleys of books. The drunk laughs and screeching jokes blurred downstairs as she entered the study and looked around her.

She walked around the shelves of books running her fingers with chipped purple nail polish over the old books. Her eyes grew wide in amazement. Cyra had always viewed books as gold despite her life and circumstances limiting her access to them.

She approached an immaculately organized mahogany writing desk in the center of the room. Under some paper and additional books, she noticed a beautiful black book peeking out, with gilded gold edges. Cyra picked up the book and spun it around in her hands. No title. The first one hundred or so pages blank, but as she continued flipping through, she began to see lists of names. There were pages after pages of names and dates next to each. She continued to flip through, squinting as she tried to make sense of the dates. Some ranged all the way back to the 40s, and some had last year’s date.

Suddenly, she heard the drunken roars of laughter growing closer to her, headed straight for the study. She jolted out of her confused analysis and without thinking, immediately snapped the book shut and shoved the gleaming notebook in her tattered backpack. She wheeled around her, realizing there was nowhere to stand and be unnoticed, she spotted a window and ran to it. Looking down for three seconds to assess the potential of broken bones, she made an unsound judgment to jump.

***

“I don’t need your filthy money!” She screamed, incredulous. This meeting was a mistake. She turned around and ran, adrenaline pushing her forward. She ran as fast as she could to the farthest edge of the warehouse, not looking behind her. She reached a gap in the tin wall and slid through, tearing her jeans on a sharp edge of the gap, and drawing blood. She hissed, looking down at her right leg, seeing an exposed gash on her thigh. She immediately felt the pain. No time, she thought desperately and pressed her hand to slow the stem of blood and picked up her pace.

Ahead of her were more factories. She turned right and ran towards a clearing where she could have visibility of everything around her. She pushed ahead against her tired limbs, the wind zipping through her torn clothing, catching in her half-undone braids.

Her eyes caught a car speeding towards her through one of the alleys and in the direction of her in the clearing. She gasped, grinding to a halt, dust rising around her. The black car continued to speed towards her, as she remained frozen. The car screeched to a halt a few meters ahead of her. The tinted windows meant she could not see anyone inside. She was frozen, breathing heavily, panic rising again in her chest.

The passenger door opened, and Z stepped out.

“The next time I extend my hand, it won’t be empty.” Z said in a quiet monotone. In that moment he looked like he would snuff her out with minimal effort. The silence and tension stretched out between them, becoming heavier by the minute.

Cyra bit her lip, stubbornness and fear battling in her mind. Was she going to die for this book, the ledger of names, because her intuition had told her that a list of a few thousand names, with associated dates, meant something terrible was afoot?

Cyra had pored over the names in the last three weeks developing a strange bond. Sally Lemke, Richard Stone, Aver Pret... She didn’t know them but found herself growing obsessed with those dates next to their names. For once in her young life, she wanted to fight for something, for them. Z’s menacing nature and desperation to chase her down, also made her even more stubborn, albeit also more terrified.

Z glared at her. He walked over to the car and tapped the door. The tinted windows began to wind down as Z stood, adjusting his black leather gloves, as if in preparation. Cyra’s eyes widened in horror.

She heard a click. The unmistakable sound of the safety catch of a gun coming off.

An older and frail man sat in the front passenger seat and looked up to Cyra, his eyes brimming with tears. He looked ashamed, worn out, and so much older than the last time Cyra had seen him, silently walking out of their rickety house, before he caught her eyes as she sat on the stairway, watching him leave. That same look of shame, years later. Her father.

Cyra hurtled through more emotions at that moment than she could register. She had not seen her father in eleven years. She had spent every day despising him, carving out a demon in the place of his spectre. Here he was, looking defeated again in front of her.

She took off her backpack, unzipped it and took out the book. It dropped from her trembling hands to the ground as she continued to stare at her father. Sadness, longing and hatred nestled themselves in her heart. Z nodded at his counterpart, who opened the door, and they shoved her father out, who tripped and fell, grunting in pain.

“Let’s hope I don’t see you again.” He said, as he dropped the envelope, walked over and picked up the book at her feet. Without any further words, he got in the car and drove off, leaving only silence behind. Cyra attempted to control her breathing and reached for the cash.

“Cyra... I can explain. You have grown so much. You did the right thing. You do not want to get caught up with them like I did Cyra, trust me.” He scrambled up to his feet, bent over in pain.

“What have you done? How do you know these people? Give me one reason why I shouldn’t leave you here in the dirt, where you belong.” Cyra glared at him as her chin shook.

“Cyra, please... They are a horrible organization; I can explain but we need to get out of here. I – I …” He trailed off, unable to continue.

“I traded all the lives in that book, for yours, didn’t I?” Cyra began to realize the terrible price of the exchange she had agreed to. Somewhere in her heart, she had wanted to preserve her father, even if she despised him. In that second, seeing his lined face, she had forgotten about the names.

They stood facing each other, as the dust settled. Tears rolled down Cyra’s eyes and she turned around and began to walk away. He followed her at a distance, knowing she was giving him enough time to keep up with her. Cyra gripped the envelope of cash. A stony determination took hold. $20,000 dollars and her father’s knowledge of this organization. Enough for her to try and save those names.