All This Could End

by Steph Bowe

  ‘Come on, Tom,’ she says, nodding towards the door. ‘Help us out.’

  His gun is still on the carpet by his feet. Paul lets go of his arm. Tom walks over, not looking at his mother, helps support Spencer, and whispers ‘I’m sorry’. Tom is tall for his age, but Nina is struck again by how young he is. How young they both are. He looks just as terrified as the hostages.

  Outside in the foyer, it is silent and they are out of the line of vision of everyone in the bank. The fluorescent lighting beams down on them. When will she next see her mother and father? It’s only a handful of steps from here to the frosted-glass double doors at the entrance of the bank, but it’s slow going with Spencer unable to walk alone. Nina’s legs feel leaden, as does her head. She is in no hurry to reach the outside world.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Tom keeps saying. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I’ve been shot,’ Spencer reminds them. He sounds delirious. ‘I feel like Rambo. I feel like Chuck Norris. I feel like the Terminator.’

  ‘The police,’ says Nina. ‘Tom, why did you talk to them?’

  ‘They called your mobile. Found your number through the libraries. All those library cards you got wherever we went. They were trying to call you,’ says Tom.

  ‘And you answered?’

  ‘They’ve got to feature me in an Underbelly series after this,’ interrupts Spencer. ‘I’m a legend. I’ll sell my story to A Current Affair.’

  Tom ignores Spencer’s ramblings. ‘Yeah. You were in the shower and I answered your phone and that’s how it started. They called in August, and I called them a few times after that. I was so scared Mum would find out I was speaking to them. But they knew enough even if I hadn’t told them anything. They just needed a bit more to prove it. Do you hate me?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Would things have worked out differently had she answered? Wouldn’t she have done the same as Tom? She was always looking for a way out.

  ‘I was just scared. I told them you didn’t want to rob banks. That Dad didn’t either. I don’t want Mum to go to prison, but they were going to catch us anyway. I thought at least you and me wouldn’t get in trouble if I spoke to them. And if we didn’t get caught it would just go on forever. And I hate it. And now I’ve shot someone.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’m fine,’ says Spencer. His arms are hooked around their shoulders, and he turns his head to Tom. ‘I’m having trouble with the consciousness thing but I’ll live. I think. I’m not sure. I’ll let you know if I see the light. I promise not to go towards it.’

  ‘The police told me they’d look after us,’ says Tom. ‘I didn’t think there was anything else I could do. I’m so sorry. Mum and Dad are going to hate me forever. What’s going to happen?’

  ‘I don’t know, Tom,’ she says. ‘I think we’ll be all right, though. We’ve managed to do all right so far, haven’t we?’

  ‘Your definition of all right is questionable,’ says Spencer. Nina would laugh if she weren’t so exhausted.

  They pause next to an enormous fake potted plant by the front door. All rubbery leaves, eternally green. So ordinary. Outside there are people and lights and sirens everywhere. She has to go forward, but she doesn’t know what comes next. A life away from her parents? A life as a known criminal? A former criminal. Prison, maybe.

  ‘Guess they’re waiting for us, then?’ says Nina.

  ‘I feel like a rock star,’ mumbles Spencer.

  They push open the first glass door, then the second. There’s a gust of wind. It’s like she hasn’t been outside in centuries. They stand there, on the steps of the bank, and everyone is watching.

  She almost feels good, and free—free of her parents, free of her old life, finally free to make her own decisions. Then she remembers about the police, about the robberies, and about how trapped she still is.

  EPILOGUE

  December

  Spencer

  ‘Shit,’ says Monica, staring at the cast on Spencer’s leg. ‘And you reckon nothing exciting ever happens to you.’

  These are the first words she has spoken in four months. It’s been two days since the bank robbery, and this is the first time Spencer has been conscious long enough for her to visit.

  ‘I may be delirious on pain medication,’ he says. ‘But I think those are the most profound words I have ever heard.’

  ‘They’ll blame this on violent video games for sure,’ she says. ‘Twelve-year-olds shooting people.’

  ‘No more communicating through lollies, then?’ he asks.

  ‘Death to Conversation Hearts,’ she says, grinning. She sits down in a chair by Spencer’s bed. ‘Might keep up my vow of silence while I’m at school, though. Annoying Ms Stanthorpe is just way too much fun.’

  Bridie makes an entrance at the very end of visiting hours, wearing a hot-pink leotard, a green tutu and multiple strands of beads looped around her neck and wrists and ankles. She’s clutching an enormous arrangement of white flowers. She looks as ridiculous as she always has, and for once, Spencer feels comforted instead of embarrassed.

  ‘You ought to watch the news,’ she says, not bothering with small talk. ‘We had journalists come to our house. Mum was excited, of course. Better they’re talking to her than making stuff up. She sends her love. And the flowers. I heard a report saying you were twelve, Spence. And then one that reckoned you were dying. I’ve been feeling really out of the loop.’ She puts the flowers on his bedside table. There are two other arrangements, from The Caro and from his boss at McDonald’s. He’s been sneezing a lot since they arrived.

  ‘What about, “Hey, how’s it going, Spence, how’s the bullet wound?” ’ says Monica.

  ‘The mute! She speaks! Praise the lord!’ Bridie waves her hands above her head, beads jangling. The three of them laugh.

  She comes around and sits on the edge of Spencer’s bed and sweeps him up in a hug. ‘But seriously,’ she says. ‘I’ve been really worried. Especially about the brink of death stuff. Wanted to make sure I was in the will, just in case. To the endlessly brilliant Bridie, I leave all my worldly possessions. As your most beloved and loyal friend, I feel I really deserve, at the very least, your laptop, and your Doors T-shirt, and that fedora I gave you for your birthday that you haven’t even worn. I’ll write a list.’

  Spencer laughs. ‘Maybe I’ll let you have my laptop. Clear the browsing history, would you? Now that I’ve promised it to you, you can’t smother me, though. There’s a witness.’

  He points to Monica, who nods solemnly.

  ‘I was going to buy a Get Well Soon card, but they were all woefully inadequate. And the drivel written inside! Way too much rhyming. Plus, I couldn’t find any that related to getting shot.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I didn’t get shot for the cards and adoration. It’s weird. I’ve never been given flowers before in my life.’ He’s not really enjoying being the centre of attention. He’s avoiding watching the news on TV.

  ‘Did they take the bullet out?’ asks Bridie. ‘Do you have it?’

  ‘Of course they took it out. I don’t have it.’ Bridie’s randomness remains annoying.

  ‘You should get it back and put it on a necklace. Wait, that sounds too girly. You should wear it like a dog tag, like in the army? Imagine the great pick-up lines. I was shot, this is the very bullet,’ she says dramatically. She sounds like Bear Grylls. ‘And then you’d wink.’ She grins.

  ‘I’d rather not dwell on the getting shot thing. And I’m not much of a winker. Not really my style.’

  ‘You have hardly any style, Spence.’ She says this as if a lack of style is the worst fault in a person.

  He looks at the grey T-shirt and boxer shorts he’s wearing, and shrugs. He got out of the hospital gown as soon as he was allowed to, but the cast on his leg is not conducive to pants-wearing. ‘I’m in hospital. I’m not really in the mood for bedazzling.’

  ‘I know. Imagine if we’d lost you, Spence. What would we have put on your headstone? You need to be prepared for this. Th
ere’s nothing worse than a bad epitaph,’ says Bridie. ‘I’m still working on mine. I’d hate to go before I’ve perfected it.’

  ‘He wouldn’t care about his epitaph if he were dead,’ says Monica. ‘He’d be too busy haunting us as a really sulky ghost. You’re such an emo, Spence.’

  ‘This is true,’ says Bridie. ‘I still cannot believe Nina is a bank robber. She was always so nice and quiet. Remember that night I met her parents? They seemed so wholesome. I don’t even think they had tattoos. I’d sooner expect my parents to be criminals…Oh wait, are we tiptoeing around this? Should I have not brought this up?’

  ‘Bridie, you are the worst tiptoer ever. And there’s no need to refer to Nina in the past tense.’

  She pauses, looks thoughtful, then exclaims, ‘Gosh! Spence, you could be like one of those guys who marry women in prison. The letters! The romance! The conjugal visits! You have to admit it’s hot.’

  Monica snorts.

  ‘It’s not even remotely hot. There is something deeply wrong with you, and she is not going to prison,’ he says incredulously. ‘Remind me why I am friends with you?’

  ‘Because I lighten the mood. I know you love me. Have I mentioned I’m dating the drummer from Vampires on Bikes?’

  ‘Forgive me, Bridie, but your dating does not seem terribly significant right now.’

  ‘Spence, this is different. She is not a bassist; she is a drummer—that alone is significant. The year of bassists is over; I’ve moved on. There are only so many of them. Also, this is love. Big-time, opera-style love.’

  ‘Congratulations!’ says Monica.

  ‘Since when were you a lesbian?’ asks Spencer. This is the first he has heard of it. It would be nice if, as his most beloved and loyal friend, she kept him in the loop.

  ‘It’s about the individual, not the gender, darling,’ says Bridie. ‘How unfair would it be if I restricted my love to just boys? Or just bassists? I never forget a pinkie promise, Spence. However, that pinkie promise is immediately nullified if, in the future, I meet the most amazing person ever and they happen to be a bassist.’

  ‘Who am I to stand in the way of true love?’ he says.

  ‘This incident has clearly affected your outlook for the better,’ she says. ‘But please, don’t get shot again. I’m not sure my heart can take it.’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ he says.

  ‘Now, you’ll have to forgive me,’ she says. ‘But I am taking Monica to the shops with me, as she looks incredibly bored, and, despite your dramas, Christmas is still imminent and I have many gifts to buy. Sound good, Monica?’

  Monica nods.

  ‘I’m incredibly bored,’ he says.

  ‘But you’re probably not going to let me break you out of here in a wheelchair, are you?’

  ‘I don’t want to get in trouble,’ he says. Then winces. ‘Wow. I sound like a ten-year-old.’

  ‘Still not living on the edge. It’s okay. Everyone’s a work in progress.’ She gets up and gives his shoulder a squeeze. ‘Call me if you start feeling down and I’ll come by and deliver an inspirational speech. Tomorrow is another day, the first day of the rest of your life, etcetera. Remember that I love you. Hey Monica! There is so much we have to talk about now that you’re not mute,’ she says, smoothing her tutu. ‘Let’s rock and roll.’

  Monica stands and salutes. ‘You’re my hero, Spence!’ she says, as she leaves the room, trailing after Bridie. He ignores her sarcasm.

  Later in the evening, Spencer’s father comes in and wakes him up. He presses a mobile phone into Spencer’s hand. Dazed, Spencer mouths ‘Who is it?’ but his father is already looking away, staring absently out the window, his hands twisted together.

  Spencer puts the phone to his ear. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Spencer. Oh, Spencer.’ She sounds quiet and far away. It takes a moment for him to recognise her voice—it’s sad that he’d given up on her, that it didn’t occur to him she’d be calling—but he remembers she is, and always will be, his mother. And he and his father were taken hostage in a bank robbery, and he was shot in the leg. Of course. Of course she’d call. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Mum,’ he says. He remembers yelling at his dad, his anger and his numbness in the months after she left. But he has no anger now. Has he moved beyond it, or will it come back and hit him later? Right now, he’s just grateful to hear his mother’s voice.

  ‘I’m coming home,’ she says, her voice a whisper. ‘I’m coming home.’

  For three nights in a row, Spencer stares at the off-white ceiling of his hospital room, unable to sleep after dozing all day. Time moves strangely in hospital. Time has moved strangely for Spencer ever since his mother left—the months after Nina left stretched on forever, the day of the bank robbery felt like ten years. And the three days in hospital seem to bleed into one. There’s never any real darkness in his room. There is never anything that has to be done. There is only resting and visitors and the TV going on and on and on. He can see a partial view out the window of the park beside the hospital. If this were a normal summer, he would be out in that hazy heat. At the beach or at the pool or lying in a park in the shade somewhere. This is not a normal summer.

  Instead he lies awake and plays out scenarios in his head of what to say when—if—Nina visits. In the silence of his room, he practises jokes he’s thought of—it’s lucky he got a room all to himself, or his neighbour would think him crazy. There’s probably another part of the hospital for him if he actually does go crazy. He imagines her laughing. Imagines apologising for being ignorant months back, when they’d been so close. Apologising for having no idea. What he says and what she says—but in the end those things aren’t even important to him. He just wants her to be okay. He just wants her to come by. He just wants her to care about him still.

  She arrives the morning of the fourth day, after his father has gone to get coffee (well, the watery excuse for coffee that comes out of the machines in the hospital). She pauses in the doorway, smiles.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey yourself.’ Spencer is propped in bed, itching to get up and hug her. And for the nine thousandth time over the last few days it hits him that he can’t move. The leg is immobilised.

  She goes over to the window and perches on the edge of a chair badly in need of reupholstering, orange stuffing poking through holes in the red vinyl.

  She’s in jeans and a T-shirt. Her hair is up in a ponytail. She looks like the Nina he knew, except for the red hair. At least there’s no balaclava. She seems tired.

  ‘Did you escape?’ Spencer jokes. Neither of them laugh. Oh, Spencer, always so awkward.

  ‘The police are waiting outside for me.’ She nods towards the door. ‘You’ve spoken to them?’

  ‘They brought Dad here the other day, after… everything,’ he says. ‘They were there when I woke up. I was a bit hazy on the details. Told them I’d had the weirdest dream, where my ex-girlfriend was robbing a bank and a pre-teen shot me. Ha.’

  ‘You have no idea how sorry I am that really did happen.’

  ‘They could hardly believe I’d apparently been so close to someone and not known they were a criminal. I told them I was just really unobservant. It’s not like you ever outright lied to me, though. I never asked “So, do you and your family dabble in bank-robbing?” ’

  ‘Of course, I would have said “Why yes we do, care to be taken hostage sometime? It’ll be a blast.” ’

  ‘It was never you, though, was it? It was your parents.’

  She shifts uncomfortably on the edge of the chair, glances towards the door. Spencer imagines the police officer waiting on the other side, chatting with his father.

  ‘How’s the leg, by the way?’

  ‘Good. I had surgery the first day. I hear it went well. All I know is I can still feel that it’s there, so that’s a good thing. I’m not allowed to walk yet, I won’t be out of hospital for a couple of weeks and I probably won’t be able to walk for a couple of months, so I’ve been enjo
ying a fair bit of Dr Phil.’ He nods towards the TV on the wall. The sound is down, and a studio audience looks excited about something. ‘Hospital food is terrible. Dad feels so bad for me he just keeps bringing me Happy Meals and thick shakes. If I have a heart attack, at least I’m in the right place.’

  Last time he was in a hospital, it was this one. When his mother lost the baby. He doesn’t mention this to Nina. It’s not the right time.

  ‘Anyone comment on the missing toe?’ she asks.

  ‘Ha.’ He glances at his foot, encased in the cast. ‘Not that I know of. It’s more than a little bit insignificant next to getting shot in the leg.’

  ‘It’s a shame you didn’t get shot in the foot,’ she says. ‘In the exact spot where your toe should be. And the absence of that toe would in fact mean that you wouldn’t get shot. Not that you should have been shot at all.’

  ‘There’s only so much coincidence that can happen in one day. We must have reached the limit.’

  ‘I guess you’re not considering a career as a negotiator after this?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m more wary of becoming a bank manager now, too. Are you going to come over and give me a hug or what? Bridie practically crushed me the moment she came in, and I survived that, so don’t worry, I’m not too fragile.’

  Nina smiles, steps over and settles on the edge of the hospital bed. He can tell she’s being careful of the leg. She leans in and hugs him, resting her head against his shoulder. ‘This has been a weird week,’ she mumbles.

  ‘Understatement, I think. But I’m gladder to be alive than I have ever been before,’ he says. ‘Though the evening we first kissed and many subsequent evenings come close.’

  ‘Hopefully when you’re old and feeling nostalgic you’ll reflect on that rather than me as a bank robber.’ She sits back and he grasps her hand, thinking of the night she read his palm. He draws circles on her palm with his thumb. ‘Remember me as a talented palm-reader. My prediction about an unfortunate event came true.’