All This Could End Page 2

  ‘I thought we’d leave it up to you,’ says Sophia from the next room. Nina hears her turn on the TV. ‘I’ve got all the information on the dining table, if you’d care to read up, Tom.’

  ‘I’m not reading anything,’ says Tom, as if he can’t believe his mother even suggested it. Nina’s the reader in the family—she doesn’t own any books herself, she doesn’t have enough space in her bag, but she loves libraries. She’ll find the nearest one soon, get a card, and spend as much time there as possible. Sometimes books feel like the only thing that keep her sane. Actually, she knows that they’re the only reason she’s still even vaguely okay right now. That’s what she clings to: reading great books and seeing great films and, for as long as she’s immersed in them, being able to forget, if only for a short time, about the reality of her own life.

  ‘All right then,’ says Paul. ‘You’re coming to the shops, Tom.’

  On her way into the apartment building, Nina had seen the school across the river. It’s a state school. Usually Sophia is very picky about their education, making sure she enrols them in the best school possible at every new place, even if they’re living in a humble house (humble so as not to arouse suspicion, naturally—everything is done with the intention of being as inconspicuous as possible, rather than actually living comfortably). Nina allows herself to think that perhaps her mother is becoming a little more relaxed and is actually going to let them make their own decisions. She only allows herself to think this for a second.

  They’d arrived that afternoon after driving all day, and kids were out of school, still in their uniforms, looking for shells on the river bank. Once again, Nina thought about how much simpler their lives were than hers. Sure, things probably felt complicated to them but if she could swap with them, life would be bliss. She wouldn’t be scanning all the cars on the street, and their occupants, sussing out whether any of them could be plain-clothes police. She wouldn’t be constantly making sure she wasn’t attracting too much attention to herself. She wouldn’t be checking for security cameras out of habit. She wouldn’t be feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt about the five-year-old boy wailing in his mother’s arms at the bank they’d robbed two weeks before, as she’d taken all the money from the till. And about so many people before him.

  Nina unzips her bag and starts putting clothes in the drawers, folding and re-folding. An assortment of jeans and T-shirts, a few hoodies, a cardigan. Nothing too special or showy. When her life is so much at the mercy of her parents—well, Sophia—she needs to be in control of something. She’s very particular about her few possessions, her room. Small things matter when you don’t have control over the big things.

  She has a notebook, too—it’s nondescript, small and black and spiral-bound. Not a diary or journal, they could never risk that. The thought of detailing her life is so ridiculous, so dangerous, so dumb, Nina almost laughs. Pointless trivia, useless facts, that’s what she records in the notebook. Things that will never come in handy, but that are helpful because they are distracting. As long as her head is filled with facts she can’t be overcome with guilt, she can’t worry, she can keep her mind off the bad things. A giraffe’s heart can weigh up to ten kilograms. The smoke detector was invented in 1969. Polar bears can run at up to sixty kilometres per hour.

  It’s not a question of whether they can afford the private school or not, or whether the school will have places or not. With the money the Prettys have, anything can be bought, although offering school principals exorbitant amounts of money to enrol kids in the middle of the year would probably arouse more suspicion than living in a decent-sized house. But Nina doesn’t bring this up with her parents. She’s grown used to her mother’s irrationality.

  She doesn’t really care where they go to school. She used to, when she was younger, and she’d invest a lot of thought into making a good impression on everyone, making friends. But it’s only four months this time. Even if it were longer, she’d always know that it was only temporary.

  She still makes an effort with schoolwork because once she finishes school, she can escape. Then she need never rob another bank, scare another person out of their mind, or steal anything ever again. She’s counting down, now. Only four hundred and fifty-four days until she’s eighteen. Only four hundred and fifty-four days until she can escape.

  Tomorrow, it’ll be only four hundred and fifty-three days until freedom. The fifth of July next year, she turns eighteen. In eighteen months. Not that long at all. It’ll be over in a blink.

  Nina sits on the couch, staring out the sliding door onto the balcony, watching the river slip past. The sky is darkening and the lights in the windows of distant skyscrapers sparkle like a million stars. She imagines the people working there, or living there, all with their own dreams and wishes and fears and struggles. There must be so many people whose lives are even more difficult, more complicated than hers. She should be grateful that she has food to eat and a family who loves her, even if they’re possibly psychotics and definitely criminals. Just like she is.

  Right now Nina feels as if happiness is just a story people tell, rather than something that actually happens. Because it’s not happening for her.

  ‘We’re going to the private school,’ Tom announces, as he and Paul arrive home from the supermarket. Paul goes to the kitchen with the box of groceries, while Tom slumps across the couch, thrusting his feet in Nina’s lap. She shoves them off.

  Sophia turns away from the TV—she’s been attempting to find stations, with no success. Her eyes light up and she smiles. ‘Private? Really?’

  ‘I saw some kids with the uniform on,’ says Tom. ‘It’s purple.’

  ‘You’re a fan of purple?’ asks Paul, not looking up from unpacking the vegetables. ‘Since when?’

  ‘What shade of purple?’ asks Nina.

  ‘It’s Cadbury-chocolate purple,’ says Tom. ‘And, Dad, purple is a lot better than the puke green the other school’s got.’

  ‘Well that’s that then. I’ll call them first thing tomorrow,’ says Sophia. ‘You happy, Nina?’

  How could she be happy? Why should she even care? What difference would it make?

  So she says, magically keeping the sarcasm out of her voice: ‘How could I not be? I’m going to have a Cadbury-purple uniform.’

  That night Nina lies awake in bed and listens to her parents’ hushed conversation in the living room. What are they talking about? In spite of how much time she spends with her parents, they still feel like a total mystery to her. Her father’s ordinary, law-abiding parents live on the west coast, and don’t have a clue about the robberies. Her mother’s parents are dead. What motivates them now? Does Sophia only think about robbing banks? Does her father only work as a teacher as a cover for their crime? Does he not enjoy teaching at all? Do they ever have doubts? She’s trying to work herself up to asking them one day—well, asking her father; Sophia is not someone who would ever admit to doubts.

  ‘I met this girl,’ whispers Tom from his bed three feet away from her. So he wasn’t asleep either.

  Nina turns on her side to face him. His hair is a mess and he’s staring at the ceiling. There’s a pause as they listen to the rumble of a plane overhead, impossibly loud, so close. Nina imagines herself on the plane, flying away from here. The sound fades. The thought leaves her mind with it.

  ‘Does she go to this private school?’ Nina asks.

  Tom looks over at her, frowning with surprise. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Easy. You always hate going to school where Dad’s teaching,’ she says.

  ‘Ah,’ says Tom. ‘You’re smart.’

  ‘Pays to take notice,’ she says and then cringes because it’s something her mother would say. It’s something her mother would want her to do. Always look out for opportunities. As she gets older, is she transforming into her mother? This possibility is more terrifying for her than for most children, considering who her mother is. ‘Are you going to tell me about her?’

 
‘She’s really nice,’ he says. ‘I was patting this dog—a German Shepherd—tied up out the front of a shop. It was her dog, and she came out of the shop for it. So I just chatted to her for a bit, about the dog.’

  ‘What’s her name?’ asks Nina. She resists the urge (her mother would act on it) to tell him off for speaking to strangers—surely talking to a kid his own age can’t hurt?

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. The dog’s name is Chance. She had this whole story about how the dog was going to get put down by the vet but then her family decided to take it home. She wanted to call it Lucky. Her mum said that was overused and suggested Chance.’

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘The dog or the girl?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘The dog was six, and I don’t know how old she was…maybe my age. A bit older. She was wearing that uniform, so I knew what school she was from.’ He turns and looks at Nina again. ‘Do you reckon I’m being ridiculous? Going to a school just because of her?’

  ‘It’s only four months,’ Nina says. ‘You could have flipped a coin if you wanted. It’s the same for me wherever I go.’

  She feels bad being so negative. She shouldn’t be bitter and jaded this young. She really shouldn’t be. But even if she is, she should make an effort with her brother. Be positive. Not make him resent his parents and then have to live with them for years.

  ‘It might be different this time,’ he says. ‘You never know.’

  He has hope. He wants to make friends, do the things twelve-year-olds do. She wants him to keep that. She kind of resents him for what he has—such unawareness, such innocence. She must have once had that herself. She wishes she could have it again, but she’s also glad that she is aware, that she knows robbing banks is wrong. She doesn’t want her brother growing up without a conscience, but neither does she want him hating their parents. No matter what happens, he’ll lose either way.

  Soon Tom is snoring softly, and the murmuring of her parents in the next room stops. It’s late, but she doesn’t fall asleep easily, and hasn’t for years. Too nervous. Too worried.

  She looks out the open window. Bats are rustling in the trees and the wind is howling. She can smell the sea, and she wants to go there, go swimming, right now. The streetlights glow beneath her, and a hill dotted with houses rises behind the apartment building. She can see into living rooms where lights have been left on, flashing images on TVs. What would it be like if she were one of those people, if she had another life? Would she be happy?

  There are four hundred and fifty-two days until she’s eighteen and can escape. Grinning and bearing it—‘it’ being bank-robbing, constant fear and half-crazy parents—for the next four hundred and fifty-two days.

  What she expects is four uneventful months at a school with a Cadbury-purple uniform. Boring classes and lunchtimes in the library. She expects to remain friendless, to be as disconnected from everyone else as she can possibly be—to protect them, to protect her. For the greater good.

  Nina

  Two days later, Nina sits on the fourth-floor balcony of the apartment, a book in her hands, her legs poking through the railings, dangling below, her face tipped up to the sun. Cars whistle past, the growl of their wheels and engines intensifying as they approach, then fading as they disappear. Nina listens to magpies warble, a cacophony of crow calls, and the rustle of the leaves on the potted palm her mother bought as a balcony decoration.

  There are butcher birds sitting on the power-lines, glancing around. She knows they’re butcher birds because she got a book on birds from the library last night. Occasionally one or two swoop over and Nina flinches. One digs through the dirt of the potted palm, making a mess of the balcony. Its body is white, its head black, and its wings a patchwork of both. The eyes, like those on a stuffed toy, stare at Nina, as if daring her to be the first one to look away.

  Is this all just an interlude? She’s not sure whether what she’s waiting for is real life, her life, that great unknown thing in front of her, or whether she’s just killing time until the next bank robbery. She’s almost certain that this peacefulness, this ease she sometimes feels, will not last.

  Tom refuses to be so daggy as to let his dad drive him to school, and he is reluctant to catch the same bus as Nina. But, as Sophia points out, since he and his sister both look so different, no one will be able to tell they’re related. Nina isn’t sure whether this is a good or a bad thing.

  The bus stop is right outside their apartment building, and she can see Sophia standing on the balcony, resisting the urge to wave. Tom immediately walks towards the back of the bus, very confident in his own coolness, and claims one of the remaining seats. Nina avoids eye contact with him—she doesn’t want to embarrass him.

  The bus isn’t a dedicated school bus, so it’s overflowing with people. As well as students, there are chatty old ladies on their way to the shops, businessmen and women typing away on laptops, and a very intense-looking woman in workout gear. Nina clutches her messenger bag—when you’re a criminal yourself, you are very aware that there are other bad people out there, and you become distrustful of everyone. There are a number of inividuals on the bus who look more than a little bit suspicious. Nina imagines it as one of those crappy chain emails, like: You know you’re a nineties kid when…and: You know you’ve been playing too many video games when… Hers would be: You know you’re a criminal when…

  …you think that everyone you meet is a potential mugger.

  …you can look at a wad of cash and correctly estimate the amount.

  …every time you leave home, you fully expect to find your parents arrested, all the cash torn out of your mattress and a bunch of police dogs inside when you come back.

  She knows it wouldn’t catch on. Definitely a niche audience.

  Nina is sitting on the aisle, next to a lady digging through a massive handbag on her lap. She’s never spent much time on public transport—what with the weird people and the potential to be robbed—she’s either walked or her parents have wanted to drive her. This time Sophia insisted that Nina keep an eye on Tom. Of course Tom has no idea about this.

  Nina avoids looking at the other students. What if they spoke to her? What would she say? What if she just mumbled incoherently and they all thought she was a moron? What if she tried to speak to them and no one spoke to her? Why does she care so much about people and things that will mean nothing in four months’ time? She knows it’s stupid to be so worried about this, but it doesn’t stop her from worrying.

  She worries all the way to the next stop, where four people get on. She glances around the bus, making sure no one’s looking at her. No one is, thank God. She barely notices the first three new passengers but the fourth is wearing the purple uniform too, and he’s walking like he knows that if he wears it with enough confidence, it won’t matter that he’s dressed like the Cadbury chocolate bunny. She can see something drawn on the back of his hand, but he moves before she can figure out what it is.

  His hair is black and short and messy, and his eyes bright, bright blue, unnaturally blue. He’s beautiful, but what is it exactly that makes him so beautiful? She looks away before he notices her looking. He takes the seat across the aisle from her and the bus takes off with a shudder again.

  How old is he? What year is he in? She’s never been good at judging age, so he could be anywhere between fifteen and eighteen. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him texting, and wonders if he’s popular, if he has a lot of friends always texting him. She’s tempted to pull out her own phone, to pretend to text and make it look as if she has friends too. But other people wouldn’t care, would they? They wouldn’t even notice. She’s the only one who obsesses over these things.

  As she gets up to stand in the aisle, so the woman beside her can get off at the next stop, Nina accidentally knocks the boy’s foot. She murmurs ‘Sorry’ and he glances up from his phone for a second. It feels like she looks at him a moment too long.

  She sits ba
ck down and glances around the back of the bus to see Tom chatting to a girl from the school. He has Sophia’s ease with people. He isn’t old enough yet to be worrying about the police catching up with them, and being sent to prison. Even if they did get caught, Tom would probably just be put into foster care. Everyone would sigh and feel sorry for him and evening news stories would talk about the failings of social security in not rescuing him earlier.

  Nina wants to look more closely at the boy across the aisle, maybe even say something to him, but she doesn’t want him to think she’s a freak. She shuffles across the seat to the window side and stares out at the ocean gliding past. She feels so alone, so invisible. But that’s what you have to be when you’re a criminal (even an unwilling one)—as long as you’re alone, as long as you’re invisible, you’re safe. You won’t get caught. You don’t exactly feel alive, but at least you’re not in prison.

  If she had a choice, she would not choose this. She would choose another life.

  Nina

  It was a hot, dry summer, Nina was twelve and it was the first time she had been involved in robbing a bank. The air conditioner was broken in the bungalow where they were staying. With the window and blinds shut to keep the heat out, the room was stuffy and dark. Nina padded across to the window, the soles of her feet sticking to the peeling lino, and pulled the blind aside. The sun was scorching, even through the window, but she wrenched it open. It was not an improvement.

  Tom, eight years old and an amateur inventor, had fashioned an ineffective fan for himself out of takeaway menus and serviettes. He flicked through channels on the TV until he found cartoons. Between the heat and the feeling of dread creeping up her throat, Nina was unable to focus on the TV.

  ‘If we were at home,’ Tom yelled to his mother, who was getting dressed in the next room, ‘we’d be able to watch telly with the fan on.’ By ‘home’ he meant their most recent house, a little one-bedroom cottage on a hill up north. In fact not much bigger than the bungalow in this caravan park. He sighed dramatically. Tom was always big on sighing and eye-rolling and melodrama.