The Accusation

by Wendy James

  Suzannah walked Honor to her car. As soon as they were out of earshot, Honor clutched Suzannah’s arm. ‘You should be very careful with Chip,’ she whispered, shocked by her own bluntness. ‘He’s a player. You’ll only get hurt.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about me.’ Suzannah sounded amused. ‘I’m not exactly an innocent.’

  Honor considered her for a long moment. ‘Okay. As long as you know what you’re getting yourself into.’ She realised she sounded like a drunken maiden aunt, but couldn’t help herself. ‘Just don’t say you weren’t warned.’

  SUZANNAH: MAY 2018

  HONOR HADN’T BEEN THE ONLY ONE TO WARN ME OFF CHIP. Tania from the school office, whose unerring instinct for gossip was evenly matched by her compulsion to stick her nose in other people’s business, had told me in no uncertain terms, and in the hearing of a couple of smirking colleagues and several round-eyed Year Seven girls, that Chip Gascoyne had a bit of a reputation and I should watch myself around him. This was right back at the beginning of first term, before I’d even met him, and I’d dismissed it with a laugh. She’d looked at me sternly. ‘You haven’t met him yet. I’ve known him all my life. He’s not a bad bloke, as blokes go. And he may have been a model husband when poor Gemma was alive, but now . . .’ She slammed her fist down on the stapler.

  Mary, too, in one of her odd moments of (usually malicious) insight, had told me that I was an idiot to think that a bloke like Chip would want a woman like me. ‘Why would he go for you? I mean, you’re not that bad for your age, but he could get someone a fair bit younger.’ She had given me a critical once-over. ‘He might want kids, and you’re a bit past all that, aren’t you? A bit long in the tooth?’

  ‘I’m not actually that old, you know.’ I couldn’t resist. ‘Not as old as you, anyway.’

  She ignored my adolescent jibe and continued, ‘Anyway, he’ll probably be the last fuck you’ll ever get, so you may as well make the most of it.’

  I’d confessed to an old drama teacher friend, Laura, who I met up with every now and then in Sydney, that I’d met someone.

  ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘I don’t think so. No.’

  ‘You mean he’s not serious.’

  ‘No. It’s mutual. We’re having fun. He’s someone to talk to, but that’s it. I don’t want serious at this stage. Everything’s too complicated. I’ve got to sort out Mary first.’

  She’d sighed. ‘There’s never going to be a stage where it’s simple, Suze. Not at your age. You’ve got baggage. And he’s going to have baggage too.’

  ‘He does. But it’s not . . . well, it’s not like mine.’

  ‘Well, duh.’ She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘You need to protect yourself, Suze. And you know I don’t just mean use condoms.’ We both laughed. ‘And if he’s not serious, you need to be extra careful. You really don’t want to get burned.’

  I didn’t want to get burned, but I didn’t want to run away from something that was proving to be far more pleasurable, and far less complicated than I’d ever imagined. After that first dinner, Chip had begun calling in, uninvited but never unwelcome, once, twice, sometimes three times a week. If it was late, past Mary’s bedtime, he’d bring a bottle of wine to share; if Mary was still likely to be awake, he’d bring a tub of her favourite icecream. Sometimes he’d even arrive in time to join in our nightly Trouble game. It was clear Mary enjoyed his company almost as much as I did. She’d swing between outrageous flirting and affecting a painful Victorian coyness, all giggles and sweetness, sometimes even to the point of letting him come close to (but never actually) winning. Occasionally she’d beg him to read to her – ‘You do it much better than Dame Judi here. She sounds like she’s got a peg on her nose’ – and mostly he’d oblige.

  Most nights, once Mary was asleep we’d be up late drinking and talking, and almost always Chip would end up staying over. Somehow, regardless of our virtuous intentions – the good sleep I desperately needed, his early morning start – he never seemed to make it home. Because if our conversations were good, and they were, the sex was even better.

  ABDUCTED: THE ELLIE CANNING STORY

  A documentary by HeldHostage Productions © 2019

  ELLIE CANNING: TRANSCRIPT N5

  When I first woke up I actually thought I was in hospital, that I must have been in an accident.

  It was just like one of those scenes from a movie. You know, where the heroine’s just out of surgery, and all she can see are bright lights and blurry figures leaning over her, with all the sound muffled as if it’s coming from far away. It took me ages to work out what was going on, where I was, what was happening to me. There was just like this blurry figure, and a voice murmuring, or maybe singing, and then it would go dark again.

  Sometime later – I really don’t know whether it was hours or days – I woke up a bit more, though I still felt pretty foggy and disoriented. I tried to get out of bed, but there was some sort of restraint around my waist – like not tight or anything, but my movements were completely restricted. But I was so out of it, that it didn’t really bother me. I just lay back down and drifted off again.

  When I was conscious enough to look around me, I saw that the room was sort of like a hospital room, only dingier. There was hardly any furniture – just the bed I was lying on, which had this old metal bedhead; there was a bedside cabinet, a chair beside the bed. There was a sliding door on one wall, and the main door, one of those old timber-panelled doors, on the wall across from me. It was kept closed. There were no windows; the only light was from a bare bulb dangling from a black cord. Oh, and there were these two paintings on the wall opposite me.

  It seemed like days before I actually saw anyone for real. I had vague memories of someone being there, but there never seemed to be anyone around when I was awake. I have no idea how I was being fed, or if I was being fed, but I had no consciousness of hunger, only sometimes my throat would be sore, and I would be very thirsty.

  I could never work out how much time was passing. It was like time had become something sort of meaningless, you know. Even when I thought I was awake I was kind of like floating. I spent days just gazing at the pattern on my quilt. There were these tiny flowers all over it, and if I squeezed my eyes half shut they turned into fireworks. I used to play that childhood game, open shut them, open shut them, watching the colours burst and fade and burst and fade.

  HONOR: AUGUST 2018

  HONOR TOOK ELLIE CANNING ON AS A CLIENT JUST A FEW DAYS after the story broke. She’d driven by the hospital earlier, seen the crowd outside, knew that this story was only going to get more intense, and that her services – or the services of somebody like her – would be desperately needed.

  She’d known the officer in charge, Hugh Stratford, since childhood. They had moved in very different social circles even then, but he’d been very helpful when her father reversed into a bakery in Enfield Wash’s main street a few years earlier, and as was her practice, Honor had cultivated the connection. She could hear him sigh when her call was put through, initially irritated by the interruption, but he still gave her the information she needed.

  Yes, he’d told her reluctantly, the girl was still in hospital, and yes, she was up to talking to visitors, and yes, Honor was right – she probably could do with some help dealing with the media. Right now they couldn’t move without treading on the bastards, and the station and the hospital were being inundated with calls, it was almost impossible to get a line in. It would be helpful if they could direct them elsewhere. And as for the girl herself, the situation was stressing her out. It was all a bit much after everything else that had happened. Anyway, yeah, he’d tell the nursing unit manager, another old schoolmate, that Honor would be coming in to talk to her.

  ‘Are there any clues yet about where she might have been? Or why they took her?’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Honor. Of course we’ve got some ideas, but I’m hardly likely to tell you, am I?’

  She laughed. It had been wo
rth a try. ‘It’s mad though, isn’t it? The town’s full of rumours. I heard that Jane Wetherby and her mum have been questioned? Although that’s ridiculous. Jane’s legally blind.’

  ‘I can’t comment, Honor.’ He sounded huffy.

  ‘Okay. Sorry. I’ll be at the hospital in an hour or so. Will that work?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s fine. Actually, Honor,’ he’d added, ‘the girl could probably do with some more ah, personal advice, too. She’s a state ward, and the foster parents aren’t much use, to be honest. They live up north – Manning – and we can’t get either of them to come down. They’ve got a bunch of other kids to look after, and reckon it’s impossible to get away. I guess they don’t want the publicity; they’ll be up shit creek because they didn’t even notice she’d gone missing. She hasn’t got anyone else. No aunts or uncles or grandparents. There’s the school, but she doesn’t want them involved, so it’s not their responsibility either. She’s just turned eighteen, but the department have sent some bloody girl, a social worker, to cover their arses. She’s barely older, and hasn’t got a clue how to handle something as explosive as this. I mean who does?’

  Honor couldn’t resist. ‘Well, you know, I have had a teeny bit of experience in these things.’

  ‘Yeah, okay. I get it. Anyway, the girl could probably do with a little female TLC right now. And some sensible advice. We don’t know what to do with her, where to send her. She can’t go back into any sort of state care at this stage, even if she wanted to, but she doesn’t have any resources. It’s a bit of a nightmare, to be frank. Maybe you can help her out?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘And maybe,’ his voice was hesitant, ‘you could persuade her to agree to a full sexual assault exam?’

  ‘Surely that’s been done?’

  ‘Well,’ he sounded slightly embarrassed, ‘she’s had blood tests, but she’s really adamant that she doesn’t need a doctor to look at her. She insists that they didn’t touch her, that she’d know if they did.’

  ‘I suppose she would.’

  ‘Maybe. But apparently the woman . . .’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Anyway, it’s just something that needs to be done. For her own good, as well as ours.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. But surely if she says she’s sure nothing happened then nothing’s happened?’

  ‘She was unconscious half the time. She might not even know.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘I’ll make sure they’re expecting you. And Honor—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe you could bring a few things for her. Bathroom stuff. She’s still in the hospital nightie . . . You know what it’s like.’

  Honor said hello to the officer stationed outside her hospital room. The woman stood and held out her hand. ‘G’day Honor,’ she said. ‘Been a long time.’ She gave a sympathetic smile when it became clear Honor didn’t recognise her. ‘Jenny Irvine. Moorhouse now. You used to babysit me and my sisters when we were little. I’ve probably changed a bit.’

  ‘Oh my God. Jenny! It’s lovely to see you.’ Honor’s pleasure was feigned, but her surprise was genuine – there was no way she would ever have recognised Jenny Irvine. She’d been the cutest kid – elfin, dark-eyed, sweet-natured – but there was no sign of her in this sloppy, tired-looking woman. She looked ten years older than Honor, when she must have been ten years younger.

  ‘You’re here to see Ellie, are you?’

  ‘Hugh Stratford said she could do with some help.’

  ‘Yeah. The poor darlin’.’

  ‘How’s she doing?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell. Every now and then she sort of fades out, but most of the time she seems pretty calm, despite everything. Maybe it’s the residual effect of the drugs.’

  ‘Do the doctors know what they gave her?’

  ‘Well, it looks like she was given benzos of some sort. It’s possible she was given Rohypnol as well, but that’s out of your system fairly quickly.’

  ‘No permanent damage?’

  ‘No. Nothing physical. I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but you know she won’t let them do a rape exam?’

  Honor shrugged. ‘I suppose it just seems like too much right now. I guess she knows what she’s doing.’

  ‘I don’t know that she does, actually.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, there’s got to be some serious psychological stuff going on. You know she’s a state ward? Her life’s already been hard enough. She’s the last person who needs this sort of shit.’

  ‘Maybe that’s made her more . . . What’s the latest buzz word? Resilient? Gritty?’

  Honor moved closer to the door as she spoke and peered through the window. The girl was sitting in her hospital bed watching a sitcom on the television. She looked small, young, and somehow even more vulnerable than in the school photographs that had been published in the newspapers and on the net. She was wearing a hospital gown, the ties loose on her back, and Honor could see the curve of her spine, her pale skin.

  Jenny sighed. ‘Maybe. But she needs someone.’

  Suddenly the girl looked up, met her gaze through the glass, her face unreadable, unsmiling. Honor smiled, gave her a tentative wave. ‘Well, I guess she’s got me for now, hasn’t she?’

  She met up with Suzannah at the RSL for a quick drink late that afternoon – they’d made the engagement weeks ago. Honor told her that she’d seen the girl in the hospital, that she’d be handling all her publicity.

  Suzannah was curious. ‘So how is she? It’s just completely mind-boggling, what happened to her. I can’t imagine it’s easy to . . . process.’

  Honor took a moment to answer. ‘She’s surprisingly okay. I mean she’s a bit out of it, but she’s not huddled up crying or anything. I don’t know exactly how these things work – maybe the trauma will catch up with her later?’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  Honor took a long sip of her wine. ‘I like her. She seems a bit lost, to be honest. A bit dazed. Scared, maybe. But she seems smart too. She’s listening to the police, the doctors; she’s mostly happy to do what she’s told. But she digs her heels in when she doesn’t want to do something. And she’s being pretty sensible about the press interest. Most people want it to go away, and others are pains in the arse, wanting to tell the press everything.’

  ‘And has she told you anything? I mean the reason she was taken? No one seems to be saying, but it’s the thing everyone wants to know.’

  Honor laughed. ‘We haven’t got that far yet. I think the police are probably keeping a lot of info from the public. It’s pretty wild though, when you think about it.’

  ‘If there’d been a man involved it would be so much easier to understand. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything like this happening.’

  ‘Not that anyone can remember.’

  ‘I guess the media is going mad?’

  ‘Totally. I’ve had calls from five morning shows, asking if they can talk to her when she’s out of hospital. And three women’s magazines, two of them willing to pay a decent amount for an exclusive. And then there’s all the web-based stuff. It’s going to be huge.’

  Suzannah sipped her drink, thoughtful. ‘This’ll change her life forever, won’t it?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Honor had to work hard to keep the excitement out of her voice. ‘I feel like it might change a few lives.’

  ***

  It wasn’t until she had observed the girl herself (clearly traumatised, disoriented, and yet so undemanding) and witnessed the way everyone in her orbit, the nurses, the doctors, the motherly police officer Moorhouse, instinctively rallied around her – that Honor really understood just how big this could get. In media terms, Ellie was a natural.

  It had happened only once or twice in Honor’s career. Usually she was employed to push, to make a small story bigger, to help the undeserving but desperate make their way into the public consciousness. She knew the choreography of this part
icular dance by heart: when to move forward, when to pull back, how to keep the public hungry for more. But occasionally the dance wasn’t even necessary, occasionally a story – and a person – had a rhythm that was entirely its own. Sometimes a story came along that wasn’t strictly speaking ‘of the moment’ – instead it created the moment.

  Caution was required, of course. Stories like Ellie’s could be like an out-of-control wildfire – if the wind suddenly changed, everyone could end up burned.

  ABDUCTED: THE ELLIE CANNING STORY

  A documentary by HeldHostage Productions © 2019

  ELLIE CANNING: TRANSCRIPT N6

  I would stare at the two paintings in the room for hours. One was of sailing boats in bright blue water. There were these red dots in the background that sort of looked like blood. The other one was really freaky. It was this huge picture of a naked woman, really pregnant, lying on a couch. I remember her nipples. They were like huge and dark – bigger than any nipples I’d ever seen. Her stomach looked like it was about to burst. There was this man’s head leering over her shoulder.

  I gazed at the painting for hours, thinking about who the people in the picture were, what they were doing, wondering what was going to happen next. Some days I would imagine the woman dying, her stomach exploding, the man left holding the baby.

  I knew every line, every colour, every shape. I could probably draw it by memory now.

  Sometimes the two paintings would merge in my dreams – the woman would be in the yacht sailing away, only she was me. And sometimes there’d be a baby, too.

  SUZANNAH: AUGUST 2018

  THE POLICE SEARCH WAS, AS THEY’D TOLD US, BRIEF. THEY HAD a quick look around the house, Moorhouse taking countless photographs of every room on her iPhone, including the two rooms down in the basement, one still crammed with odds and ends of furniture left behind by Chip – a couple of old iron bed frames, mattresses, two big wardrobes, all of which I was planning to dispose of, and the other crowded with still-to-be-emptied moving cartons. Mary led the way enthusiastically into the smaller room, opening the door, flicking on the light, a bulb that dangled unshaded in the centre of the room. It had been painted a mustardy colour, God knows how many years ago, and the walls were grimy, the ceiling speckled. It smelled faintly of cat piss.