by Wendy James
“They said not. In fact they said it would be better if I wasn’t here.”
“So why don’t we go and leave them to it? Hal can hold the fort.”
I considered it; the urge to run was strong. But there was another urge, even more powerful. The fear was mixed with curiosity, along with something else, more hard-edged. “No, it’s okay. I want to be here. I think I actually want to meet her. I really want her to see us—to have her look me in the eye and realize that she’s made a terrible mistake.”
That day, my first as a bonded felon, had begun badly.
Chip had left the house early, was gone before I even woke up. There was no work. I’d called Tom the previous afternoon, on Hal’s advice, to tell him what had happened, what to expect, before he heard the news from someone else. He’d been shocked, disbelieving, but the regulations were clear: I was suspended until further notice. Stratford had made a statement on the evening news. He’d kept it brief and simple—“A suspect has been charged and released on bail in relation to the Canning case”—his expression bland, voice devoid of emotion. He hadn’t mentioned my name, but it was only a matter of time before everyone knew.
The press had been a presence in town since the day Ellie Canning was found in that shepherd’s hut. I’d seen the chaos of cameras and mics outside the hospital and then at the police station in the days after the story broke, and the town was still as busy as I’d only ever seen it on race day: the local motels at capacity, the main street hectic with traffic, the pubs and cafés crowded. Despite this, news of my impending arrest hadn’t been leaked—and there’d been no crowd waiting to take happy snaps when Hal and I left the police station in the late afternoon.
After breakfast, with my morning sickness temporarily subdued, and desperate for something to occupy my mind and body, I took Mary for a walk down our long driveway. Mary was never keen to go outside—she was never keen to go anywhere. The doctors had explained that it was a condition similar to agoraphobia, not so much about new people, but unfamiliar spaces. She was happy enough for others to enter her space, although sometimes even that could upset her, but take her somewhere unfamiliar, and she was disoriented and fearful. I tried, once a week or so, to get her out into the garden, to get her to feel the sunshine, to breathe fresh air, to move her body, but it was a challenge. Today, after the usual arguments and demands—it’s practically snowing, her coat has missing buttons, her boots will get muddy, she needs a hat, a scarf, the sun is too glary and her sunglasses are all scratched—I managed to drag her outside after lunch by promising her ice cream for afternoon tea. Such blatant bribery would be classified as bad parenting, but the jury was out when it came to daughtering. It was too late to train Mary in good dietary habits, anyway.
Like a child, Mary was always more enthusiastic if there was some kind of purpose to our walk, so I told her we were going to check the mail. I had a post office box in town, so there wasn’t likely to be any, but this wasn’t the sort of information that Mary retained. Today Mary had her own ideas about the mail.
“I’m actually expecting a letter from Serge,” she confided as we set out.
“Who’s Serge?”
“What do you mean, who’s Serge? Everyone knows Serge. Do you live under a rock?” Her smile was full of pity. Despite the mismatched clothes, the grimy woolen beanie that almost obscured her face, her hair hanging beneath in rats’ tails, in Mary’s eyes, I was the one whose connection to the real world was limited. And with everything that was happening, who could say she was wrong?
Mary reached the mailbox first and pulled out a rolled-up newspaper. I was surprised. I didn’t have a subscription to any of the big papers, and the free local paper never seemed to make it out this far. My fingers trembled as I unrolled the paper—the Enfield Wash Clarion—and took in the front-page headline, Mary peering over my shoulder:
ENFIELD WASH DRAMA TEACHER AND FORMER SOAP STAR CHARGED OVER CANNING ABDUCTION
There was a photo accompanying the story, a fuzzy close-up of my face that must have been taken from a distance without my knowledge just as I was leaving the station yesterday. My expression was grim: my mouth a thin line, face puffy, eyes dark slits. I tried to roll the paper back up quickly, but Mary had seen enough.
“Ooh. That’s nasty. Didn’t get your best side, did they?” she hooted. “Maybe you should sue.”
Once we were back inside, I took the newspaper into my bedroom to read away from Mary’s prying eyes. It was a perfectly straightforward article, with nothing speculative or salacious about it. And there was no mention of the forced-surrogacy claim, for which I was grateful.
Suzannah Wells, 46, a drama teacher at Enfield Wash High, was yesterday charged in connection with the abduction and imprisonment of Ellie Canning. The 18-year-old schoolgirl made international headlines early last week after her daring escape from the Enfield Wash property where she had been held captive. Wells, who is rumored to be pregnant, has been released on bail, with a committal date pending. Detective Inspector Hugh Stratford, who is leading the police investigation, says that while the evidence against Ms. Wells is compelling, the case is an unusual one, and the investigation is still ongoing. It is understood that Ms. Wells’s mother, who suffers from dementia, has also been questioned in relation to the abduction.
Wells was a well-known actress during the 1990s, when she played Gypsy in the popular soapie Beachlife.
Even though I’d had a brief glimpse, the accompanying photograph shocked me. It wasn’t just unflattering—I looked haggard, a good ten years older, and hard, mean, vicious. I looked like someone who was capable of kidnapping, capable of anything. What made it worse was the contrast with the adjacent picture of Ellie Canning, one that I hadn’t noticed when I first opened the paper. It wasn’t the school photo that had been used for all the previous publicity, but a candid shot, perhaps cropped from something larger. The background was slightly out of focus, the backlighting creating a halo effect around her hair. Her smile was incandescent; she radiated joy, beauty, innocence. It was a face designed to launch not ships but the online outrage army. What sort of monster would threaten to harm such a glorious being?
The police car pulled up with a spray of dust and gravel, and I watched from the kitchen window as the three of them marched across the yard: Stratford in front, followed by Moorhouse and the girl. From this distance she looked much slighter than I’d imagined. She was wearing a gray sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, faded jeans, new-looking canvas sneakers. She was slightly hunched over, her eyes on the ground as she walked, her steps small and precise, perhaps reluctant.
Hal flung the door open before they knocked, and there was a brief whispered conversation in the hallway before he ushered them into the kitchen. Chip and Mary were sitting on the lounge. Mary, seemingly oblivious to the newcomers, focused on the muted television, while Chip, his arms crossed, glared at them. I forced myself to stay in the kitchen, pretending to make coffee, trying to look busy and calm, alert but not alarmed.
The officers’ greeting was perfunctory; they were no longer pretending to be anything more than polite. Part of me expected it—after all, to them I was just another criminal, out on bail. But I was shocked by their unfriendliness, the way Stratford’s gray eyes slid past mine, Moorhouse’s stiff nod, the way neither officer smiled.
“We’ve brought Miss Canning in,” Stratford said, as if I might somehow have missed this. He gestured for the girl to come forward.
She clutched at Moorhouse’s shirtsleeve and shuffled into the room, the hood still obscuring her face.
Moorhouse pulled her sleeve back gently. “Ellie. It’s okay, darling.” Her voice was low, tender. “You can let go. I’m not going anywhere. I really need you to look up now. No one’s going to hurt you.”
The girl pushed back her hood and raised her eyes.
Up close she was tiny, just over five foot, and looked frail and underfed and far younger than her eighteen years. She wasn’t quite as radiant as sh
e appeared in her photographs—the loveliness was still there, but she looked tired, unhealthy, undernourished. Her skin was pale, and a few pimples clustered at the side of her mouth. She’d pulled back her dark-blonde hair into a loose, low ponytail, and the greasy tendrils of hair pushed back behind slightly sticking-out ears made her look urchin-like and even younger. Only her eyes had any color; they were a startling blue, dark and opaque. The look she gave me was startling, too. I’d expected her to be anxious, perhaps afraid, at the very least tentative. But her gaze was direct, considering, maybe even critical.
“This is Suzannah Wells, Ellie.” Stratford was watching the girl intently.
“Yes.” Her voice was low and curiously flat.
“And her mother, Mary Squires, sitting over there on the lounge.”
“I know.”
“Slut.” Mary was still facing the television, but the word rang out, hard and clear. “I told you to keep away from him, you little bitch.” Mary turned and fixed Ellie with a gorgon stare.
“Mary.” I started toward her, but Stratford gestured for me to stay put.
“I told you what I’d do to you if you went near him, didn’t I?”
For the first time, the girl looked discomposed. She moved closer to Moorhouse.
“Oh, don’t pretend to be so innocent. We all know what you really want.”
Chip had moved along the sofa and taken Mary’s hand, murmuring soothing words in an attempt to distract her, but she took no notice, her angry attention all on the girl.
“Everyone knows what you did, you little cow. Everyone knows the lies you’ve been telling about me. Don’t think you’re going to get away with it.” Mary’s glare transformed into a triumphant smile. “You know what karma is, don’t you?”
The hissed words resonated in the quiet room. The girl was clearly stunned but couldn’t take her eyes off Mary.
“It’s coming for you. You know that, don’t you? Your pig buddies won’t be able to protect you then.” Mary smiled, her sharp canines showing, eyes glittering, then turned back to the television. “Oh no.” She crossed her arms, pouted at the screen. “It’s over already.” Her voice was a high-pitched whine. “Can’t we have another episode, Mr. Chips?”
Hal and I traipsed behind the police as they moved through the house. It wasn’t a search this time—they just went briefly, almost apologetically, from room to room, guiding the girl to each doorway, asking if she recognized anything. The girl herself seemed reluctant. She dragged her feet, looked around blankly, answered monosyllabically, if at all, but mostly shrugged, shook her head. Every now and then she wrapped her arms around her body as if she was cold. I watched her closely. I couldn’t pull my eyes away, but at no point did she ever turn and look at me. I could have been invisible.
Once again I led them down the stairs to the basement rooms.
Moorhouse took her into the larger room first and flicked the switch. Hal and I stood to one side, both of us watching for her reaction. She stared blankly into the room and shook her head.
Hal looked at me and raised his eyebrows, but neither of us spoke. We followed them silently to the second basement room.
The girl stood in the center of the dreary room and turned around slowly, looking from wall to window, and then slowly the other way. “I remember this. The awful color.” She pointed a shaking finger at the internal door. “That’s the toilet over there.”
Stratford marched across and pushed the door back, revealing the small tiled room—the toilet, as described.
“There was a bed when I was here.” The girl spoke so softly that it was hard to hear her. “Against this wall. You can see where it was.” She pointed to some rusty indentations in the old carpet; there had clearly been a bed there at some stage. “And that painting, the one with the woman, it was hanging here, directly opposite.” There was a single bent nail in the wall.
She paused, her breathing ragged. “And it’s still got that horrible smell. I’ll never forget it.” She gave a little sob, her eyes filling with tears.
“And what about the scratches?”
She moved again and examined the wall where she claimed the bed had been.
Eventually she answered, “They’re here. They’re still here. Exactly where I told you. Look.”
She traced two tiny, barely visible scratches in the paint with her finger. She was smiling widely now, the tears forgotten, clearly elated. I moved closer, and the scratches resolved into three shakily executed letters: EBC.
ABDUCTED: THE ELLIE CANNING STORY
A documentary by HeldHostage Productions © 2019
ELLIE CANNING: TRANSCRIPT #11
One night the woman came down and said she’d had some good news. She didn’t usually tell me anything about her life, so I was intrigued. Anyway, I asked her what the news was, and she pulled this thing out of her pocket and held it up. It was one of those sticks you pee on to see if you’re pregnant.
“Look,” she said. “Two stripes. That’s a positive.” And then she gave me this really strange smile and said, “So it looks like we won’t be needing you after all, my darling.”
And that’s when I really woke up.
HONOR: AUGUST 2018
Honor thought long and hard before she took the phone call. She’d been expecting it, but it was still hard to know exactly what to say, how to phrase it. She knew there was going to be some regret, even sadness. A sense of bewilderment, too; it had all moved so far, so fast. It was going to start moving even faster soon—she could feel it. Fortunately, she had managed to arrange a television interview just hours before Suzannah’s arrest was made public. The girl had made a good impression. She’d been calm, hadn’t exaggerated; if anything, she’d underplayed her terror, had made very little of the bravery of her escape. Honor’s phone hadn’t stopped dinging since it aired. She hadn’t even looked at what was happening online but assumed that #EllieCanning was currently trending. That the Twitterati were mobilizing in support of her—building a sympathetic, eager-to-hear-more audience. Or should it be fan base? The story was already big, but now that the motive behind the abduction was public knowledge, it was going to get even bigger. So making sure that Suzannah understood exactly where she stood was vital. A line needed to be drawn if Honor was to stay in control.
“Hi, Suzannah.” She was unexpectedly nervous. “How are you?”
“How am I?” Suzannah gave a not-quite laugh. “I guess I feel like I’m stuck in a nightmare. Like life’s just taken a turn for the surreal.”
Honor could hear the barely controlled terror in Suzannah’s voice. She sounded manic, like she was on something.
“I guess you know . . . of course you know. I’ve been charged, but I’m out on bail.”
“I did hear. Yes.”
“I just saw that Channel Ten interview with the girl, and apparently it’s going viral. A colleague from school rang to tell me there’s some Twitter account called @JusticeForEllie, and they’re putting up old videos of me—photoshopping them and making it look as if I’m some sort of maniac. I can’t even look. Anyway, I thought you might have some idea about what I should do—or if there’s anything I can do—about what they’re saying.”
The silence stretched out as Honor tried to work out how to say what needed to be said. “I can’t do that, Suzannah. There’s a conflict.”
“A conflict?”
“I’m representing Ellie. Until this is all over, I really shouldn’t talk to you. I certainly can’t give you any advice.”
Suzannah gave a disbelieving laugh. “You mean that until this is all over, we aren’t friends?”
“I suppose.” She made sure her reluctance was clear.
“And after, when it’s all over? What? I’m supposed to pretend it never happened?”
Honor said nothing.
“And how do you imagine this will ever be over?”
Honor could feel the heat of the other woman’s anger, even over the phone.
“You know tha
t one of us must be lying. That it’s either her or me.”
“Yes. Of course I do.”
“And so you’ve made your decision? You’ve chosen her?”
“I’m a professional. I have to. It’s got nothing to do with what I believe.”
“Nothing to do with what you believe? That’s absurd.”
“I’m legally contracted to advise Ellie, to manage her interests to the best of my ability. It’s my job. I can’t just dump her now. She’s only a kid, and she’s got no other support. Her mother—well, her mother can’t help. She’s got no one else.”
“And doesn’t that make you wonder, Honor? The fact that she has no one else? Maybe there’s something wrong with her. Maybe she’s damaged. Sick. Why else would she be saying these terrible things?”
“From what I can see, the girl’s as psychologically healthy as anyone could be after this sort of experience. And it makes no difference. I can’t dump her now. It wouldn’t be ethical. Handling this sort of situation is impossible, even when you’re an adult. All the media attention—it can be completely disorienting. You know that better than anyone. And Ellie’s only a child. It could destroy her.”
“But what about me? I’ve been charged with abducting someone I’ve never even seen before. This girl’s delusions could end up sending me to jail. Jail. For years.”
“I don’t think it’s going to come to that.” Honor tried to be reassuring, but the other woman disregarded her efforts, her voice rising.
“And you know I’m pregnant, don’t you?”
“So I heard. Congra—”
“So what’s going to happen to my baby if I have to go to jail?”
“Oh, Suzannah, I’m sure it’s all going to work out. I’ve told the police, and Ellie for that matter, what I think. How unbelievable this all is . . .” Honor trailed off, took a deep breath. “And I want you to know that I would never . . . I would never have taken her on if I’d known you were involved.”