by Wendy James
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what does she know about you? Your past? The house? Mary?”
From her evidence, it was clear that Ellie knew an awful lot. More than was possible without having been here, without having met me.
“What if you make a list of all the things she knows, the things she shouldn’t know or couldn’t possibly know? That might tell us something about how she knows. Maybe there’ll be a clue. Something that will help us make sense of it all.”
“But what’s the point,” I asked, “when there’s still all that DNA evidence? How can we refute that? It’s all impossible.” I could feel my voice thinning out, a wahhhhh developing. “It doesn’t make sense. We can discuss what she knows—and the impossibility of her knowing it—until the cows come home, but it doesn’t tell us how she knows. She’s made her accusations, and we can’t disprove anything. We can make guesses, but we can’t prove anything.”
Even I could hear the tinny shrill of desperation, the despair. I laid my head down on the table, overwhelmed by a wave of exhaustion.
“Or maybe everything she’s saying is true and I’ve just gone completely mad.”
After that night’s Trouble, which took us longer than usual to successfully lose, Mary was adamant that she wasn’t ready for bed, insistent that she needed something yummy, something chocolate. We were all out of chocolate, so I made her a cup of warm cocoa, which was too pale for her liking; added more cocoa to make it darker, which made it too bitter; and added sugar, by which time it was too cold and needed to go in the microwave again. Finally, everything was just right, and Goldilocks sat slurping noisily in front of the box.
Chip was skeptical about his brother’s idea, but I was keen to follow his suggestion.
“Do we have to do this? I’m not sure that writing a list is going to help anything. And I’m bloody tired.”
I sympathized, but at this point I was ready to try anything. “Come on. It might just, you know, shake something loose.”
He sighed, looked longingly at the television.
I handed him a pen and a pad. “She’s watching cartoons, Chip.”
“I know,” he said glumly. “It’s a Looney Tunes special. I was kinda looking forward to it.”
Once we began, the list of things the girl shouldn’t know wasn’t really as long as I’d imagined; in fact, it was quite limited. There were, naturally, all the things anyone could know about me, or that could have been discovered easily by the careful questioning of locals:
That I existed.
That I lived where I lived.
That Mary existed.
That Mary had dementia.
That we lived alone here together.
Then there were the other things that might take a bit of research: reading old newspapers, talking to people . . . but who?
The layout of the house.
That I’d been married and had a child. That my child had died.
Then there were the things that couldn’t be explained, the things that Canning could only have known by being here:
That I owned the Alice Neel and Margaret Preston prints. That there was an old metal headboard down in the basement. That I’d kept my daughter’s sippy cup.
These things couldn’t be invented—they were all too specific. The girl, or an accomplice, had to have been here. She, or this accomplice, had to have seen these things—and scratched initials in the basement wall; planted the DNA samples, the hair, and the underwear; and stolen the silk pajamas while they were at it. None of this was completely implausible, of course. She could have broken in sometime when I was at work and somehow avoided Mary, or Mary could have seen her and forgotten all about it. But proving it was going to be difficult.
Proving it was going to be impossible.
There was one final thing that needed to go on the list: the one thing I knew Ellie Canning couldn’t possibly have known—that only two people in the world had known at the time of her escape.
“There is one thing more.” I was hesitant, not knowing where this might lead.
“What?”
“There’s no way she could have known about the baby. I’ve looked at the dates. I remember working out exactly how pregnant I was. It was the day the Year Elevens chose their performance groups: July 18. And then I told you a couple of days later. Only you and I knew.”
“What about your mother?”
“She didn’t know until that night when the police were here, remember. At that point, when the girl was meant to be here, the night she made her escape”—I corrected myself—“the night she says she made her escape, it was still only you and me. And in order to know, the girl would have had to have been there, in your house. She would have to have heard me telling you there. We didn’t ever discuss it here, did we? And you weren’t around that following week. One of us must have told someone. Someone who told that girl. And I know it wasn’t me.” It wasn’t a statement, but a question.
Chip was staring at me, stricken, his eyes wide, face pale. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”
HONOR: JULY 2018
She knew what was going to happen the moment Chip walked in the door. There was something about the way he held himself, his shoulders square, the tension in his jaw, the cool wariness in his eyes. Honor had seen this look before, long ago, back when they were both kids. And from other boys, other men, too, so many times. It was always the same—that cold defensiveness that swamped everything, even pity, even guilt.
He had been Honor’s first, but she’d never tell him that. Never give him that . . . satisfaction, if that was the right word.
She’d gone with him that first time without pausing to even think about it, to worry about the logistics, what lie she would tell her parents. What else was she going to do when he’d asked, in that deceptively offhand way of his, giving that slow sideways smile, whether Honor wanted to go out to Freezywater with him and a few of his mates? It wasn’t going to be anything fancy, he’d said—a few of the boys had sleeping bags, but he was just going to sleep in the back of the old EH wagon he’d been doing up. He’d pick her up around six, would bring the steak, the sauce, the booze. She’d almost asked whether she should bring her own sleeping bag, but changed her mind at the last minute. Why tempt fate?
They’d half hooked up a few weeks earlier at a Bachelor and Spinster’s ball out at the Boyd place. Honor never truly enjoyed those parties—they were really for the boarding school kids and their mates—and a drunken kiss with the suddenly desirable Chip Gascoyne, who’d been her classmate through primary school, had been the highlight of an otherwise dismal night.
The crowd out at Freezywater was a different bunch of kids. Most were townies, and the farm kids weren’t the children of rich graziers, but hardscrabble “cockie” farmers who sent their kids to the local schools rather than to board in Sydney or Melbourne. She didn’t have to worry about anyone smirking about her too-broad accent, her bad perm, her jeans that weren’t quite the right cut or color, the fact that she wasn’t heading off to Women’s or Wesley or St. Anne’s, but staying put and taking up a job as a cadet at the Clarion.
Honor had known these kids all her life—they were schoolmates, neighbors, children of her parents’ friends; it was like being with family. And Chip was comfortable there, too. Unlike most of the other rich kids, he’d stayed mates with the local boys. He’d always had that knack, Chip, of getting on with everyone.
But no one else mattered, anyway. All she could really see was Chip. Those blue eyes, crinkling at the corners, reminding her of some old movie star—Paul Newman, maybe?—and that thing he did when he walked, a sort of saddle-shaped swagger that made her think he should be wearing spurs, packing a pistol, cracking a stock whip. His voice, that drawl that spoke of money, privilege, arrogance, and that deep, dark laugh that promised something else entirely. Oh God, everything about him made her feel almost sick with anticipation.
All the things she usually enjoyed doing at parties seemed suddenly
completely pointless: drinking, bonging, sitting in a stoned circle watching the flames leap and flicker, or gazing into the vast and glittering sky, listening to the boys tell their bullshit stories, because in the main it was always the boys who directed nights like those, who told jokes, strummed guitars, provided what passed as entertainment.
That night all Honor was conscious of was the way time seemed to stretch and shrink simultaneously, of wanting the night to move quickly and wanting it to never end. And she had been waiting all night for that one moment: the moment when Chip stood up, stretched slowly, and muttered something about needing to hit the hay. The moment when he looked down at her, curled at his feet, looking upward, expectant. The moment when he offered her his hand and gave her that smile, that lift of the eyebrows. “You coming, Fielding?”
It had been a typical teenage romance, over almost as soon as it had begun. She and Chip had met up at the occasional Wash event in the years since, and if she’d been asked, Honor would have said that the adolescent spark had been well and truly extinguished. But they’d met up again in Sydney a few years after his wife’s death. Honor was walking past a Woolloomooloo art gallery one evening after a work dinner, had noticed the small crowd, and when she looked in, had been amazed to see Chip there. She knew a couple of the art-world types milling about, so she had sauntered in. She went straight to the champagne, found a dim corner, where she pretended to gaze admiringly at an origami display, all the while watching Chip. He was talking to an intense-looking girl, clearly an artsy type, with her sleek black hair, red-rimmed glasses, knee-length skirt, fine wool cardigan, her clumpy but expensive brogues. Honor wondered momentarily whether the young woman was a romantic interest, but then she recognized Chip’s expression—his impatience to move on evident in the tapping of fingers against his glass, the slightly panicked look in his eyes. She sipped at the too-sweet bubbles, watched him for a few minutes more, amazed that her heart still beat so fast at the sight of him even now. He was not the young god of her memory, but he was still the sexiest man she’d ever known. His wild hair tamed, gray at the temples, his toothy smile, his long, strong fingers curled awkwardly around the delicate crystal stem of his glass. She despised herself for it, but she was breathless just looking at him. She took a second glass of the sparkling—it really was cheap and very nasty—and walked over to where he was standing, bumping lightly into his shoulder.
He turned to apologize. “Honor.” He’d been surprised, but his smile was genuine. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She told him a partial truth—work dinner, just walked by, thought she’d take a look. “I wasn’t invited, but I know half a dozen people here—they’ll vouch for me. I won’t nick the masterpieces. But what about you? What are you doing so far from home?”
“It’s, ah . . . Gemma’s cousin Beth is one of the artists. I thought I’d better come—she and Gemma were pretty close. Beth used to visit quite a bit at the end. That’s her over there.” He gestured toward the girl with dark hair, who was talking to a woman Honor knew was a serious, and seriously moneyed, collector.
“I saw you two talking. I thought she might be your new squeeze.”
“Oh God. Beth?” He looked horrified. “No way.”
“She seemed quite keen, I thought.”
“You’re not serious, are you? Last I heard she was a lesbian. I mean, I know these things can change, but—”
She laughed. “This isn’t really your scene, is it?”
“Oh, I dunno, Hon.” He gave a rueful grin, crossing his fingers. “Art and me, we’re like that.”
And then it happened. He looked at her—and it was a look that set Honor’s heart racing again, reminded her of the girl she once was, the boy he’d been—and asked the question she’d been wanting to ask from the moment she’d seen him: “Do you want to get out of here?”
It was a cliché—in fact, the whole thing was one glorious cliché—but she enjoyed the moment, anyway.
They headed back to his Kings Cross hotel room with a stolen bottle of the bad champagne and fucked before they’d even drunk the first glass. It was good, better than she’d imagined. And it had left both of them wanting more.
Later, when she told Dougal her decision, he’d agreed without question, pleased. “It’ll be good for you to see your father more often,” he said. “You know he might not have all that long. And it’ll give you some downtime. And being in the country,” he added, “is good for the soul.” Dougal was always worrying about the state of her soul.
Two months later, the Randalls’ property went on the market. The family had stopped farming years ago, sold off the land around them, and now they were selling the remaining five acres and the homestead. The house was old, desperately in need of a new kitchen, an extra bathroom, a paint job—but renovations would give her something to do. An added excuse for frequent visits. And even more appealing: the house was on Wash Road, less than a kilometer from Chip’s.
Tonight Honor knew what was coming, but she tried to postpone the moment, pretending that nothing had changed. She wasn’t going to precipitate things; that would make it all too easy. For him. Instead, she poured him a drink and pushed it into his hand, told him about the day’s successes: the memoir deal wrangled for an aging rock star, a six-figure exclusive for a new-mum soap star, news of a client’s million-dollar contract with Netflix. “Here’s cheers,” she said, “to sweet, sweet success.”
Honor knew that only a few months earlier, these stories would have excited Chip. He loved hearing these tales, was simultaneously thrilled and disgusted by the excess. He enjoyed calculating the farm machinery that could be purchased with such sums, how many men could be employed for the cost of one ultimately forgettable performance. He loved to act the philistine man of the land in these conversations. But tonight nothing she said moved him. He sipped his drink, smiled on cue. When he cleared his throat, ready to say what he’d come to say, Honor ignored him. She wasn’t ready. She started another story, but he interrupted.
“Honor.” He grabbed her hand. “We have to talk.”
Naturally, he did all the talking. What was there for her to say? She didn’t bother begging or pleading, making claims. Didn’t bother turning on the waterworks, or even showing any anger. These were their agreed-upon rules of engagement: no strings, no exclusivity, no promises.
But she did have one question.
“Why is it so serious with Suzannah? I don’t get it. You’ve only known her a few months.”
“Why?” He blinked, brought his attention back to her. He’d been staring off into the distance. His body was upright, taut with nervous energy. Even so, Honor could see how soft he was getting; he had the beginnings of a paunch, his shoulders sagged. His shirt was untucked, and she could see how pale his skin was, its crepiness. The old man under the middle-aged man’s body.
“She’s pregnant. Suzannah. We’re having a baby.” Honor didn’t flinch, but his words were like a physical blow. “And I . . . I want to be a part of it all.”
She couldn’t help the bitter little laugh. “You’re almost fifty, Chip. Aren’t you a bit past all that?”
“I dunno, Hon. If you’d asked me this time last year, I’d have said there was nothing I wanted less. But now . . . I’m sorry, Hon. I really didn’t expect this to happen.”
Honor could hear the pleading in his voice. He could have his true love, play happy family, but she wasn’t going to give him her blessing.
SUZANNAH: DECEMBER 2018
“You and Honor?” Things were beginning to shift, to take on a radically different shape. “She told me you’d had a thing when you were young . . . kids, she said, but I had no idea . . .”
“It was nothing. Really. Honor and me, it was—”
He stopped. The room had gone suddenly quiet. Mary had turned the television off and was gazing at us intently.
“That woman you were just talking about. The good-looking one.”
“Honor?”
Mary nodded. “What happened to her?”
“What do you mean?”
“She hasn’t been over for a while.”
“No. I suppose she hasn’t.”
“Isn’t she your friend anymore?” Mary looked worried. “Maybe she thinks I told you? Because I didn’t, did I?”
“Told me what?”
“About her coming here that day.”
“What day? Did she come when you were here on your own?”
“No. Nurse Ratched was here. She’d made me go to bed and tried to lock the door. I came out to see what they were doing . . .”
“And what were they doing?”
“She was coming up from the basement stairs with a plastic bag. The one who brought Hannibal Lecter to dinner. She said she was getting something from the laundry.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“It was something to do with your birthday. A surprise. She told me not to tell you. So I didn’t. I like surprises.”
“Oh, Mary. My birthday’s not until February.”
“And she said if I didn’t say anything, she’d get me that peppermint ice cream, the one I really like, with all the crunchy bits. But she hasn’t, has she? I’m still waiting.”
Mary turned back to the television, picked up the remote control, and then swiveled around, her eyes wide.
“I know what she was doing down there. I’ll bet that bitch stole my pajamas.”
Chip phoned his brother early the next morning, before Mary was awake, eager to tell him what we’d discovered. We’d gone over and over our suspicions—now solidified into certainty—through the night, but were no closer to understanding how Honor was involved or, more importantly, why.
Hal wasn’t impressed. “I know it was my idea, but this is a dead end. The fact that you told your mistress that your new girlfriend was pregnant isn’t proof of anything except adultery.” He spoke bluntly despite the fact that he was on speakerphone. “Honor didn’t have any previous connection to Ellie Canning, did she?”
“Well, not that we know of, but what if—”