by Wendy James
‘Of course I understand!’ She didn’t even try to hide her impatience. ‘And I’ll make sure Ellie understands too.’
‘Okay. If I have your assurance.’ He nodded at Moorhouse again, and she turned the screen so that Honor could see the image.
‘This might come as a bit of a shock. I believe she’s a friend of yours.’
Honor moved closer and the image on the screen resolved. The figure was familiar, as was the background. She looked at Moorhouse, then at Stratford. She laughed, but again felt herself closer to tears. ‘You’re not serious?’
The policewoman gave an uncomfortable shrug.
Honor turned to Ellie. ‘You really recognise her? You’re sure this is the woman who abducted you?’
ABDUCTED: THE ELLIE CANNING STORY
A documentary by HeldHostage Productions © 2019
ELLIE CANNING: TRANSCRIPT N8
When I look back now, it’s like so crazy that I really didn’t think about trying to escape at first. I really should have freaked out, but I didn’t. It’s hard to explain. Maybe it was because the woman was so calm and so kind. There wasn’t anything frightening about her. Nothing at all. And I couldn’t remember meeting her, the car trip. Whatever it was that she gave me did something really strange to my memory. I’d remember bits and pieces sometimes – like pieces of a puzzle that I couldn’t quite put together.
To be honest, most of the time I actually enjoyed being there. Being with her. She was really motherly . . . in a way that my own mum never had been. And none of my foster parents either. She would do my hair. Sing to me. Read me books. I was always warm and comfortable – oh, and clean. There was this little bucket bath thing she’d set up in the toilet room every couple of days. She gave me this really sweet body soap, and I’d just like wash all the important bits so I didn’t feel grotty. And then she’d give me a fresh pair of PJs.
And the food was really good. Like almost gourmet compared to what I was used to. And there was always dessert.
Every now and then I’d be conscious enough to get a bit bored. Once I spent a couple of hours scratching my initials into the wall behind my bed with a teaspoon just for something to do. And every now and then I got really peed off about being left alone all day and started shouting – hoping that someone would come down and talk to me. I could hear them walking about upstairs, but no one ever came.
Mostly I was sort of content. It was like I was a little kid again, only it was a different sort of childhood to the one I’d actually had. And it was kind of amazing to have no responsibilities all of a sudden. Life had been pretty stressful. I’d been working really hard all year – with the exams coming up and trying to get the scholarship for college. Being stuck in that room was like this mad holiday.
After a while everything about my old life – The Abbey, my mum, exams, teachers, my foster parents, all my plans for university, going to St Anne’s next year . . . all of it began to feel like a dream. And the bed and the room and the woman and the days I spent lying there doing nothing and no one ever expecting anything from me – this felt like the real world. Like the only world I’d ever known.
SUZANNAH: AUGUST 2018
THE POLICE CAME BACK IN THE AFTERNOON.
Despite my late arrival, I had managed to get away from school reasonably early. I called into the supermarket to get dinner things and then headed straight home.
It wasn’t quite four when I arrived, but the day had turned gloomy, and it was already beginning to get dark.
I’d left the convection heater on in the family room, but for some reason Mary was watching the television in the freezing cold lounge room. She didn’t respond when I greeted her, the manic energy of the morning gone, but just stared blankly at the screen. She was wearing an old cotton shift of mine – a beach dress, short and sleeveless – and her skin was covered in goose bumps, her body shaking. I moved her back to the warmer room, brought her a rug and wrestled her into a woolly cardigan, pulled socks up over her ice-cube feet, and turned the convection heater up to full blast. I asked her if she wanted tea, something to eat. There was no response, but I made her a cup of tea anyway, sweet and milky, sliced bread for toast. She only ate a little, but slurped down the lukewarm liquid, and eventually perked up enough to begin whining about being tired, cold, needing a bath.
Mary’s bath had become another nightly ritual since winter hit. It seemed to soothe her, and in this weather it was almost the only thing that would warm her perpetually cold body. I ran the water for her, added a generous squirt of some musky body wash, and helped her climb in. Her body, once strong and shapely, was all bones and angles, her stomach concave, hip bones jutting, breasts shrunk into two small drooping sacks. She gripped my forearm with a clawed hand and climbed carefully into the bath, then sank down into the water. She lay low in the bubbly water, eyes and nose just above the waterline, relaxed, her hair in an untidy pile on her head. After a long relieved sigh she closed her eyes.
‘You won’t fall asleep?’ I asked the same question every night. I’d had a tempering valve fitted to the bathroom taps, so I didn’t have to worry about her scalding herself.
‘Don’t be so silly.’ She waved me away dismissively. I could be a servant, a nurse, someone she’d hired, certainly someone she considered entirely insignificant. I guess that wasn’t so far from the truth. I left her there, the door partially opened. She’d call out when the water cooled down or she wanted to get out.
While she soaked, I made myself a cup of ginger tea and a piece of Vegemite toast, trying to beat the nausea that had made its evening return.
This time I heard the car – or was it cars? – pull up, the march of feet across the gravel. Mary was still in the bath, so for once I managed to get to the door before her. The same two police officers were standing on the verandah. There were no friendly smiles this evening, and they hadn’t come alone. A small crowd milled about outside, awaiting instructions, some officers wearing those white suits that made them look like they were about to handle radioactive material.
‘Ms Wells.’ Stratford held out a document, his face grim.
‘What’s wrong? Why are you back?’ I took the official-looking paper, glanced down, but it was impossible to read in the gloom.
‘This is a warrant to conduct a full search of your premises.’
I could hear Mary padding up the hall, her damp feet sticking to the worn carpet. She was singing, her voice low and sweet, some song I didn’t recognise. I heard the sharply indrawn breath and saw the startled glances of the officers, but didn’t turn around. She came up behind me, rested her sharp chin on my shoulder, her hair dripping on my shoulder, down my back.
‘Oh, hello there, big boy. Are you a friend of Suzannah’s? I’m her mother.’
He swallowed. ‘Evening, Mrs, Miss Squires.’
Mary pressed in behind me damply; I tried to shrug her off. ‘A warrant? But I don’t understand. You’ve already looked around. You said that everything was fine. What have you come back for?’
He ignored my question, but his voice was gentle. ‘I think this might be a good time to contact that solicitor, Ms Wells.’ He looked behind me briefly, cleared his throat. I turned at last. Mary was stark naked as well as dripping wet. ‘And you should probably get some clothes on your mother – I think it’s going to be a cold night.’
I rang Chip, who laughed. ‘A police search? What’s going on? Did you murder Mary and hide the body?’
‘It’s serious, Chip. It’s about that girl, the one who was abducted. Ellie Canning. They came this morning and had a look around – they said they were just checking out all the houses in the area . . . And now they’ve come back with a search warrant. They – he, the detective, Stratford—’
‘Stratford? I don’t think I know him.’
‘What does it matter? Anyway, he said I should probably get a solicitor.’
‘He told you to get a solicitor?’ Chip shifted gears immediately, his voice suddenly brisk, busines
slike. ‘Right. I’ll ring Hal. And I’ll be over in five. Tell them to wait until I get there.’ He disconnected.
I passed on Chip’s message, but Stratford just gave an infuriatingly serene smile.
‘I’m sorry, Ms Wells, but there’s no actual legal requirement that I wait. You can have a solicitor here, as I said, to advise you, but he won’t actually have any jurisdiction over us.’ He didn’t sound at all apologetic. ‘I’ve got a dozen officers being paid overtime, so if you don’t mind,’ he motioned to his team, who crowded into the lounge room, ‘we’ll get started.’
I did mind, but there was no way to stop them. Moorhouse, who had already helped Mary get dressed, offered to keep her occupied in the kitchen, while the search was underway, and I was grateful for this one small act of mercy.
Chip arrived, still in his work clothes, his shirt untucked, his hair full of dust. He tried hard to look stern, to assert some authority, but it was clear that he was as clueless as me.
‘I think before you start that you’d better give us some idea of what you’re looking for, detective. Suzannah says it’s something to do with that girl, Ellie Canning. The one who was kidnapped.’
Stratford shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you any details at this stage, sir,’ he said in his impeccably polite way.
‘Why not?’
‘I understand Hal’s on his way. I’m sure he’ll explain.’
‘You know my brother?’
‘I work with him a fair bit.’
‘Right.’ Chip nodded his head, then turned to me with what I assumed was meant to be a reassuring smile. ‘I guess we just wait, then.’
The detective coughed. ‘Actually, I’m not altogether clear on what your involvement is here, Mr Gascoyne. I know this is your old home, but . . .?’
‘Ms Wells, I mean Suzannah and I are . . . we’re getting married.’ Chip said the words steadily, but avoided looking at me.
‘Is that right? Ms Wells didn’t mention that.’ The look he gave me was faintly quizzical.
I swallowed, looked down at my feet. ‘We haven’t, it isn’t def—’
‘We’re having a baby.’ Chip’s statement sounded more like a proclamation.
‘Right.’ For a moment I thought the detective was going to offer up congratulations, but none were forthcoming. ‘Well, you’re quite welcome to watch that there’s nothing out of order as we conduct the search, Mr Gascoyne. We’d like to do this as quickly as possible, and I’m sure you’d all like us out of your hair.’
I’d told Chip my news a few weeks before, had rugged up and tramped across the misty paddocks late in the evening, as soon as I was sure Mary was sound asleep. He hadn’t been expecting me, but there had been genuine pleasure in his voice when he answered the door.
‘Can’t keep away, eh?’
‘I’m pregnant.’ I’d blurted it out, right there in the doorway.
‘What?’ He’d made a move to usher me in, but then he stood motionless, as if rooted to the spot.
‘I’m pregnant.’ I said it again, my face deliberately expressionless.
‘Jesus.’ His eyes were wide, his voice barely audible. ‘Holy shit. Are you sure?’
I’d kept the stick in a pocket of my purse for a couple of days, waiting for courage, for just the right moment, and now I held it out for him to see – both lines were a distinct blue. Chip looked at it for a long moment, and then at me, and smiled. It wasn’t his usual smile, full of charm, certainty, confidence, but something more tentative, as if he wasn’t quite sure how he would be received. He’d cleared his throat.
‘So – this is good news for you, I’m thinking? You do want it?’
He looked hopeful, and suddenly younger.
‘Yes. I really want it, Chip. That’s definite. I’m not going to get many more chances. But I need to know what you want. How we’re going to make it work.’
‘I guess we’ve got a bit to talk about then.’ He smiled again, and for the first time I relaxed. He reached for my hand. ‘I think we can make this work, Suze. Don’t you?’
It was more than a question, it was almost a plea. He squeezed my fingers.
I returned the pressure.
‘So, you . . . You want to do this? Have this baby? Together?’ I felt dazed, almost delirious, from the joy – or maybe it was just hormones.
‘I can’t believe you even have to ask. I know it’s all happened pretty fast, but I’ve kinda been hoping we’d be doing a lot of things together. This is just the icing on the cake.’ He held my fingers to his lips. ‘Speaking of ice, your hands are freezing.’ He tightened his grip, pulled me inside. ‘I’ve got the kettle on. You look like you could do with a cuppa.’
There had been so many things I was going to say, that needed to be said. I’d had it all planned – even written a list – before I arrived. I’d decided what I’d say if he’d looked terrified, which was, I thought, the most likely scenario. After all, Chip was almost fifty, and while he may have wanted children once, things had probably changed.
I was ready to tell him that I was prepared to leave, if he’d prefer it. I would sell up, move elsewhere, maybe back to the city. It would be easier to find a place for Mary there, and I wouldn’t have to work full-time. I had enough money put away after the sale of the apartment to get me through a few years of part-time teaching. Whatever happened, I was going to have this baby. Even if he wanted nothing to do with it. With us.
But if Chip chose to share in the parenting, that would be okay too, even if it was going to be a whole lot more complicated. After all, we barely knew each other; our relationship, if we could even call it that, had barely begun. We were, to put it crudely, only fuck buddies. But we could take it slowly. We could go on as we were for a few more months, at least while I was still working. We didn’t need to tell anyone, change anything. I was happy for him to be a part of this baby’s – our baby’s – life, if that was what he wanted. He was welcome to come to scans, clinic appointments, parenting classes, antenatal classes – but I didn’t need him to. I didn’t need anything.
We were older parents, old parents, which meant we would do things very differently. We would be able to avoid the disorienting passion of lovers, and of younger, more idealistic parents, forge a more civilised connection. I’d thought it all through logically, conscientiously. I was going to be grown-up about this.
I didn’t allow myself to acknowledge what I was beginning to feel about Chip, how much I enjoyed his company, how much I wanted this – whatever it was between us – to keep going, to become something real, something more than a casual affair. I didn’t let myself imagine raising this child together, as a couple. I didn’t dare go there.
In all our wide-ranging night-time conversations we’d avoided almost any discussion of the two things that probably mattered the most right now – children and the future – and I hadn’t for a moment considered that Chip’s reaction to my news would be this. That he would be desperately, tenderly, excited – that he would want this baby just as much as me.
He pulled me to him the moment I walked through the door, held me tight for a moment, then stood back and looked at me, his eyes glistening.
‘Let me look,’ he said, unbuttoning my shirt.
‘I’m only six weeks,’ I protested, ‘there’s nothing to see.’
He ignored me, continued to unbutton the shirt, then ran his hand across my stomach. ‘Oh God, Suze. A baby. I can’t believe it.’ He’d knelt down and laid his head against my stomach, pressed his ear against my middle, listening. I stroked his hair gently, all sensation, no thought.
‘I didn’t think it would happen. That I’d actually ever meet anyone that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.’ He spoke quietly, not looking up. ‘And then you came, and I was . . . smitten. Like a, like I was a kid again.’ His laughter was warm across my belly. ‘I was trying to take it slow; I didn’t want to terrify you with how badly I wanted you. And that’s all I was thinking of – just you. But
now this. A baby. Our baby. It’s something I never thought would happen. It’s like . . . it is a bloody miracle.’
And then all the words I had planned, every single one, evaporated. I may as well have been a teenager again myself, with no thought but for the now, for the moment, full of lust, desperate for connection, and not a pregnant, forty-something woman with a mad mother to look after and an unplanned baby on the way.
By the time Hal finally arrived, the search was well underway. I’d met him briefly once before, and had been surprised by the differences between the two brothers. Physically, Hal was a complete contrast to Chip – bespectacled, balding, a big man running to overweight, dressed formally. Though he was the younger by a few years, he looked older, with a slight stoop and a permanent frown creasing his forehead. Chip was more compact, wore a uniform of jeans and boots, his shirt untucked and un-ironed, his greying hair messy and slightly too long. Hal’s voice was nothing like Chip’s lazy drawl; it was clipped, precise. Hal’s personality was lower key too; he radiated good sense, calm decision. His composure in the face of the police presence was reassuring. My panic began to recede, and after a warning glare from his brother, Chip became noticeably less hostile.
The officers had already searched two of the bedrooms and were about to begin on the third. They’d looked through our wardrobes, our chests of drawers, under carpets, gone through desks, and though there was something shameful about having your messy underwear exposed to strangers and recorded on film, they had been surprisingly careful about it. There was none of the spilled-out drawers or mess of fingerprint dust that I’d seen in crime shows.
Hal insisted on checking over Stratford’s documentation, but there was nothing he could dispute; everything was completely in order.
He looked at me apologetically. ‘Sorry about this, but Detective Stratford is right. There’s really nothing I can do to stop them.’
‘But the whole thing’s ridiculous. How can she have anything to do with that girl’s abduction? Someone’s fucked up big time.’ Chip glared at his younger brother as if it was all his fault.
