by Wendy James
It was all so utterly strange, so far beyond my experience, that there was no possible way to orient myself. I felt as if I had fallen into some crazy experimental film, where I was the only actor without a script, the only player who had no idea what was going to happen next.
ABDUCTED: THE ELLIE CANNING STORY
A documentary by HeldHostage Productions © 2019
ELLIE CANNING: TRANSCRIPT N10
Footage of approach to Suzannah Wells’ property, down long driveway. Zoom in on homestead. Segue to silent footage of a young bikini-clad Wells flirting with a group of bronzed surf lifesavers in Beachlife.
VOICEOVER
Following an investigation by local police, Canning identified local drama teacher Suzannah Wells, forty-six, as her captor. Wells is a former actor, best known for playing ‘Gypsy’ in the long-running Australian soapie Beachlife. The police search for Canning’s abductor was narrowed down after Canning identified Wells’ property, along with several items from her basement bedroom. A wealth of DNA evidence was also found in Wells’ farmhouse.
Wells was arrested on August eighth. Her mother, Mary Squires, who suffers from dementia, was interviewed but not arrested. Wells, who was pregnant at the time of her arrest, was released on bail.
It was only after Wells’ arrest that the alleged motivation behind the abduction was made public.
ELLIE CANNING
It was the old lady who told me about the surrogacy plan. Well, she didn’t exactly tell me, but she was always going on about this big secret she had, and how she was never going to tell me, but that I’d find out eventually, and it would be like this huge surprise. I never took much notice of what she was saying because she seemed so mad half the time – like, nothing she ever said really made sense. And then one day she told me that her daughter had found the perfect specimen, a man whose baby she wanted, and I would be getting my lovely surprise soon, just as soon as she could get him into bed with her and get her hands on his stuff. It took me a while to figure out what she was talking about. I mean, his stuff? But then I started listening to her properly, and it sounded as if she was actually talking about me having a baby for the other woman.
It was only that once, and when I asked her again, she just changed the subject.
But later, some of the things the other woman said made me wonder.
She’d ask me the strangest things, like, did I have anything wrong with me down there? Were my periods regular? Were there any illnesses in my family, anything hereditary? And she was so strict about the food she gave me – there wasn’t anything unhealthy. She told me there were vitamins in the water she gave me in the sippy cup, but when I asked her what the vitamins were, she wouldn’t tell me – just something to keep you healthy, she said, and help you sleep. And then there was the thing with the undies. She’d give me a clean pair every day, even if it wasn’t one of the days that I had my bath. She’d put the used ones in this plastic bag, always separate to the other dirty clothes. I dunno what that was all about, but maybe she was checking them out? Oh, it’s too gross to think about, but can’t you track cycles and all that?
So after she said that I began to freak out and start thinking that I needed to get out of there. But it was only sometimes, when I was properly awake. Mostly I just kept drifting, like before. It was like I didn’t even have the energy to worry properly. And for some reason it didn’t ever occur to me to wonder how she was actually going to get me pregnant, and, even more frightening, what she was planning to do with me after . . .
PART TWO
Ridiculous and contemptible as you are pleased to consider this Story, it has met with extensive Credit, and has been espoused with uncommon Ardour by very many . . . That her Narrative is clogged with the highest Improbabilities shall be readily admitted; nevertheless, there are some Circumstances attending it, that forbid my totally rejecting it, at least for the present.
GENUINE AND IMPARTIAL MEMOIRS OF ELIZABETH CANNING, CONTAINING A COMPLETE HISTORY OF THAT UNFORTUNATE GIRL (1754)
ABDUCTED: THE ELLIE CANNING STORY
A documentary by HeldHostage Productions © 2019
HONOR FIELDING: TRANSCRIPT N1
VOICEOVER
Canning’s media appearances were managed by Australian celebrity agent, Honor Fielding. Fielding, who grew up in Enfield Wash, was visiting the town at the time of Canning’s escape. Initially invited by the local police to help deal with what rapidly became overwhelming media interest in the abduction, Fielding subsequently became Canning’s unofficial guardian. Fielding’s canny management of her young charge’s appearances in the media helped to propel Canning to celebrity.
HONOR FIELDING
A few days after her escape, I was called in to help Ellie cope with all the attention. The media had already descended on the town, and the local police as well as the hospital staff were besieged by reporters shouting questions, requesting interviews, taking photos. Like everyone else, I was utterly fascinated by Ellie’s story, so when the local police got in touch, I was eager to offer my assistance. Once I’d actually met her, I was so impressed with Ellie – she was so smart, so gutsy – I was determined to do anything, everything, I could to help her.
At the time Ellie and I first met, all that was known for certain was that she had been abducted and held in a farmhouse by two women, somewhere west of the town of Enfield Wash. At this stage the police hadn’t released information about why she’d been abducted; they’d decided to keep that quiet, and most people in the town, and elsewhere, were utterly mystified, not only about who the perpetrators might be, but why they’d done it. I guess we’re all familiar with men abducting girls, and sometimes women might be accomplices . . . but Ellie’s story was completely different – she’d been abducted by two women. Well, I guess most of us had never heard of such a thing.
I don’t think anyone – I certainly didn’t – ever entertained the thought, even briefly, that Suzannah Wells and her mother might have been Ellie’s abductors. Even though, in hindsight, they so clearly fitted the bill. So when the police and Ellie identified Suzannah and her mother, it was completely gobsmacking. It was just bizarre; you can’t imagine how crazy it seemed. Because I knew Suzannah – I guess I would have said she was my friend – and there was nothing even remotely sinister about her. She might have been a minor celebrity years ago, but she seemed so ordinary. A school teacher for God’s sake! And Mary – she was certainly eccentric, but harmless. It seemed impossible that the Suzannah Wells I’d met could be involved in such a disturbing crime.
I was actually there when Ellie identified Suzannah, and at first I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t believe it. Surely Ellie was confused? Perhaps she’d been brainwashed? Maybe she was crazy. Perhaps she was some sort of sadist who was simply making things up for her own peculiar pleasure?
But by then I’d spent some time with her, and I knew if anything in the world was true, if anybody in the world was telling the truth, it was Ellie.
SUZANNAH: AUGUST 2018
‘THEY WANT TO COME NOW? IT’S ALMOST DINNER TIME.’ CHIP spluttered over his drink.
I had managed to stay composed during the call, but now my voice shook. ‘They’ll be here in half an hour. And they’re bringing her. Bringing the girl. Apparently she’s remembered something new, and they want her to show them.’
‘Bring her here? What the fuck?’
‘I didn’t think farmers swore.’ Mary looked over from her afternoon cartoons, briefly curious. ‘Maybe there’s hope for you yet, Mr Rafferty.’
She went back to her program. For once I was glad of her propensity to focus on some tangential element and completely miss the point of the discussion.
Chip looked at me. ‘I’ll call Hal. I’m sure there’ll be some way to stop them.’
‘Yes, do. But Stratford says they have another warrant. I don’t think there’ll be anything he can do.’
Chip took out his phone and made the call.
‘He says th
at if they’ve got new evidence, they’re within their rights. It’s irregular, but her, ah, amnesia complicates things, apparently. He’ll be here soon, and he’s suggested we leave. There’s no reason for you to be here, is there?’
‘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 realise 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 cafes 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, 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 woollen 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 enforced 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 rumoured 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’ 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 of 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 grey 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 grey 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 only tiny, just over five foot, and looked frail and underfed, and far younger than her eighteen years. She wasn’t quite as radiant as she 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 colour; 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 without emphasis.
‘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 towards 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.
