by Wendy James
“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 worth a try. “It’s mad, though, isn’t it? The town’s full of rumors. 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 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 has 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 the girl’s 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 recognize 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 recognized 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 buzzword? 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 turned her head and gazed at them 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 traumatized, 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.
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br /> 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 particular 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 #6
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 color, 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 center of the room. It had been painted a mustardy color God knew how many years ago, and the walls were grimy, the ceiling speckled. It smelled faintly of cat piss.
“And this”—she gave a gracious wave of her hand—“is where we keep all the girls we kidnap, Officers.”
Stratford and Moorhouse ignored her, surveying the room silently.
“We haven’t been here that long.” I felt like an explanation was required for the room’s depressing condition.
Moorhouse gave me an understanding smile. “We’ve been in our place for two years, and there are still boxes I haven’t unpacked. Really, sometimes I think I should just grit my teeth and throw them away. I can’t even remember what’s in half of them now.”
Stratford had a quick look around from the doorway, then followed Mary into the bigger room next door. Moorhouse edged around the maze of boxes and crates and looked through a box stacked with old paintings I hadn’t yet got around to hanging. She pulled up a framed print of Margaret Preston’s Sydney Heads that I’d bought when Steve and I first set up house together.
“Oh, I love this,” she enthused, lining it up against the wall. “I’ve been thinking about taking up painting. This looks like something I could manage. I might just take a snap.”
“It’s not actually a painting, it’s a woodblock print.”
Moorhouse looked at me blankly and took the photo. She riffled through the carton and pulled out another—a long, framed poster of one of Alice Neel’s pregnant women that I’d picked up years ago. Under the dim light, the green tones looked even sicklier than usual.
Moorhouse gazed at it for a long moment. “Wow. That’s kinda grotesque. She actually looks like she’s about to burst. I might get a photo of that one, too.” Her phone flashed. “Excellent.” She gave me a bright smile.
Back upstairs, the two officers took a quick look through the living areas and bedrooms—not even blinking at the chaos in Mary’s room—and then headed back outside. Mary changed her mind about accompanying us when she saw the frost still glistening on the lawn, and the three of us trudged across to the car shed. When I pulled up the central door, Stratford gave an appreciative nod.
“This is a good size,” he said, looking into the cavernous space from the doorway. “Three cars, eh? I’d love one like this, but the wife won’t be in it. I’ve got a boat,” he added by way of explanation.
“All this space is wasted on us, I’m afraid. We’ve only got one car, and most of the time I can’t actually be bothered driving it in. Though it’s a bit of a mistake in this weather, isn’t it?”
He looked over at my little Mazda, its red paint shrouded in heavy frost, and grimaced. “So you’ve only got the one? Your mother, she doesn’t have a car?”
“I don’t think she’s ever had a license, actually. I don’t remember seeing her drive. But even if she did, they’d have taken it away now.”
They both looked at me sympathetically this time.
“She doesn’t seem that bad,” Moorhouse said. “Just . . . a bit eccentric?”
“It varies. Today’s a good day. So far. It tends to get worse at night, or when she’s tired.”
“Is she okay on her own—or do you have to get someone in to help with her?”
I explained that Sally came in three days a week, that when Mary was at home alone, I checked in on her by phone. It wasn’t ideal, but so far it was working.
“And lately Chip’s been calling in, too, when he can.”
“Chip Gascoyne?” Her surprise was obvious.
“Yes. We’re friends. And he’s good with Mary.” It was too complicated to go into details.
“This was the Gascoynes’ place, wasn’t it? Must’ve been a bit of a wrench for him, splitting the property like that. Selling up.”
“Oh, you couldn’t really call it selling up. It’s just the old homestead, and not even an acre of land. I’ve only got the home paddock. Chip’s land actually starts right there.” I indicated the fence that ran along the perimeter of the shed. “Anyway, I’m sure he’s happy enough in his new place.”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” The inspector gestured across the paddocks. There was a dense windbreak of pines between the two properties, but it was still possible to make out Chip’s chimney and a small section of his roof. I nodded.
“It won some architecture prize,” Moorhouse piped up helpfully. “I saw the pictures in some magazine a few years ago. It looks awesome.”
“Yes. It’s perfect, really—not as big as the old place, but very comfy. Everything’s new. And it’s warm.” A gust of icy-cold wind whipped around us, as if to illustrate my point.
Stratford laughed. “And that’s something you really appreciate at this time of year.”
“Anyway, I think we’ve seen enough here. We’ve got quite a busy day ahead of us. How many more did you say, Constable?” He stamped his feet, looking glum at the prospect.
ABDUCTED: THE ELLIE CANNING STORY
A documentary by HeldHostage Productions © 2019
ELLIE CANNING: TRANSCRIPT #7
One day I woke up and there was a woman sitting beside me in a chair, holding my hand. I can remember just lying there, gazing at her, saying nothing, wondering who she was and where she’d come from. It took me a while to understand that she was real. That she wasn’t just a part of the weird dream world I’d been in for so long. Sometimes I thought she might have been the woman from the painting. She looked similar—dark hair and dark eyes—but she was older, and she wasn’t pregnant. After a while I decided she must be a nurse, although she wasn’t wearing a uniform or anything, just ordinary clothes�
��jeans and a shirt, a cardigan. She did seem sort of familiar, but it was ages before I remembered who she was, and how I’d met her.
That first day she sat beside me and stroked my hand. She smiled and said hello. I tried to speak, to ask her where I was, what had happened, but my lips wouldn’t form the words.
Eventually she asked me if I wanted something to eat. There was a bowl of soup, some pieces of buttered bread. The soup didn’t smell like hospital food, or even school food—it smelled spicy and delicious. Suddenly I realized I was starving.
She helped me sit up, arranging the pillows behind me. I was too weak to feed myself, so she fed me, spoon by spoon, wiping my face with a napkin when I dribbled. It was the tastiest soup I’ve ever had. After the soup she gave me a drink of something sweet—juice or cordial—from one of those baby cups with a lid.
After I’d eaten I started to fall asleep again, but the woman shook me gently and told me I should go to the loo first. She helped me up, and I was surprised to find that my legs were still working. She led me across the room and opened the door. There was a little toilet with one of those heavy black lids like in public toilets. The room smelled of eucalyptus, which was better than the bedroom itself, which was kind of rank.
She handed me this pair of disgusting granny undies and told me to put them on and give her mine. I was scared that she was going to make me pee in front of her, but she closed the door and told me to let her know when I was done.
Anyway, when I was done, she helped me across the room again and back into the bed. She put my dirty undies into a bag, then straightened the bedcovers and tucked me in. She sat back down on the chair beside me and stroked my hair while I drifted off.
