An Accusation: A Novel

by Wendy James

  But first I had to get through the small crowd still gathered at the bottom of the driveway. I donned dark glasses and wore a padded jacket with a hood that I pulled as far down as I could and wrapped a scarf over the bottom half of my face, but even so there was no disguising my identity. Who else could I possibly be? I pulled up to open the gate, ignoring the clamor, the shouted questions, the flashing lights, sliding back into the car and locking the doors as quickly as possible. I looked straight ahead, drove through slowly and determinedly, then sped off down Wash Road. I didn’t get out to close the gate, and I didn’t look back.

  When I walked in, the still-crowded common room was silent for an almost imperceptible moment. The resumed conversations were stilted, tense; necks were carefully angled, heads deliberately still as I made my way to my desk. Everyone was trying so hard—too hard—to act as if it were no big deal. When they came, the greetings were offhand and oh-so-casual, as if nothing had changed.

  Only Julia made an effort to speak to me. She asked how I was holding up, and then, without waiting for a reply, launched into a long story, telling me about her weekend trip to Sydney, her trip back early this morning, the mess her housemate had left in their kitchen. Julia’s stories tended to drag out inexorably, and where I would once have tried to move away as quickly as possible, today I found her conversational meanderings comforting. And listening to Julia saved me from making eye contact with anyone else, excused me from confronting their ill-disguised curiosity. Eventually, Sarah Bower, the principal’s PA, bustled over to us.

  “So sorry to interrupt, ladies, but you’re wanted in Tom’s office as soon as possible, Suzannah.” Her words were ice-tipped, her expression frozen.

  I gathered the few odds and ends I’d come for and made my way back across the room. This time all pretense at normal behavior was dispensed with—heads turned blatantly and the silence was charged. I could hear the soft murmur begin as soon as I exited.

  I handed Tom the folders I’d brought in for my Year Elevens and the marking sheets for their last performance. “Do you want me to sort out some class plans for whoever is relieving?”

  “No. It’s fine.” He didn’t quite meet my eye. “We’ve got a replacement coming.”

  “An actual drama teacher?”

  “Well, English and history primarily, but apparently he’s had some experience in amateur theater. He should be able to sort something out.”

  “Will you keep my job for me?”

  “We’ll see what happens. You know I have to go through the department. It’s not just my decision.” He changed the subject. “Now, have you got what you needed from the common room?”

  “There wasn’t much, really. A few books, some notes.”

  “No sense leaving them; things tend to disappear. You know what it’s like.”

  I nodded, smiled. I knew what it was like.

  Tom gave a tepid smile, shook my hand, thanked me for my hard work, wished me all the best.

  I turned back at the door.

  “I didn’t do it, you know, Tom.” His expression was neutral. I didn’t stop there, though I knew I should. “What this girl’s saying I did. It’s utterly ridiculous. Why on earth would I kidnap anyone? It’s crazy.”

  “You’re right,” he said eventually. “It is crazy. But sometimes people do crazy things, things we can’t ever understand.” His voice was all gruff sympathy now, full of a pity I didn’t want to hear.

  ABDUCTED: THE ELLIE CANNING STORY

  A documentary by HeldHostage Productions © 2019

  ELLIE CANNING: TRANSCRIPT #14

  I guess every teenage girl fantasizes about being a celebrity, but I could never have imagined the media craziness surrounding the case.

  It was as if I’d fallen into the plot of some Hollywood movie: one moment I was a pretty average Australian schoolgirl, getting ready to do my final exams, making plans for my future, and the next thing I knew I was locked in a bedroom, drugged out of my brain, the prisoner of two madwomen.

  And then, after I escaped, before I’d even processed what had happened to me—I was still dazed and confused and falling asleep at random times, and so unfit I could barely make it up one flight of stairs without panting like an old lady—there was a crowd of journalists following my every move, shouting questions at me, microphones shoved in my face every time I went outside.

  Right from the start, the media were over the top about my story. I still don’t really understand why, but for some reason it really hit a nerve. Everyone wanted to talk to me; everyone was so fascinated by what happened. And most people were nice, like they really genuinely cared what had happened to me. My biggest fans were probably teenage girls. I’m not sure why—whether it was my story or just that I seemed like one of them . . . Anyway, for whatever reason, everyone was so amazingly supportive and caring. And I know it sounds cheesy, but I felt really lucky, really blessed.

  HONOR: SEPTEMBER 2018

  The girl herself was more than Honor had hoped for, better than she’d expected. From the first moment she hit the public eye, they’d loved her—how could they not? Ellie was pretty, she was poor, she’d had to work hard, she’d been neglected by her family and the system, and then she’d used all her not inconsiderable smarts to escape what might have been a sticky end by the skin of her teeth. She’d had so many obstacles to overcome, and yet she’d emerged triumphant. Some of the narrative elements could have been improved, of course—if there’d been a man involved, the story would have been more conventionally titillating, perhaps excited a different sort of audience. But Honor wasn’t sure if that would have made it bigger. However appalling it was, a man abducting a young girl wasn’t that remarkable; being kidnapped by a seemingly respectable woman was something else again. And because it was something unexpected, it was even more sinister. In this scenario nobody could be trusted—no one could be safe.

  There was something perversely rousing, it had to be said, about pitting these two very different women against one another. And, as expected, the crowd was cheering for the golden-haired damsel in distress and not the dark and bitter crone. One had all the moral weight, the popular appeal; the other faced community hostility and loathing. Honor was filled with pity for Suzannah, of course she was; the imagined monster they were excoriating bore no resemblance to the warm and engaging woman she knew, but there was no denying that all the online vitriol directed at Suzannah had been good for Ellie—and for Honor, too. She’d made it her business to check out every site that featured Suzannah and to read the comments. Much of it fueled the outrage: the students who didn’t like her; the parents complaining about her bad marks, dodgy teaching methods, her retrospectively suspicious behavior; the former colleagues who thought she was bigheaded; the stories about her youthful indiscretions; the rumors of a manufactured relationship with her gay costar. Someone claiming to have been a midwife in the hospital when Suzannah’s daughter was born had even hinted she suffered from postnatal psychiatric problems that may have led to the infant’s death. Honor had no doubt that almost all of it was fabricated. This sort of publicity always encouraged the nasties to crawl out of the woodwork. What could be more thrilling to the self-righteous than to join a crusade against such a vile predator?

  Honor was honestly impressed by her new client’s behavior. Ellie had listened respectfully to everything she’d told her, had happily taken her advice on every aspect. Honor had explained what was permissible legally, how she needed to avoid any suggestion that her public appearances could be considered prejudicial. “If they try to get you to discuss the case directly—and they will, especially the surrogacy angle—deflect. Talk generalities.”

  When she explained that an appearance on a certain show, although immediately lucrative, would blow Ellie’s chances of a hard-to-get, less financially attractive but ultimately more advantageous post-trial exclusive, the girl had agreed to wait. She’d kept her Twitter feed completely anodyne—not even retweets of anything controversial—and h
er Instagram was almost exclusively (and lucratively, as her followers increased) brand-based. Most importantly, she’d listened to what Honor said about what her approach should be, what tone to take. “The media love you right now, and they’ll love you more if you keep it together. Try not to seem too vulnerable. Victimhood might be the new black, but people still like to think you’re capable of being brave—that you can take some things on the chin. The more serene you are, the more outraged the public will be.”

  And thus far Ellie had been impressively circumspect in all her interviews: she’d come across as quietly courageous, self-deprecating, generous. And most importantly, authentic.

  One thing they had argued about was Ellie’s living arrangements. Honor had initially suggested she go back to Manning until the committal hearing, had thought it best to lie low, to make only carefully stage-managed appearances. Honor would pay rent on a flat, but maybe Ellie could get someone to move in with her. She could even look for part-time work. She must have friends, some sort of support network in town, surely?

  “It’s not ideal, and it’s possible that the media will bug you for a few weeks even there,” Honor had explained, “but if you’re in Sydney, they’ll be buzzing around like flies every time you take a shit.”

  But Ellie had point-blank refused. “I’m not going back to Manning,” she’d said. “I’m never going back. I can’t. You don’t understand.”

  She’d refused to elaborate, insisted she wanted to move to Sydney, that she’d get a job, find her own place; she was eighteen, after all.

  They’d eventually reached a compromise, and Ellie moved into the spare room in Honor and Dougal’s place until the money started rolling in and she could rent her own flat.

  They’d disagreed, too, about romantic entanglements. Honor’s advice, strongly given, was that Ellie should stay clear of any relationships, serious or not, until the committal at the very least. But she couldn’t guard her every minute, and there’d been endless possibilities. What young woman wouldn’t be tempted by all the attention? Young men who were equally entranced by Ellie’s beauty, her sudden celebrity status.

  She’d been particularly concerned when Ellie began to show an interest in a journalist, Jamie Hemara—a handsome New Zealander connected to the notorious online scandal rag 180Degrees. The maverick site, which depended on anonymous sources and displayed a shameless genius for selective cutting and pasting, was one of the most scurrilous around, trading in celebrity gossip and political scandals. It was constantly under investigation, threatened with lawsuits—contempt of court, libel, perverting the cause of justice. Its country of origin and ownership were impossible to pin down, and prosecutions never seemed to get far. It had frequently been forced to pull stories when the law got involved, but by then they’d already been shared thousands of times, and the damage done. Jamie Hemara’s byline only ever appeared above the website’s occasional straight offerings, but there was no doubt he was responsible for much of the muck, too.

  When she’d first found out about Jamie and Ellie’s “hot new relationship” (via Instagram, naturally), Honor, working late, had rung Ellie immediately and warned her off. She’d pointed out gently that, at twenty-eight, Hemara was far too old for her and that he was a notorious womanizer and a hard partier with something of a serious coke habit. But Ellie had dug in her heels. “It’s not going to get serious,” she’d said. “I’m only eighteen. But I like him, Honor. And I need some sort of social life. What am I meant to do? Stay home and watch Netflix every single night? It’s getting a bit boring.”

  Honor had sighed. This was a battle she would lose eventually, but she had to try anyway. “Right now men are a dangerous luxury, Ellie. And male journalists are even more dangerous. You have to be careful.”

  “Are you saying he’ll use me?” Ellie’s laughter was equal parts scorn and disbelief.

  “I’m sure he thinks you’re wonderful, but journalists can’t help it. They’re always looking for an angle. If you were his granny, he’d be working out how to get you into a badly run nursing home so he could write an exposé. It’s nothing personal. I was one of them. I know exactly how it works.”

  Dougal had been a little harder to manage.

  “I really don’t understand why she needs to stay here, Honor,” he’d said when she told him she’d offered Ellie a place to stay. “Can’t she just get a room in a hotel or something?”

  Honor was surprised by Dougal’s attitude. Over the years, her husband had offered up very little in the way of opinion when it came to her clients. On the odd occasion that he’d been called on to accompany her to some function or other, he might have expressed his distaste for a particular client, or, rather less frequently, his interest or admiration, but mostly he’d kept his distance.

  “And I don’t understand why it bothers you so much,” she’d countered. “It’s only temporary. I’ve already explained this.” She’d swallowed down her impatience, made herself speak calmly. “She really needs some sort of guaranteed cash flow first, and she doesn’t have that yet.”

  “Well, why can’t you give her some sort of an advance? Help find her a place. Isn’t that what you usually do?”

  It was a Saturday morning, Ellie still in bed, and Dougal was sitting at the breakfast table with his morning newspaper spread open in front of him, a cup of tea at hand, doing his best impression of an old-fashioned paterfamilias. He peered at Honor over his reading glasses, his lips drawn together primly. He looked, suddenly, shockingly, every one of his sixty-five years.

  “But she’s so vulnerable right now, and she’s really just a kid. She’s only just turned eighteen. She’s clueless.”

  “Why can’t she get into some sort of share house? With people her own age?”

  “There’s no one she can move in with—her friends are all still at school.”

  He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.

  “This is the easiest route to take, believe me,” said Honor. “It suits me to have her here right now because at least I can see what she’s doing, even if I can’t control it completely. I can make sure she’s not going out every night and getting drunk and taking drugs and hanging with all the wrong people. She needs to be in top form—so many people want to talk to her. She’s got so much happening, it would be a pity to stuff the whole thing up. Right now she needs a responsible adult looking out for her.” She took a deep breath. “Dougal, I’m not sure what the problem is. It’s not like she’s causing any trouble.”

  “I just don’t . . .” He paused, modified what he was going to say. “It’s just awkward, having her here.”

  “Awkward? In what way is it awkward? I’d have thought you’d be enjoying having a young person about the place. I’m enjoying it.”

  He leaned toward her, lowered his voice. “I don’t trust her. I can’t even tell you why, but there’s something.”

  “Is it because she’s not from a nice middle-class background? Are you worried she’s going to help herself to the family silver?” She laughed, held up a teaspoon. “Oh, for God’s sake, Dougal. You’re such a snob.” She shook her head, tapped him lightly on the back of the hand with the spoon.

  He had the grace to look slightly uncomfortable. “Of course it’s not that. It’s . . . You’re right. She’s everything you say she is—intelligent, thoughtful, polite. Yesterday she bought me two bagels from that place in the Cross because she’d heard me telling you how much I like them. And then we had a thoroughly engrossing conversation about the book I was reading—a history of Hitler’s invasion of Czechoslovakia. It turns out she knows quite a lot about it. And then, not five minutes later, I overheard her talking to that journalist she’s seeing, that Maori fellow. She sounded like, I don’t know—like a . . .” He fumbled for the term. “Like one of those phone-sex women.”

  “She sounded like a phone-sex woman?” Honor couldn’t help laughing again. “Dougal. You’re a bloody old prude, as well as a snob. She’s just young.”

 
; “Don’t be silly. You know I couldn’t care less about her bloody sex life. It’s the fact that she can turn it on and off so easily. She can act like a virtuous schoolgirl—the perfect granddaughter to me, in fact—and then five minutes later she’s channeling the whore of Babylon. And yes, I know, you’ll say that’s just girls, that I’m old, that I’ve forgotten. But I haven’t. That girl is too much. Too smooth. She’s too good to be true.” He paused for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was deadly serious. “And she’s dangerous.”

  “Dougal, my darling. Ellie’s not dangerous, she’s just a child.”

  “That’s the thing, Honor.” His eyes were full of pity. “She’s not actually a child—and you’re not her mother.”

  SUZANNAH: OCTOBER 2018

  The ringing of Chip’s mobile woke me. It was still dark. I closed my eyes again, pushed my face into the pillow, willing sleep to return.

  I must have managed to drift off while he was on the phone, because when I finally opened my eyes, Chip was back in bed, leaning up against the headboard with his head flung back, his eyes closed, mouth an angry line.

  I touched his arm gently. “Chip? Who was it? What’s happened?”

  He took a deep breath before he responded, still not opening his eyes or turning toward me.

  “That was Hal. Apparently you’re big news again today. On the internet.”

  “What is it now?” I struggled to sit up. “But there’s been nothing new, has there? She hasn’t said anything else?”