by Wendy James
Some—like the new youth current affairs show Woke!—took a serious approach, exploring some of the wider social implications of Canning’s ordeal.
[Cut to footage from Woke! interview]
INTERVIEWER
One of the things that people have been very disturbed by is the fact that an eighteen-year-old girl could disappear for almost a month without anyone reporting her missing. Does this shock you?
ELLIE
Well, I’m not shocked, exactly. I mean, kids like me get used to being pretty much invisible. It does make me mad, though.
INTERVIEWER
And it’s a wake-up call, isn’t it, for the system?
ELLIE
Totally. There have to be better safeguards. There are so many vulnerable young people out there who don’t have families to keep an eye on them.
It makes you wonder about the others, doesn’t it? The ones who have gone off the grid without anyone noticing. It’s a pretty scary thought.
VOICE-OVER
Others, like Sarah Smiley on Good Morning Today!, were more interested in talking about Canning’s current activities.
[Cut to footage from Good Morning Today! interview]
ELLIE
Hi, Sarah. Thanks so much for having me on the show. It’s very exciting.
SARAH SMILEY
Well, it’s exciting for us, too. Your story has certainly struck a chord around the country. You’ve become quite the phenomenon. I read that you’ve just been voted 2018’s number one girl in Top Girl magazine—beating some very strong Hollywood competition, I might add, with thousands of Australian teenagers voting you the girl they’d most like to be. How does that feel?
ELLIE
Oh, it’s wild. My life feels totally crazy right now.
SARAH SMILEY
You’ve certainly come a long way.
ELLIE
I really have . . .
SARAH SMILEY
And we hear there’s a romance blossoming between you and that gorgeous Jamie Hemara.
ELLIE
Er—that’s gossip. We’re totally just friends.
SARAH SMILEY
Mm-hmm. Sure.
Anyway, we’re all dying to find out what you’re going to do next. We’ve heard you’ve had some very interesting offers. Not what you imagined, I suspect.
ELLIE
Yeah. There was a time when I basically didn’t know if I’d even have a future. But now there’s so much happening. Some days it feels like I’ve woken up in some sort of a dream world. So many people want me. Honor—she’s my agent—she says she’s never seen anything like it.
SARAH SMILEY
And can you tell us about some of these offers? Are they all that different from your original plans?
ELLIE
Well, what I originally wanted to do was to go to university. Then, of course, all this happened, so I thought that was out. But I got a letter from the university just last week saying that due to my, um, special circumstances, and after considering my school reports, they’ve decided to accept me anyway.
And St. Anne’s, the college, has offered me a residential scholarship. Although I’m not sure that I’ll even be going now—I’ve got so many exciting things going on. Heaps of opportunities. Maybe I’ll just take a gap year—or two.
SARAH SMILEY
And can you tell us a little about these exciting opportunities?
ELLIE
Oh yes! I’ve actually been offered a job as spokesperson for Girl Up, which is a new organization that’s devoted to helping empower young women who’ve been in traumatic situations, helping them to regain their confidence and find their voices again. They’ve got this kick-arse program to optimize all the bad things that have happened to them to build up resilience. Anyway, it’s a really amazing role, and it’s just so humbling to be given the opportunity to help others, after my own experience.
SARAH SMILEY
Wow. That sounds fantastic—so perfect for you!
And we’ve heard that there’s something else, something very special that you’re going to announce, exclusively, here on Good Morning Today!
ELLIE
It is pretty amazing. It looks like I’m going to be the face of a new line of L’Andon cosmetics in the new year.
SARAH SMILEY
So, a modeling contract?
ELLIE
Yes! It looks like it. Isn’t it mad?
SARAH SMILEY
Well, I don’t think, looking at you—and can we have a close-up of this beautiful face? I don’t think anyone would think that it’s really a mad idea. I think most of us will completely understand L’Andon’s decision—and we’ll be cheering for you all the way.
ELLIE
Oh, thank you. You’re so kind.
SARAH SMILEY
Can you tell our audience what this new line of cosmetics is going to be called, Ellie?
ELLIE
I actually think they could guess. It’s going to be called Escape.
HONOR: OCTOBER 2018
Since taking on Ellie, Honor had deliberately kept her trips to Enfield Wash to a minimum. Too many people—both known and unknown—were likely to approach her to try and find out what she knew about the case, or about Ellie’s current doings, or to tell her that they’d always had their suspicions about Suzannah.
But this weekend it had been unavoidable. The nursing home director had called her late last night to tell her that her father had had a minor heart attack and had again been sent to hospital for observation. While his condition wasn’t critical, considering his state of health, anything could happen. He would probably require surgery—either in Newcastle or Sydney, depending on the availability of beds, surgeons, and all the rest. Honor should probably make the trip up immediately. She had delayed seeing her father for as long as she could, had made an appointment to talk to the hospital’s resident geriatrician to discuss what needed to happen next and to make any necessary arrangements before visiting. The doctor had, as it happened, recommended that nothing be done, that her father return to his room at the Franchise. Surgery might be advisable further down the track, but at this point, his condition wasn’t in any way desperate.
“It may be better just to leave it for now,” she’d said. “He’s really not in any immediate danger. And in cases like his, it’s often best to let sleeping dogs lie.”
They both knew what the doctor really meant was that in cases like her father’s, where quality of life was already so reduced, being carried off quickly by a major heart attack probably wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
After the meeting, Honor postponed the visit further, ordered a cup of barely drinkable coffee and a stale muffin at the hospital kiosk, sat down with a magazine, and did some quick calculations. It was nearly four o’clock now—if she managed to drag this out, official visiting hours would be almost over and she wouldn’t have to hang around, even for appearances’ sake.
She’d chosen a table in the gloomy recesses of the kiosk, figuring that if she kept her head down and appeared to be immersed in her depressing food and her even more depressing reading material (a women’s magazine, with a small and blurry but satisfying image of a Lululemon-clad Ellie “out and about in Paddington” in its “Celebrity Snaps” pages), she would be left alone. But she hadn’t figured the waitress into her plans.
The woman knew who Honor was immediately and delivered her query with the coffee and cake.
“So, how is she? The girl? How is she holding up?”
Honor’s first impulse was to tell the woman to fuck off, but she put her magazine down, smiled politely. The waitress was tiny, thin, bent, her features small and tight. She looked like she’d had a hard life, could be any age from thirty to sixty, but her hostility felt ancient. It wasn’t necessarily directed at her, though, so Honor kept her response friendly enough, if uninformative.
“She’s okay. She has good days and bad days.”
The woman gave a stiff nod. Somethin
g about her looked familiar, and Honor couldn’t resist the question, even though she knew that it would inevitably extend the conversation. “Do I know you?”
“I was Cheryl Cruikshank. Howatt now. Not sure you’ll remember me. We were in the same year, but we weren’t exactly friends.” The woman’s reflexively defensive attitude was familiar, too.
“Oh yes, I do remember you.” Cheryl had been a tough girl from a rough family. She’d been benign enough in primary school but developed into a fearsome and sometimes violent bully once hormones—and an understanding of her immutable position in the town’s social order—had kicked in. She’d never really bothered Honor, who’d ranked too low in the social hierarchy to be deserving of full-scale enmity, and who’d been a tough enough cookie herself, but as she said, they’d never been friends either.
“So you married . . .” She trawled through the possibilities, names she hadn’t thought of for years. “Jason Howatt?”
“No. Jase never married. Too much time in prison. He hasn’t had a chance. I married Darren, his brother.”
Darren Howatt had been a figure of considerable infamy back in their youth. A good five years older than Honor, he’d worked in his father’s auto body shop, drove a souped-up panel van, and was always in trouble with the local cops for the usual small-time crimes: pub fights, drunk driving, antisocial behavior. Rumors of darker deeds swirled around him, too: drug dealing, arson, sexual assault.
“I think I remember him. And you’ve got children?”
“Four. We’ve got two grandkids already. And another on the way.” Her smile was fleeting but genuine.
“Grandkids. Wow. You must be busy.” Honor did her best to look interested rather than appalled.
“Yeah. Our youngest is still at school. Year Nine.”
“Here?” Honor had no idea why she asked this—it was highly unlikely that any of the Howatt children attended boarding school—but Cheryl hadn’t noticed, had circled back to her original conversational target.
“She was in that woman’s class. That bitch who took Ellie.” Honor was surprised by the venom in the woman’s voice.
“Oh yes. I suppose it must have been a bit of a shock to the school community.” Honor’s response was measured, but the woman was enjoying her anger too much to be deflected.
“They shouldn’t allow them around kids, sickos like that. And I don’t understand why her and her loony mother haven’t been locked up.”
“I guess she’s not really a danger, though, just living quietly at home. I mean, there are bail conditions, and I’m sure the police are keeping a close eye on her.”
“Yeah. Well, that’s a load of bullshit, isn’t it? Not what you know, it’s who you know around here.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “If it’d been one of us, they’d be in jail and the key thrown away.”
“Oh, I don’t know that that’s really . . .”
“Oh, come on. She’s screwing Chip Gascoyne. Those rich wankers have always had this town wrapped around their little fingers.”
“Maybe that was true back when we were kids, but things have changed a little, don’t you think?”
The woman glared at her. “No, actually, I don’t think. That woman’s a fucking pervert, and she should be locked up and not let within a hundred miles of any kids. It’s not just a principle—some of us still actually live here.”
Honor ignored the barb, gave a sympathetic sigh. “I can understand why it must seem unfair. And frustrating. But there’s not really anything that can be done.” She paused. “Sometimes it would be better if communities could just deal with this stuff themselves. But we can’t, can we? The law’s the law.”
“Yeah. Well, there’s the law, and then there’s justice.” Cheryl’s full smile, as unexpected as it was ghastly, revealed a row of blackened, stumpy teeth. “And some of us don’t see why one has to wait for the other.”
SUZANNAH: OCTOBER 2018
I woke in the middle of the night. Mary was standing silently beside the bed, gazing down at me intently, as if willing me to wake up. She looked like a wraith—her long hair wild around her head, eyes wide, a pale blanket draped around her body for warmth.
“What’s wrong, Mary?” I kept my voice low, calm, steady. I had found her sleepwalking once or twice before and didn’t want to startle her. If she woke up properly, she would be difficult to get back to sleep.
“There’s someone out there.”
“Out where? Outside?”
“Out there. In the garden.” She pointed to the window. “Listen.” This wasn’t following the usual pattern—Mary’s sleepwalking conversations were generally with unseen others and never made sense. She was awake.
I pushed the blankets off and sat up. She grabbed my wrist in her bony fingers and squeezed hard.
“You need to do something,” she hissed.
“What?”
“Before they get us.”
“Who’s going to get us, Mary?”
“The villagers. They’re out there. With their pikestaffs. Come and see.”
She grabbed my shoulder with her other hand and pulled me, surprisingly strong.
“Stop, Mary. I’ll get up.” She let me go but hovered, breathing heavily, as I got to my feet.
She positioned herself behind me and pushed me toward the window.
“Go and look out, but don’t move the curtain too much or they’ll see us.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” But I humored her, crept over to the window, peered out. “If there was anyone here, the dogs would be—” But then I remembered: Chip had taken both the dogs with him.
“Can you see them?” Mary stood behind me, too close, literally breathing down my neck.
I couldn’t see anything unusual, just the shadows of the dense canopy of trees that grew around the perimeter of the yard moving gently in the breeze.
“It’s just the trees, Mary. It’s just their shadows in the breeze.”
“No—look over there.” She pointed in the direction of the garage. Three forms, shadows elongated but distinctly human, were lined up against the back of the shed. It was impossible to make out which way they were facing, but they appeared to be doing some sort of bizarre dance, swaying this way and that, moving up and down, their arms sweeping back and across in long, fluid gestures. Each of them held something aloft. It only took me a moment to work out what they were doing.
They weren’t holding pikestaffs, but their modern equivalent—cans of spray paint.
“Oh shit.”
“So, can we shoot them?” Mary’s fear had morphed into excitement.
“What?”
“They’re on our property. Isn’t it the law out in the bush? I’m pretty sure we can shoot them.”
“Mary.” I turned her away from the window and led her over to my bed, pushing her down gently. “We can’t shoot anyone. Not only is it illegal, I don’t actually have a gun.”
“Doesn’t your cowboy boyfriend have one?”
“Oh, Mary. It’s not . . . Anyway, Chip’s not here.”
“Did you scare him away? No wonder.” She poked at my belly. “You’re getting a bit tubby.”
“I’m going to call the police. And then I’m going to make you a hot cocoa and take you back to bed. Okay?”
“Why would you want to call the pigs? They already want to put you in prison for what you did to that girl.”
“You know I didn’t—”
“There’s only one way to handle this.”
Mary was back at the bedroom window in an instant. She peered out into the night, shaping her fingers into a pistol, taking aim, firing.
It was impossible to know who might have been out there. Online attacks had been coming from all quarters. Most were from people who’d never met me, but some were closer to home and all the more frightening for that. It seemed that even during my brief—and I would have said relatively uncontroversial—time at Enfield Wash, I’d managed to make some enemies. Who would have guessed that a tiny disagre
ement about classroom bookings could be turned into a public assassination of my character, again compliments of 180Degrees:
An anonymous source tells us that Wells was a constant troublemaker during her time at Enfield Wash High: “It’s an under-resourced school, so most teachers work hard to share what we have as fairly as possible—but Suzannah Wells was utterly ruthless about never sharing her drama room with other teachers, even when it wasn’t in use. At the time I just thought she wasn’t a team player, or that she was big-noting herself . . . now I’m wondering whether there was some sort of sinister reason . . .”
And how could I have known that the supermarket employee who accidentally knocked a can of tinned tomatoes off the checkout and onto my foot had been utterly terrified by my response (it hurt; I swore) and would one day be eager to share her terror with the world:
“I mean, it’s not as if I did it deliberately, but the look she gave me. Honestly, I thought she was going to kill me . . .”
And then there were the revenge-seeking parents, frightening enough when I was just the annoying teacher stifling Junior’s creative genius, but on steroids now that I was the villain du jour.
The mother of a student at Enfield Wash High has spoken about having always had a sense of unease about Wells’s relationships with some of her charges. “I did always wonder if her relationships with some of the girls were healthy. Her favorites always seemed to be vulnerable girls, not girls who had strong family connections, and not the students who displayed any particular talent. I ended up warning my own daughter to keep her distance from Ms. Wells—which is such a pity, as she’s such a talented actor—although I couldn’t really put my finger on what was worrying me. Anyway, it turns out my instincts were right.”
This last “informant” was easy to work out: Linda Simmons, mother of Lexie, and a classic stage mum. She had cornered me in the school car park one afternoon earlier in the year. It was a gloomy autumn afternoon, and I had been in a hurry, running late after a staff meeting, worried that it would be dark before I arrived home. Linda didn’t bother with any preliminary greetings but launched right in.
“I hear the Mallory girl has been given the main part in The Crucible.”
