by Wendy James
“What if won’t cut it, Chip. This isn’t a crime novel.”
“What about Honor’s visit, the plastic bag she took away?”
His brother gave an irritated sigh. “Oh, come on. Any evidence provided by Mary is highly suspect. She can’t even remember what century she’s in half the time. It’s what we’ll be arguing if this goes to trial, anyway. We need to get rid of that police statement altogether, not argue that she remembers things differently now.”
“Can’t you just check? See if Sally O’Halloran’s connected to Honor in some way? Hire someone to run a background check. See if her bank balance has gone up or something?”
“I’ll talk to our investigator—maybe he can ask around discreetly. It won’t hurt. But look, even if we find she has some sort of connection with Sally, even if we discover that Honor did come to the house, there’s no evidence that she did anything untoward. It’s all supposition. And none of it proves that Ellie wasn’t down in Suzannah’s basement. There’s still the DNA, remember. What we really need is something solid that casts doubt on Ellie Canning’s story, not something that implicates someone else.”
HONOR: DECEMBER 2018
The call came while she was at a fundraiser. One of Honor’s clients, a former fashion model who’d just written her memoir, was the charity’s patron. Once upon a time, Honor had loved this sort of event: the glittering crowd, the stink of power and, in some cases, corruption. It had given her a thrill to be included, even if only in a minor way, in this hyperprivileged world, this alternative aristocracy. She’d come alone. While once she would have dragged Dougal along, too, these days he rarely accompanied her. He’d never really been as enthusiastic—his connections to the rich and powerful were far more substantial, if less showy—and he would much prefer to stay home and have an early night. Just lately, though, Honor had begun to feel a similar sense of ennui. Over two decades some things had changed—the people, the clothes, the settings, even the menus—but the conversations had more or less stayed the same.
It was nine o’clock, and she’d been cornered by an author who’d recently received some extra attention owing to her controversial stance on stay-at-home mothers and was suddenly in high demand. She was wondering whether she should employ her own publicity agent—wouldn’t she get more lucrative speaking gigs that way, increase her sales? Honor tried to stifle a yawn, was already dreading the lunch meeting she’d taken her phone out to schedule with the woman, when she discovered that she had more than twenty missed calls. All of them from Ellie.
She keyed in the novelist’s contacts quickly, made a time, then smiled her apology and found a quiet place to make the call.
Ellie answered immediately. “Honor. Oh God, Honor. We’re fucked. I’m fucked.” She sounded drunk or high. Or both.
“What’s going on?” Honor hoped that whatever Ellie had done, whatever she’d taken, wasn’t going to involve a visit to hospital. She immediately thought about how she was going to contain the publicity. She went through her contacts in her head, the doctors who might be able to deal with such a situation, who owed her something and could be relied on to stay silent. She was annoyed: Ellie had had an interview with a popular but notoriously intimidating young YouTube journalist earlier in the evening. Normally Honor would accompany her on these occasions, but tonight she’d had this party. She’d left Ellie a Cabcharge with instructions to go straight back home after the interview, have an early night. Not only was it important that she maintain her squeaky-clean reputation, but she had a prerecorded Skype interview with CNN early the following morning—it would be only her third US appearance—and in the afternoon they were meeting with two production companies vying for documentary rights. Honor wanted the girl switched on and looking her best. As far as she could tell, the girl had been acquiescent; in fact, when Honor had left the apartment, Ellie and Dougal had been cheerfully arguing whether they should get takeaway or reheat the previous night’s leftovers.
Now she could hear Ellie gasping in the background, as if trying not to cry. “Take some deep breaths, Ellie, and tell me what’s going on.”
“Okay.” Her voice was still strangled, but she was speaking coherently. “I just did that interview. The one with that arsehole Andy Stiles. He wasn’t—well, from the start it was clear he wasn’t onside. And then . . . he showed a clip.”
“A clip? A clip of what?”
Honor knew what she was going to hear even before the girl told her; oh, not the precise details, but their significance. Honor had always had a sixth sense about these things. Somehow she always knew when a client screwed up. When they’d done something career destroying, something that signaled the beginning of a dramatic downward trajectory. This was one of those moments—she could feel it.
Still, she did her best to reassure Ellie. That was her job. “This is what we’re going to do. Firstly, you’re not going to do anything, Ellie. You’re going to go home and have dinner with Dougal. You’re going to watch that crime show you wanted to watch, make yourself a cup of herbal tea, and go to bed. And tomorrow morning you’re going to do the CNN interview as planned.”
SUZANNAH: DECEMBER 2018
Mary and I made the trek up to the mailbox early in the morning to avoid our ever-diminishing press retinue, the excited dogs racing ahead of us and then back again, barking joyfully. Mary chased them for a bit but quickly ran out of energy and trudged behind, complaining about the distance, the heat.
The night before, Chip and I had waited until we were alone to discuss not the import of Chip’s disclosure, but the substance. I had begun with the obvious question: Why hadn’t he told me? And his answer was just as clichéd: he had been afraid.
“We’d been seeing each other, off and on, for a couple of years. It never meant anything to either of us. I didn’t want a permanent relationship, and there’s no way she would ever leave Dougal; her life with him is too easy. He adores her, and I think she actually loves him, in her own way. Neither of us wanted more. It was like . . . it was just an itch being scratched. And when I told her it was over, and about you, about the baby, it was nothing. Truly. She didn’t even look upset. She basically just shrugged, for fuck’s sake. She poured us both another drink and made a toast. She was pleased for me. For us.”
“But what if it meant more to her than you realized? Maybe she’d thought the two of you . . . had a future. I mean, if I hadn’t fallen pregnant?” I had to work hard to stay calm, to shake off the feeling that there was something he wasn’t saying.
Chip seemed to sense my distress and took my hand. “You know there’s nothing between me and Honor. And there’d been nothing, even before you told me about the baby. We hadn’t really been together for months.”
And I believed him, of course I did. There was no more reason for Chip to be lying now than there had been for him to be faithful five months earlier. I knew that his past shouldn’t matter at all, that it was unreasonable of me to expect it. There was no place, no justification, for sore feelings on my part. Honor and Chip were history. I could tell myself that, but I still felt a sharp pang of jealousy. There was still the fact that Honor and Chip shared a history. That Honor knew him in ways that I didn’t. And perhaps never could.
Mary had discovered her second wind and overtook me, making it to the mailbox first. She pulled out a handful of envelopes and ran back, the dogs at her heels. I shook myself out of my anxiety about Chip—right now there were bigger things to worry about, to focus on. Mary handed me her catch, panting loudly. There were a couple of utility bills, a catalog from an online pet shop for Mary, and a small envelope, addressed by hand. I gave Mary her missive from PetCo and considered the plain white envelope, sensing the nature of its contents, reluctant to open it.
I had been receiving anonymous letters ever since my arrest. The online commentary had been horrifying enough, but physical mail was worse. Not just the almost reflexive expressions of fleeting outrage, but actual letters—composed, addressed, stamped, posted
—were so much more deliberate, effortful, and far more threatening. Most of these letters were so full of bile and rage and an almost visceral hatred that it was hard not to feel afraid, not so much for myself, although that was a part of it, but for a world that contained such a concentration of ugly feeling.
It wasn’t until we were back in the house, the breakfast mess cleared away, Mary happily absorbed in her catalog, that I worked up the courage to tear the envelope open and pull out the single sheet of paper within. The message was typed and printed in a regular font, rather than the usual mad scrawl or the painstakingly retro newspaper cutouts that I’d come to expect.
The Canning girl is a liar. Check out Aphroditeblue.com.
Bizarrely, this was the first mail I’d received that had provided anything that was even remotely anti-Ellie, and even though I knew it was likely to be a dead end—and a sleazy one at that—I was desperate to check it out. But Mary had other ideas. I put the note in my pocket, then helped her choose springy new dog beds for Rip and Ned and, after some pitiful but persuasive begging, one for her, too.
I didn’t get the opportunity to look at the site until late in the evening. Mary was in bed; Chip had tidied away the remains of dinner and was dismally flicking through the various TV stations looking for something to watch.
I opened up my laptop, pulled out the crumpled note, and keyed in the address.
The website contained nothing but images of young women, all posing provocatively, in various stages of undress. The shots were strangely old-fashioned, slightly kitschy: an attempt to re-create a respectable nineteenth-century gentleman’s idea of risqué, but with twenty-first-century raunch. Some girls were in lacy underwear—suspenders and corsets, with cigars suggestively placed; others, draped in sensitively revealing togas, held shimmering grapes between pouting lips. Clicking on any of the images took me to a gallery of stills featuring each model. It wasn’t long before I found a picture I was already half expecting. I clicked on the image, which took me through to more.
Most of the images were too pixelated for me to be absolutely certain of the subject’s identity; only one had the required clarity: a girl, somewhere in her late teens or early twenties, dressed only in lacy underpants, lounging invitingly on a velvet chaise. She was grinning at whoever was taking the photo, clearly enjoying herself. And just as clearly, I knew I was looking at Ellie Canning. Her expression might have been light-years away from the innocent, sunny smiles of her recent appearances, but it was brilliantly, wonderfully, indisputably her.
I was about to call out to Chip when my mobile pinged. It was a text from Hal. He’d sent a link to a YouTube interview between Ellie Canning and an English journalist. It had been up for less than a day, and already it’d had fifty thousand views.
Apparently her lawyers tried to stop them putting it up but failed, Hal wrote. I think this may be exactly what we need.
ABDUCTED: THE ELLIE CANNING STORY
A documentary by HeldHostage Productions © 2019
VOICE-OVER
In December 2018, an interview between Ellie Canning and YouTube talk-show host Andy Stiles, who is renowned for his aggressive take-no-prisoners interview style, went viral. Stiles’s interviews are estimated to have a weekly audience of over six million.
[Cut to footage from Andy Stiles Unplugged]
STILES
So, Ellie, you’ve got to admit that you’ve become pretty famous pretty quickly, and for what I’d say are kinda spurious reasons.
CANNING
Oh. I’m not really sure what you mean. And I don’t think it’s, um . . . spurious. It’s not like I ever planned any of this.
STILES
No. I’m sure you didn’t. But you have to admit that you’ve become something of a national heroine to an awful lot of people out there—and a role model. “The face of a generation,” I think someone put it.
CANNING
Yes—and it’s overwhelming sometimes. I have to, I mean, I always try to do my best . . . to be, to make sure that I’m living up to . . . Actually, I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what your point is, what you’re asking me.
STILES
Well, what I’m wondering is, do you ever wonder if any of this, ah, adulation is actually deserved? I mean, you were abducted, which was really terrible, and then you escaped—which is fantastic. Well done. I think everyone would be glad about that, yeah? But don’t you think it’s a weird kind of world when simply having something happen to you is enough to make you a celebrity? It’s not like you’ve . . . solved third-world poverty or anything, is it?
CANNING
I, um—you know, I guess I do think it’s a whole lot more than that. I think people are interested in the things I did before this all happened: my background, all that. There is a wider . . . social kind of question here, isn’t there? And then there are the things I’ve done since. It might not be exactly saving the third world, as you put it, but I’m doing what good I can, whenever I’m asked.
STILES
So it’s just some kind of runaway train, yeah? This whole media thing? And you’re just riding it?
CANNING
I . . . well, you can look at it like that, I guess. But I don’t know why you’d want to.
STILES
So, when you’re talking about things you did before all this, you mean your backstory, right? Like coming from a really disadvantaged background—no dad, mum in rehab, foster parents. All that was hard, yeah? But you worked hard, getting in to good schools, university, college . . . You had it tough, but you managed to rise above it?
CANNING
I know I’m not unique, and there are other girls in similar situations. That’s a big part of what I’m—
STILES
Sure, sure. But what I’m wondering is, what are we meant to make of other elements of your past? I mean, it hasn’t all been hard work and no play for Ellie Canning, has it?
CANNING
No. For sure. I’ve had some fun times. Of course I have. Everyone has to have some fun, don’t they?
STILES
So what I’m wondering is how these “fun times” fit in with the narrative we’ve been given.
[Stiles plays footage of a young woman having sex.
A close-up shows the girl is clearly Ellie.]
I mean, this is you, right?
CANNING
What? Where did you get this?
STILES
So is this you? You haven’t answered the question.
CANNING
[Long pause] Okay. Yes. It’s obviously me. I’m having sex. So what? Since when has sex been illegal? I was over sixteen.
STILES
It’s not just a question of sex, actually. There’s also the question of ti—
CANNING
Oh, come on. Are you trying to say that I somehow deserved what happened to me because I had sex? Isn’t this just blatant slut shaming? What century is this?
STILES
Oh, come on. You can’t keep playing the—
CANNING
I’m not answering any more of your bullshit questions, so you can turn that fucking camera off—
[Interview terminated.]
VOICE-OVER
Initially Canning and her legal team made efforts to have the Andy Stiles interview, along with the offending clip, blocked from YouTube, claiming that Canning’s interview had been filmed without permission. While these efforts were ultimately unsuccessful, Stiles’s attempt to smear her backfired. Canning’s fiery response to Stiles’s slut shaming went viral, and Canning’s popularity soared.
Her subsequent comments regarding the sex tape, made during an interview with US talk-show host Antonia Saltis, brought her an international audience, and by the time of the committal hearing in January 2019, Canning had become a global sensation.
PART THREE
SUZANNAH: JANUARY 2019
The committal hearing was held in Enfield Wash. I recalled visiting a courthouse at some point duri
ng my childhood, on a school excursion, perhaps, but I’d never been inside a court that was in progress, let alone one that was charged with deciding my fate. I arrived early, but even so, the court was already packed. I’d expected the media to be out in force—despite the fact that as the victim, Ellie herself wouldn’t be attending—but I was surprised by the presence of so many onlookers. Most were unknown to me, other than a few media people and a handful of my fellow teachers—all of whom were as careful to avoid making eye contact as I was—and one or two parents. Although I wasn’t going to be questioned, the court was intimidating, and the prospect of coming face-to-face with Honor was terrifying. I scanned the crowd quickly when we entered, but there was no sign of her.
Mary, Chip, and I sat just to the right of Hal and his junior counsel, Sylvia, and a young legal clerk whom nobody had thought to introduce. We had considered leaving Mary at home, worried she might be restless or loud or cause some sort of a commotion, but she was strangely subdued, perhaps overwhelmed by her surroundings and the solemn atmosphere.
When the judge (who was straight out of central casting: bewigged, portly, glowering) finally arrived, Mary moved as close to me as she could, clutching my hand tightly.
Without Ellie, there were actually very few prosecution witnesses. The young farmer who’d found Ellie was called first. He answered the prosecution’s questions nervously but straightforwardly. Next up, a doctor and pathologist gave evidence on Ellie’s physical state and the blood samples taken in the hospital. Then Sally O’Halloran took the stand. The prosecution team, led by an elegant woman in her late thirties, had nothing new to ask her; Sally’s answers to their questions tripped easily off her tongue, never deviating from what I’d read in her statement. But when Hal stood to begin his cross-examination, the poor woman looked suddenly terrified. Hal was careful to make his initial questions gentle, innocuous—asking her where she lived, how long she’d worked at the Franchise, whether she liked her job. His next question seemed to throw her.
