by Wendy James
“Oh, I dunno exactly”—he held out his hand—“but I’m thinking it involves a medicinal glass of wine, some soft music, and er . . . putting your feet up.”
I took his hand, let him pull me toward him.
I dreamed I was standing beside my grandfather at a barbecue, holding a platter he was loading with badly burned sausages. Suddenly my grandmother was there beside me, pulling the heavy platter from my fingers. “Where’s your mother?” she asked, and her voice was filled with the familiar disappointment-tinged exasperation. “This is Mary’s job, not yours.” The acrid smoke from the burning timber stung my eyes, and Nan’s form blurred as my eyes filled.
I woke up, my eyes still watering, a tickling at the back of my throat. Chip was fast asleep beside me, pushed up against the cushions, snoring gently. The french doors were wide open to catch any night breeze, and there was a smell of burning in the air, a slight haze. Even from my position on the lounge, I could see a faint orange glow coming from the direction of my house. I nudged Chip and, when there was no response, pushed him hard. By the time he was up and dialing triple zero on his home phone, I was heading for the path, with Rip and Ned racing ahead of me, barking up a storm.
The house was ablaze. It was terrifying—the sight, the smell, the sound, the heat. It was a scene I’d seen countless times in films, on the news, but the reality didn’t compare. The flames already seemed to be everywhere but somehow kept expanding, like some monstrous devouring beast that had broken its shackles and was intent on making its escape—licking under doors, bursting through windows, running along the guttering and onto the roof. I edged toward the bottom of the veranda steps, moving as close as was bearable, and screamed out desperately, but I couldn’t even hear my own words over the roar. There was nothing I, or anyone, could do. If Mary was still inside, there was no way in—and no way out either.
I staggered back on legs that were barely working, unable to do anything other than watch, helpless, as the beast consumed everything in its path.
There was a momentary lull in the angry roar, and I heard, but only just, the shrill barking of the dogs. In all the terror, I had forgotten them completely, but there they were, safe, at the end of the breezeway, barking and scratching frenziedly at the laundry door. I was across the yard and had wrenched open the door before I’d even managed to process what I was doing. And there inside was Mary, sitting cross-legged on the cement floor, the washing basket upended, its contents in a pile before her. She’d changed out of her pajamas and despite the heat was wearing a pair of flannelette pajama bottoms belonging to Chip and an old T-shirt. The dogs rushed at her, licking her face, barking exuberantly. She pushed them away and looked up at me, her expression sorrowful.
“I wanted my old Chanel pajamas. That pair you bought me weren’t right—they were scratchy. I thought maybe you’d put my old ones in the laundry basket, but they’re not here.”
“Nice pj’s, Mary,” Chip said later. Mary was lying on a stretcher while a paramedic checked her oxygen levels. “But don’t think you’re keeping them.”
She gave a luxuriant stretch. “I’ve decided I’m only wearing nightdresses from now on. I remember my mum always said it was important to let your lady parts get some fresh air at night. There’s not much airing going on with these things.” She flicked the elastic waistband. “You should probably be more careful of your parts, Mr. Chips. You don’t want to damage them, do you?”
The paramedic attending her looked appalled, but Chip laughed. “Last time I looked my, er . . . parts were doing fine, Mary. Anyway, how are you? No scratches?” He turned to the paramedic. “Is she okay?”
He nodded. “She’s been very lucky.”
We all looked over at the house. The flames were finally under control, but the homestead was beyond salvaging. Mary and I were homeless, but we were both alive.
I knew there was probably no point, but I asked anyway. “What I don’t understand is why you stayed, Mary. Why didn’t you get out of the house? The doors aren’t locked. You could have just walked out through the laundry.”
“It was the dark,” she said. “I looked out that window, and I saw how dark it was, and I didn’t want to go out there on my own. I was scared I’d get lost. But I knew you’d come.” She paused for a moment, added wistfully, “To be honest, I was hoping it’d be Chip.”
There was no answer to that.
ABDUCTED: THE ELLIE CANNING STORY
A documentary by HeldHostage Productions © 2019
VOICE-OVER
Only a few hours after Suzannah Wells’s sensational committal trial, Canning, holidaying at an exclusive resort in the Pacific, was interviewed by her then boyfriend, Jamie Hemara. During the interview, which was livestreamed on the 180Degrees YouTube channel, Canning claimed that the accusations against Wells had been fabricated by Honor Fielding, and that her own participation had been secured under duress, when she was in a state of mental confusion and fragility.
[Cut to footage from 180Degrees interview]
CANNING
I’d spent almost three weeks as a virtual sex slave, drugged out of my brain—and I know that there are people who will say that I asked for it, but I really didn’t understand what I was letting myself in for. I’m not saying I went with David Lee against my will or anything—but the whole setup was just way out of my experience. I was a total wreck for months afterward. I was having flashbacks and panic attacks—all that was real. At the time I was so glad to be out of that place and so grateful to Honor, who’d given me somewhere to stay—that I felt as if she’d actually saved me. I think I would have done practically anything she wanted me to do. I’m not trying to make excuses—what I did was, like, totally wrong—but I was super easy to manipulate. So when Honor told me that Suzannah had once imprisoned a girl and gotten away with it, I really believed she deserved it. I’d heard the rumors about that girl in Manning, so it actually seemed legit. I now know it was stupid and wrong, and I really can’t apologize enough for what I put Suzannah and her family through . . . But once the story became public, it was so big, and so overwhelming. It was like I was stuck in this nightmare and it just kept getting worse—there was absolutely no one I could talk to, tell the truth to. I was stuck in this terrible tangle of lies . . .
VOICE-OVER
In early February 2019, both Honor Fielding and Ellie Canning were arrested for perverting the course of justice. Canning, who agreed to act as a witness for the prosecution in return for criminal indemnity, was released without being charged. Honor Fielding was released on bail. A trial date has yet to be set.
Fielding, who continues to maintain her innocence, launched a civil suit against Canning in April 2019.
David Lee, the self-styled soft-porn “artrepreneur” who testified for the defense at the committal hearing, is currently under investigation by the Fair Work Commission, following recommendations by the presiding magistrate.
Ellie Canning remains a popular figure in Australia and internationally. In spite of Wells’s exoneration and Canning’s own admission of guilt, a recent online poll found that 48 percent of people continue to believe Ellie Canning was abducted by Wells. Paris-based cosmetics giant L’Andon has honored its contract with Canning, despite pressure from critics, and its Escape line is already an industry top seller.
Canning is a regular guest on a variety of talk shows, including ABC’s Q&A and The Project, and has appeared on I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here and Dancing with the Stars. She also pens a popular “iGen” advice column for the Guardian and is writing a self-described “ficto-memoir,” which is due to be published in all territories in late 2019.
Canning has spent the last six months attending drama lessons at the esteemed Finch Institute in Sydney. She has been cast as the lead in an upcoming HBO drama based on the life of Violet Charlesworth and will shortly be relocating to Los Angeles. Canning plans to establish a scholarship for disadvantaged girls at her former boarding school.
Acco
rding to online sources, Honor Fielding’s marriage to millionaire financier Dougal Corrigan has ended, despite his initial public declaration of faith in his wife’s innocence. Their Sydney penthouse was sold for an undisclosed sum. Fielding, who resigned as CEO of Honor Talent and relocated to Byron Bay, is also said to be writing a memoir.
Suzannah Wells and Chip Gascoyne were married in February 2019, and their son was born in early March. Wells has declined to take legal action against either Canning or Fielding, despite pressure from the NSW director of public prosecutions. She has consistently refused to speak to the press about her ordeal. Mary Squires, who continues to live with the couple, has been featured in a Channel Ten documentary on dementia and has recently appeared in several advertisements for Ben & Jerry’s choc-mint ice cream.
Despite intense speculation, no credible motive for the false accusations has ever been established.
AUTHOR NOTE
An Accusation is a contemporary take on the Canning Affair—an eighteenth-century criminal case that enthralled a nation, including some of the great legal and literary minds of the era, and one that still remains unsolved. Josephine Tey transposed the drama to postwar England in her novel The Franchise Affair, and my own (somewhat fanciful) twenty-first-century transportation owes much to her wonderfully wry, understated rendering of this “ridiculous and contemptible” tale. If you’ve never read it, you should.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As ever, thanks are due to many.
To my agent Alexis Hurley for, well, so many things: faith, energy, excellent advice, encouragement, patience, and perspicacity, for starters.
To my publishers and editors, Alicia Clancy, Mary Rennie, Dianne Blacklock, Nicola Robinson, Laura Barrett, and Sara Brady, who miraculously pulled all the disparate, sometimes invisible, and occasionally nonexistent, threads together.
To the brilliant people at Lake Union and HarperCollins Australia who’ve worked so hard behind the scenes to get this book—and me!—out into the world in the best possible shape: Alice Wood, Pam Dunne, Darren Holt, Kellie Osborne, Steve Schul, Danielle Marshall, Nicole Burns-Ascue, Rosanna Brockley, Laywan Kwan, Gabe Dumpit, and Jacqueline Smith.
To my film agent Addison Duffy: for reading my first draft—and then wanting to read it again.
To my writing family: Rebecca James, Susan Francis, and Shari Kocher, who read and reread and reassured me that it could be done. And occasionally told me how.
To my early readers, friends, and family, who offered much-needed advice and encouragement: Mark Battisti, Marie Battisti, Marcia Huber, Jenny James, and Prue Macfarlane.
To Jeffrey Braithwaite, Kristiana Ludlow, and the rest of the CHRIS team at AIHI, for giving me much-needed time—and something else to think about.
To my family: Darren, Sam, Cat, Abi, Darcy, Nell, and Will. You know what for.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2013 EMG Photography
Wendy James is the author of eight novels, including the bestseller The Golden Child, The Mistake, and The Lost Girls. Her debut novel, Out of the Silence, won the 2006 Ned Kelly Award for best first crime novel and was short-listed for Australia’s prestigious Nita May Dobbie Award for women’s writing. The Golden Child was short-listed for the 2017 Ned Kelly Award for crime fiction. Wendy has a PhD from the University of New England and works as an editor, teacher, and researcher. She lives in the coastal city of Newcastle with her husband and two of their four children.
