The Price of Life

by Nigel Brennan

  ‘Do they have guns, Mummy?’ Gigi asks.

  ‘Yes, sweetheart, they have guns.’

  ‘Will they shoot him?’ she asks.

  ‘No, no, darling. They won’t shoot him; the guns are for protection against other bad men, not to shoot Uncle Nigel.’

  Oh, crap, how would I know if they are going to shoot him or not? DFAT told us last night that Nigel and Amanda were kidnapped on the road to Afgooye, about 26 kilometres south of Mogadishu. The information was all technical and factual, and no one even said anything about whether they would still be alive. In the phone call to Nic the kidnappers said they had Nigel, but we didn’t get what the police are calling a ‘proof of life’, some statement that confirms beyond doubt he is alive.

  I pile the kids into the car. My mum rings me just as I’m about to get in the driver’s seat.

  ‘It’s everywhere, Kel, all over the papers and on the news.’

  ‘Yes, Mum, I know.’

  ‘Where are the kids?’

  ‘They’re here with me in the car, on the way to school.’

  ‘Don’t you think they should stay at home?’

  ‘No. Matt and I will be on the phone all day, finding out stuff that may not be fantastic news, and I would rather filter what I pass on to them.’

  ‘Okay. Are you all right?’ I can tell by her voice that she is worried.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ I say with a laugh before I hang up.

  I’m not really fine – I am just numb.

  I walk Gigi and Cal into school and on the lunch table is the pile of today’s newspapers that the school gets. The children discuss the news in the paper each day in class.

  There on the front page is Nigel, with a caption that reads ‘Aussie journalist kidnapped’.

  Heather must have supplied the media with a pic. In this one he looks so happy and handsome. It’s much better than the photo on the telly this morning.

  Well, at least the kids will know all about this news story.

  I explain the situation to the principal. She looks at me in disbelief and as I continue, her expression turns to shock and, finally, concern.

  As I leave her office, I hear her tell another teacher what I have just told her. The school is tiny, with just thirty-six students, so everyone knows everyone else’s business, and if they don’t, they soon find out.

  Here goes, I think to myself, this is the start of the bush telegraph. Hold on tight, Kellie.

  I get home to find Matt packing his bags. ‘I’m going up to Moore Park – will you be right if I go?’

  ‘Oh my god, of course! The kids and I will be fine. Mum and Dad are around if I need them, and if you want me to come up, I can be there in a few hours. If I wasn’t working this weekend, I’d go with you.’

  Matt and I left the Brennan family farm near Moree in New South Wales in 2005. If it hadn’t have been sold, we would probably still be there, right in the middle of this whole ordeal. Heather and Geoff are very special to me; I have a great relationship with my in-laws. I suppose that happens when you all live together for eight and a half years. Right now, I just want to be there, to help and to comfort them and have them do the same for me. Family should gather round in stressful times, band together and support each other. And that’s what I want to do for all the family – Heather and Geoff, Matt, and Nigel’s other siblings, Nicky and Hamilton.

  I walk into my office and find my brother-in-law on my homepage as one of the day’s top headlines. I Google ‘Nigel Brennan’ and thousands of stories come up. Feared kidnapped, car hijacked, taken at gunpoint, held for ransom – the list of headlines goes on and on.

  I set up a Google alert, which means I’ll get an email every time ‘Nigel Brennan’ or ‘Amanda Lindhout’ are written, spoken or blogged about. Information overload is exactly what I need right now.

  Nicky

  Moore Park

  Monday, 25 August

  As twenty-year-olds my uni mates and I found it nothing short of hilarious to ring friends (usually sober and interstate) at ungodly hours. It goes without saying we were blind-rotten drunk. Invariably a parent would answer the phone, always in a breathless state of trepidation. Once I became a parent myself, I realised that the middle-of-the-night phone call is the bogeyman for grown-ups. No Stephen King novel can induce nightmares quite like the prospect of hearing the phone ring in the dead of night.

  Subconsciously, I’m half expecting it; we all are, I suppose. Nevertheless, on 25 August at 1.40 a.m. I surge forth from the fold-out lounge in my folks’ office to grab the phone. I pick up on the second ring, before I have to hear any more of the creepy carnival merry-go-round music that for some bizarre reason has been made the ringtone. That sound will give me a start for the rest of my life.

  With the phone in hand, I sit in the swivel chair next to the desk at the end of the lounge.

  ‘Hello, Nicky speaking.’ There is the same quaver in my voice that I’d heard from those parents years ago.

  Who is this?’ It’s a slightly accented voice, but understandable. ‘Do you know Nigel?’

  Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

  ‘Yes, I am Nigel’s sister. My name is Nicky. Is Nigel with you? Is he all right?’

  ‘My name is Adam, you understand?’ the voice continues. ‘This is a ransom call. We have Nigel and Amanda. We are demanding a price of $1.5 million US per head.’

  I knock the keyboard on the desk and Mum’s computer springs to life. The azure blue of a South Pacific beach, her screensaver, bathes me in light. I grab a pencil and a piece of paper on the desk. In the half light I scrawl down as much information as I can. My fear for Nigel’s safety has ramped right up.

  ‘Do you have a phone number so I can contact you?’ I ask.

  I am surprised that Adam obliges. There are a couple of digits that I have some difficulty understanding because of his accent, but after some back and forth I get it down correctly.

  Adam says something like, ‘… Call back in four hours.’

  Who? Him or me? I think he said he’ll call me back. I can’t hear even though he is speaking loudly. Inside my head is only fuzz. My hearing has checked out and it feels as if my bladder is not going to be far behind.

  ‘You understand this is a ransom call?’ This is not a movie; it is happening right here and right now – at my parents’ home, for Chrissake.

  ‘Yes.’

  And that is it. The call is over.

  Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. The mantra in my head has ramped up as well.

  I scramble for the bit of paper near the computer with James’s mobile number on it. Right now, in the middle of the night, I want him to make this better.

  ‘So let me get this straight: the kidnappers have contacted you directly?’ he says, sounding sleepy.

  ‘Yes, I’ve just finished talking to him. I rang you straightaway.’

  ‘That’s unusual.’

  You’re not making this better, James.

  Mum has come in from her bedroom across the hallway. Her arms are crossed tightly across her chest. It’s cold even in Bundaberg at this time of the year. She is wearing the famous Sutherland family frown, a look of consternation that pushes her left eye down into a squint. My grandad had it and so does my younger brother, Matthew. My middle child, Monty, will too one day, once he’s old enough to have wrinkles and creases.

  I go through the whole conversation with James while Mum listens on. Later she will tell me I looked grey. By the time I relay the story to James, I am seriously bloody scared. I have indigestion thrashing around in my belly and acid burning its way up my throat. My mouth tastes of aluminium. I pat down my inner thighs just to make sure I haven’t wet myself.

  ‘Will they ring me back in four hours? That’s 5:30 a.m. – not so long away. I don’t want to take another phone call. What if they are doing something really awful to Nige? I hate guns; I don’t want to hear them going off in the background. One and a half million dollars is a ridiculous amount of money
. When do they want it by? Surely not in four hours?’

  I’m not sure if I’ve said all of this aloud to James or whether they are just thoughts.

  The phone is beeping in my ear. Oh god. Is that Adam again?

  James tells me to see if there’s a voicemail message and says he’ll call me back. He sounds calm, and adds that he needs to ring a few people to organise something in case there’s another call in the morning.

  There have, in fact, been two missed calls. One was a hang-up and the other was some muttering that I later suspect is ‘inshallah’. Its literal translation is ‘God willing’, but my sister-in-law Kellie would claim it to be the Somali equivalent of ‘whatevah’. Three fingers of your left hand up in the air (to make a W) then swung clockwise (to make an E) would become our standard sign whenever we heard ‘inshallah’. It’d provide levity in some stressful situations.

  Dad is sleeping, unaware of the phone call. Mum and I let him slumber and it’s a wise decision. For the next four days he won’t sleep a wink.

  I don’t hear anything for half an hour. As this stretches out to forty-five minutes, I can’t stand it any longer. I ring James to see what is going on.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he tells me. ‘The Australian Federal Police (AFP) is arranging someone to be there before the next call comes in.’

  So Mum and I wait it out. By four o’clock we are pacing the floor. Mum and Dad’s place is tucked away. God, I hope they don’t get lost. If it’s someone from out of town, they won’t find the place. I can’t take the tension. I want them here now, set up and ready to go. They can’t miss the next call. Deep down what I really want is for someone else to take the call, explain that it’s all a mistake and it’s not really Nigel this is happening to but someone else far away.

  Dad gets up with the sun. There’s a pink glow peeking over the horizon on this cool and crisp winter’s morning. Fear glues the inside of my upper lip to my gums. I pry them apart with my tongue. Will Nigel’s beaten and broken body be dragged through the streets of Mogadishu like the American soldiers in Black Hawk Down? It can’t be happening, not when the day is so clear and typically Queensland perfect. I try to think rationally. Nah, he’s an Aussie; everyone loves us. It settles down my fear. Just.

  Finally, lights swing into the driveway. Here they are. The boys in blue, QPol – Queensland Police. Relief instantly comes over me. I fill my lungs with what feels like the most oxygen I’ve inhaled for hours.

  The officers introduce themselves as they make their way into the living room. There are big burly men everywhere, some are in uniform, others in plain clothes. This feels right, like how it should be. They are here to take care of things, to get my brother back. They are all locals except for one fellow. Kevin and Ross are our negotiators.

  The Bundy boys go through the family demographics. There has been lots of communication between us and my brothers Matt and Hamilton – Ham – as well as my aunts. The cops catch on pretty quickly that we’re a clanny lot.

  They position the phone upstairs on the kitchen island bench. It now has two headsets attached – one for us and another for them so they can listen to the call – and a recording device.

  Kev asks me to write down the conversation with Adam as I remember it, while it’s still fresh in my mind. I remember more of the conversation as I put it to paper. All of them shower me with praise for jotting down notes while I was talking and especially for getting Adam’s phone number. It gives me enough confidence that I feel ready to take the next call.

  We hunker down and wait. Five-thirty comes and goes.

  It’s gut-wrenching when the call doesn’t come. Doubt creeps in. Did I get the time wrong? Have I cocked it up? It fills me with a greater fear because I have the resources of a nation here at my parents’ house and maybe I got the details wrong. This is way worse than that bad dream you have where you’re back at school, walking into the dining room with shoes, socks, shirt and tie, 6-inch Bondi bloomers, but no tunic.

  While we’re watching the clock, Kev again goes over the list of what I should say. I need to talk to Nigel and if I can’t, I have to ask a simple question that only Nige can answer. The first proof-of-life question. There are laptops set up on the kitchen table. There are calls going from QPol to the AFP.

  After breakfast, the phone rings. Shit. Deep breaths. I answer it. False alarm – it’s Mum and Dad’s old neighbour. I ask Peggy to call back on the mobile. My heart rate settles down and moisture returns to my mouth.

  The day passes slowly. Nigel is splashed all over the newspapers and TV news bulletins; it’s right in our faces but weirdly that doesn’t make it feel any more real.

  At 9 p.m., sixteen long hours after I expected the call, Adam rings back. Kev’s next to me, coaching me through the call. My vision closes to a tunnel; my eyes swing from six lines of tight writing on an A4 sheet of paper to his face, and back to the paper again. I don’t see or hear anything but the phone, the paper, and Kev. Nothing exists outside this.

  ‘Is this Nicky, Nigel’s sister?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Nicky. Adam, can I speak to Nigel? I need to know he is with you. Can you ask him a question for me?’

  ‘Yes. What is the question?’

  I look at Kev. He is nodding, thumbs up, the classic gesture.

  ‘Okay. Can you ask him what was the name of the property that Mum and Dad lived at?’

  ‘What is property?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. What is the name of the property?’

  ‘What is this? I do not know.’

  ‘Um, yeah, you don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you to ask Nigel.’ Then it hits me. Oh god, ‘property’ is an Aussie word. I go blank trying to think of an alternative. Duh!

  ‘Farm. Farm,’ I finally get out. ‘What is the name of the farm they lived on?’ Instinctively, I want to keep well away from any mention of ownership. I’m trying to imply they lived there rather than owned it – avoiding any suggestion that our family is wealthy. Can Adam detect this emphasis? I swap to another question.

  ‘What is the name of my dog? I have a pet dog; what is its name?’

  ‘What is the name of Nigel’s dog?’

  ‘No, my dog. What is the name of my dog?’

  ‘Okay. I will ask him and will call back.’

  Did he get that I was talking about Zeke, my dog? Nige doesn’t have a dog. I’m not sure Adam got it.

  Adam hangs up. No ‘bye’ or any social niceties. Kev gives a whoop and wraps his arms around me; both of us are grinning like idiots. My legs are jelly and I’m glad he’s holding me, otherwise I might just fall in a slow gelatinous slide to the floor. I am glowing, so pleased I’ve done him and his training proud.

  There’s a flurry of activity – calls to QPol and the AFP. Kev’s out on the verandah, phoning the Canadian cops to see if they have had any similar contact with the kidnappers.

  It feels as if we’ve barely had time to draw breath when the next call comes in at 11 p.m. No, I can’t speak to Nigel. ‘Perhaps later,’ I am told by Adam.

  ‘Nigel’s father, his name is Geoffrey Kevin Brennan. Nigel’s mother, her name is Heather Joy Brennan. This is correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ spills out before I remember I’m not supposed to prompt him.

  ‘The farm, the place they lived, it is called M-A-R-L-O-W.’ Adam spells it out to me; he wants to make sure he is getting it right.

  ‘Nigel says he has no dog now, but when he was young he has a dog. It is called Gopher.’ The pronunciation is slightly off but I completely get what he is saying. The answer to the dog question isn’t correct. The answer – ‘Zeke’ – is written on Kev’s negotiator notes next to the phone. But Nige’s childhood dog was called Gopher. No one else would know that.

  I’m madly nodding my head and giving Kev the thumbs up, trying to keep as quiet as possible so Adam doesn’t catch on that I’m not alone.

  Then, suddenly, the conversation is over. No mention of the money this time.

  ‘It’s o
kay; he’s establishing rapport with you,’ Kev tells me, aware of my confusion.

  More people arrive. This time they are from the AFP: intelligence officers and a woman named Gayle, who is our family liaison officer (FLO). She’ll live with us for a couple of weeks. There are more AFP negotiators due to arrive later. I don’t really understand the difference between the two police forces. The house is overflowing but the vibe is positive as we fall into bed. I am exhausted and sleep surprisingly soundly.

  Over the next few days we start gathering information like nesting magpies. None of us likes to sit still. We track down family friends who worked in Somalia before it completely turned to shit but no one has contacts left in the country. We ring Bill, Nigel’s ex father-in-law. He is really upset. This is way bigger than any grudge his ex in-laws could bear. Bill tracks down someone who works for the UN; he’s a guru on Somalia and, the best bit of all, he’s Canadian. We call him and then pass on his details to the AFP. We pat each other on the back. We might be a bunch of farmers from central Queensland but we know how to put the feelers out. Oh, we are so clever.

  Then nothing. No feedback whatsoever.

  Kellie

  Newcastle

  Thursday, 28 August

  I took Matt to the airport on Tuesday morning after I dropped the kids at school, and he has been calling me regularly with updates. With each phone call he sounds more and more stressed out, and I am starting to worry about him.

  Matt will be finding it difficult up there right now; he gets very frustrated if he can’t figure out exactly what is going on and this is what I fear is happening now. If everyone is under strain and things are happening quickly, no one is going to be able to give Matt the time he needs to process what is going on.

  Sure enough, I get a phone call from Heather telling me that Matt is extremely aggro and agitated and that she and Gayle are going to give him a sleeping tablet to help him get a full night’s sleep. I book my ticket to Bundaberg straightaway.

  Nicky

  Moore Park

  Thursday, 28 August