The Price of Life

by Nigel Brennan

I wake up on the morning of day seven, dread pushing down on my chest. I’m a nervous wreck as the sun sets and it grows dark. Just before our windows are closed I tell Amanda I love her and that everything is going to be okay.

  At morning prayer I hear her knock for the toilet; it’s the best noise I can imagine.

  Nicky

  Goondiwindi

  Saturday, 20 December

  It’s a typical stinking-hot western district summer’s day. Jacinta and My friend Simone and I are prepping madly for a marquee wedding on the banks of the Macintyre River, helping Kel. She’s catering for an old friend’s wedding and drove 600 kilometres from Newcastle yesterday. Matt and the kids will arrive on Sunday and we’ll all head to Mum and Dad’s on Monday for Christmas.

  Every time I leave Bundy something seems to happen so it’s no surprise when Mum rings. ‘Dad and I have just been over to the Villas for a meeting with Peter and Pamela.’ These two are the worst negotiators we’ve had to date.

  We have had Peter before. He looks like John-Boy Walton and struggles with our family’s argumentative style. I think he’d be a good negotiator with some dopey meth head holding someone hostage in a domestic situation, but that’s not what we’re dealing with here. He expects everyone to automatically respect his authority. We have driven him mad with questioning the AFP’s strategies, and he’s kept his anger in check. Just.

  Pamela, however, is a different bundle of sticks. Awful from go to whoa. Whoever thought she could work with us should be sent for psychiatric evaluation. We all feel judged by her. She is not interested in us or Nigel on a personal level. For her, we agree, it’s all about her hours and how she can crawl her way up the AFP ladder. Simon is the only one who will give her the time of day.

  ‘Dad and I have gone over this a number of ways as to how it could have been meant, but we were discussing the ransom and Pamela asked if we could squeeze a little bit more money out.’

  ‘What?’

  Mum says it again. I am shocked. Kel can see there is a problem by my tone and my stunned-mullet look. I beckon her out of the catering tent and we wander into the paddock behind it. I fill her in while Mum hangs on the line. Kel sums up the situation succinctly: ‘They’ve waited till the Rottweiler is out of town to do this.’ The timing is no coincidence. Get to the oldies when no one else is around.

  ‘That bitch,’ I explode.

  ‘Nicole!’ Mum admonishes me for the bad language. Oops, I thought I had my hand over the receiver. Dad’s been talking to his sister Alison about money, and she has offered to chip in on the ransom. We have tossed this proposal around but haven’t come to any final decision; we are debating who will pay Alison back. Even if we take the loan, will it be enough? The information we are getting from the two agencies is conflicting. DFAT is saying they won’t pay or facilitate a ransom full stop, and here is the AFP’s Pamela pushing the olds for more dough when none of us is there to pull the covered wagons into a circle.

  Simone suggests I go back to Moore Park straightaway, but I don’t want to leave Kel in the lurch. Everything is planned and, after helping with so many events, I’ve got to know there’s always a spanner lurking somewhere, threatening to bring down an occasion. I don’t want to be that spanner. The true art of catering for a wedding – and Kel has this ability in spades – is to not let on that there is a crisis. Weddings are stressful enough without hearing some tale of doom and gloom from the caterer. I decide to stick around.

  The wedding is a huge success. We manage to hold off the flies, and the caterers’ tent, as hot as a greenhouse, keeps the dust at bay. The highlight is watching Simone re-enact Beyonce’s bump and grind to ‘Single Ladies’ after a post-midnight meal of cold, soggy chips at the local servo. I’m so exhausted from the wedding and wired about what has gone down at home that I go into hysterical laughter. I’m crouched over, holding my sides, with tears streaming down my cheeks. I can’t speak. I’m trying to tell Simone to stop. It’s too funny – I think I’m going to wet myself.

  Kellie

  Moore Park

  Monday, 22 December

  This is shaping up to be the worst Christmas ever. Even worse than the first one I had away from my own family. I was twenty-four years old and had never had a Christmas away from home: I cried like a baby. Everything was different – breakfast, lunch, dinner, present giving, what we did, what we drank and ate; it just wasn’t the same. But Christmas 2008 will be a new low.

  Matt, the kids and I pull up in front of Heather and Geoff’s, and I feel awful because I don’t want to go in. I don’t want to experience the grief this Christmas is going to cause our family, Heather and Geoff especially. The kids are oblivious to the emotionally charged situation and burst through the front door screaming out to Nanny and Poppy. Children are a wonderful icebreaker.

  Nic, Si and their kids are there as well. It doesn’t take long before talk turns to the ‘squeezing a bit more out’ conversation. I hear the growing hatred towards government bodies spew from the mouths of my family, and I let the air settle around me before making a comment.

  I don’t want Christmas to be filled with hate. I will do all I can to make this great for the kids at least. I don’t want them to feel uncomfortable about being happy.

  Nicky

  Moore Park

  Tuesday, 23 December

  When I get back from Goondiwindi, I make sure Ben is more than aware of how pissed off I am. I try to bypass him and go through the DFAT channels but James’s stock-standard response is that the APF is ‘the leading investigative agency on this case’. So it’s back to Ben. Pamela says Mum and Dad have misinterpreted her but I think there’s been a directive from higher up: go fishing to see if there is more money available.

  Si and I have numerous arguments about Pamela. ‘She’s just the messenger,’ he says, ‘you are shooting the messenger.’ He thinks my hate is very ugly and he’s right, it is. But nothing is going to make me want to find common ground with this woman. When it’s clear my requests to have her removed from our case have fallen on deaf ears, I come to the cold hard realisation that our opinions matter squat.

  The Villas have become a war zone. I am resentful of having to spend any time over there. A tense silence falls when I next arrive. There’s minimal discussion; I get my book and head upstairs to my room to sulk. As soon as I wake up in the morning, I’m out of there. I can more than match their freeze-out. Si and I have mastered that art in our sixteen years of marriage.

  As the Villas’ lease crawls to an end, Ben informs Si and me that the cottage is not an option for the NOK phone. It should never have even been considered – there is a conflict of interest because we own the house. Si argues the point that the lease would be done through an agent, keeping everything above board. It’s a completely non-negotiable issue. What if rent is not charged? Still a resounding no. We are assured that we will find replacement tenants easily enough as they have asked the local real-estate agents.

  Not long after that, Peter and Pamela announce that, because the Villas are booked out and there is nothing else suitable, the decision has been made to take the phone down to Canberra. So much for consultation. Sitting at the table in the living room of the Villas, I feel cold but there is sweat starting to pool at the small of my back.

  Back home, I am on to Ben in a flash. He’s all very conciliatory but it’s clear something is happening here – cost cutting.

  I’m almost yelling at Ben. He’s on the speakerphone so we can all hear him. ‘Don’t you dare blow smoke up my arse,’ I say to him. God, is there anything I won’t say to a police officer? Have I no respect for authority any more? Apparently not, as it turns out. After a little gasp, Ben says, ‘No, Nicky, I am not, as you say, blowing smoke up your arse.’ His recognising that outrageousness for what it is, is kind of funny. The discussion becomes more civil and there are some genuine concessions made on both sides.

  ‘We believe that building a capability to transfer welfare calls can be achieved. W
e are working towards implementation on a trial basis. This trial will be progressive and will be designed with the aim of minimal disruption.’ I take it to mean the move to Canberra will happen, just not yet.

  The next day the negs book into a unit overlooking the ocean at Bargara.

  Wednesday, 24 December

  It’s the day before Christmas. Ben and Gary, the AFP agent in South Africa who was first on the scene in Nairobi when Nige was taken, come to the house. Gary’s an older fellow who has been in Africa for two and a half years now. He’s back in Australia for a couple of days over Christmas. He describes his role as finding out the identity of the kidnappers, their intentions, and the whereabouts of Nigel and Amanda.

  We hear that he met with the last people to be kidnapped over there – Italians. The NGO they worked for was not actually Italian, and so the government couldn’t control the payout. Ah ha! So there was a payment. This is the first time we’ve heard this stated explicitly. The Italian government’s official policy is ‘no ransom and no negotiation’.

  Someone from the security industry gave Gary a name and number of a TPI. The TPI put Gary in contact with Adan, thus proving his worth. Gary asked to speak to Nigel and Amanda. Adan put Nigel on the phone. We had no idea someone else had spoken to Nige. I thought the only other person was Mark, as Nige had told me during our conversation in September. Why was this kept from us? Surely they can see in hindsight that us knowing about an Australian representative in Somalia was way more important than their bloody security clearances.

  Interestingly, Gary said that Adan appeared to have a genuine interest in Nigel and Amanda. He was regarded as the primary contact, yet now the AFP is telling us they don’t think he’s the person who’s going to make it happen.

  We’re all grateful that Gary came up to see us. He’s only here to spend Christmas with his family and we have taken up some of that time. But we’re left with just as many questions as answers.

  The negs are going to be located in Bargara till the end of January. Even when the units at the Villas become available, it’s clear they won’t be coming back to Moore Park.

  Bargara is over one and a half hour’s return travel for me. I ask if I am supposed to sleep over there. No, when a call comes in, they will pick up and say I’m not available and call me, and I can come over straightaway to call Adan back. I’m not happy with this outcome. I’m no longer ensconced with the negs and the NOK phone. I am out of the loop.

  Kellie

  Moore Park

  Wednesday, 24-Thursday, 25 December

  When Ham and Amy arrive with Oscar, Izzy and Mac, the house is buzzing with children. All the cousins are loving each other’s company and all the adults are discussing the money and the move from the Villas, again. The talk of Nigel, negotiations and money is making me antsy. I want to get out of the house and experience the season, people milling around the shops and checking out the Christmas lights.

  Matt and I are sleeping in Nigel’s room and I am having vivid dreams about him being stood up in front of a firing squad. The kidnappers laugh as they pull the triggers. I also see him being led away in shackles with a hessian bag over his head.

  Surprisingly, Christmas Day is actually really lovely; everyone manages to have a great time and for a brief moment we forget that Nigel is not here, until we sit down to eat. We make a toast to the black dog, wishing him a merry Christmas and hoping he is getting something decent to eat.

  Friday, 26 December

  I knew it was too good to be true; things were going along too well. We are all on the back deck with friends, enjoying some Boxing Day drinks. It’s just on dusk and we are making a few jokes about Nige and what he might be doing for Christmas. We’re using humour to make the best of it. But Heather has had enough. She yells at us all, saying none of us understands what she’s going through. She storms off and disappears.

  Unfortunately, the rest of us have had too much to drink and get the giggles at her outburst. Heather has done this before, yelled at us for making jokes at Nigel’s expense, so we don’t really think much of it.

  Our visitors are leaving, looking for Heather to say goodbye. We all assume she is in the bedroom – it is now 10.30 p.m. and she is nowhere to be found. Ham gets on the phone and calls around to see if Heather is there, with no luck. Amy and I decide to walk the beach while Geoff gets in the car and searches the streets. Matt stays with the kids and Ham goes with Geoff. Neither of them should be driving. All of us come back without Heather; we are starting to get concerned. I understand that she needs to get away – I had been feeling the same – but it’s late and dark.

  Nic keeps ringing from home to see if Heather has come back yet. Ham has picked up the phone to call the police when, just as the clock strikes midnight, she walks into the passage. We all exhale audibly and someone asks where she has been, the same way a parent would chastise a child who’s been missing. She glances at all of us, and says she was walking. Heather doesn’t look upset; she looks angry. Ham explains that we were all really worried and have been out searching for her. Heather turns and stares him down, saying none of us needed to bother; she was just taking a walk and now she is off to bed. And just like that she is gone.

  Heather’s mood does not change for the next four days. She’s snapping at all of us, including the children. We are walking on eggshells. Matt and I cut short our time in Moore Park as we feel it best to eliminate some of her stress by removing the children; Ham and Amy do the same. As we back out of the driveway, Callaghan asks us why Nanny is so cranky. Our answer is the same as always: ‘because of Uncle Nigel’.

  I understand that Heather is going through something no mother should have to. Yet I’m not sure she can see that the rest of us are hurting too. I keep thinking that if we share our pain rather than bottle it up till it explodes, some of us might feel better. I stew on this until the kids bring me sharply back to reality, asking when will we be home.

  Nigel

  The Light House

  Monday, 22 December

  As Christmas draws closer, we’re both thinking that what would normally be a day of celebrating, eating and drinking this year will be far from enjoyable for our families, and most likely dull as dog shit for us. Amanda comes up with the idea of exchanging small gifts. It’s a risk but I agree it will boost our spirits.

  All women love jewellery, so I set about making Amanda a bracelet. I collect the ring-pulls from the tuna tins. I tear the tasselled edges from the top and bottom of my sarong, and use them to wrap around each ring-pull so that the tassels fall from the sides. I tie each one together carefully, linking them, and finally craft a small clasp to connect the ends. It takes me days to finish but I feel pretty chuffed about my creation.

  Using the cardboard insert from my cologne box, I make a small container for the bracelet. The wrapping paper, card and envelope are easy. I tear sheets from my diary and on them draw Christmas trees and candy canes; my four-colour pen provides the festive colours. I go all MacGyver with the stocking, colouring the paper in red and stitching it together with the dental floss from the care package. I use a wet wipe, also part of the care package, tearing off a strip and sewing it to the top as a makeshift lip of wool.

  I have to be extremely wary of the boys during the process. Getting caught would mean they’d question our faith. It is pure coincidence that we’d recently asked Jamal and Assam to buy us some chocolates from the market, and over three days they have brought us seven small toffees. I save some to put in Amanda’s stocking. The pièce de résistance was getting a gilded ribbon from Amanda, which she had taken off the hem of her abaya. I tie this around the present, the perfect finishing touch.

  Wednesday, 24-Wednesday, 31 December

  The day before Christmas we sing carols to each other through the window, even though we’re both tone deaf. We spend the whole day at the window talking about our families and singing.

  The next day we wish each other a Merry Christmas as soon as our windows
are open. Our plan is to leave our gifts in the bathroom for the other to collect; I’m going first. But just as I’m ready to knock for the toilet, I notice a shadow pass by my door. I quickly stash everything and then I hear someone rummaging around our bathroom.

  Sneaking a look out my door, I see Donkey making his way to the front of the house. Thank god he didn’t come five minutes later – of all people who could have caught us. With Donkey gone, we speedily get on with the exchange.

  I open my present, and laugh at what Amanda has made. Using a vitamin bottle that Donald had brought us weeks earlier as a body, with a drawn-on face on the lid and a shirt made from one of her socks, Amanda’s created a puppet. She has stitched onto the shirt with dental floss the words, ‘My little buddy’. In the card she’s written, ‘This is your little buddy. When you are feeling down, remember that I’m always here and you will always have someone to talk with.’ It was hilarious.

  I keep the wrapping paper, card and stocking, hiding them under the lino on the floor along with the notes and drawings I have saved. Amanda loves her bracelet.

  It’s a difficult day, but we get through it.

  With the new year only a few days away, Amanda senses a shakedown is coming. She has been spying on the boys through a small pinhole in her door. We have to get rid of all our notes and drawings. I’m desperate to hang on to them but I don’t have a choice. The only things I keep are the shirt from my little buddy and the lid with the face on it, burying them at the bottom of my camera bag. The rest I shred and flush down the toilet. A sense of defeat washes over me as I watch them disappear.

  The shakedown never comes. I’ve become my own jailer.

  JANUARY 2009

  A very dirty business