The Price of Life

by Nigel Brennan

  After much correspondence back and forth with Canberra, we get an email stating that there has been confusion in the media about the ransom. This news comes circuitously from another Somali journo who’s confirmed that the ransom amount has not been reduced.

  Trying to get a hold of this second guy involves too many security issues for the Feds, especially in light of the fact they would be dealing with a journo who, as far as the government is concerned, is a mortal enemy. It all reeks of cutting off your nose to spite your face.

  Ham is drafting a fundraising letter and we all discuss who we should target. Hours are spent compiling names. The idea is to trigger people’s sympathy and interest in assisting us then to fol-low up with a phone call for an appointment. We all know that if we have the opportunity to tell someone our story in person, they won’t be able to refuse. The tricky bit is getting the face-to-face.

  Thursday, 29 January

  Dad and I head down to Canberra; we got the invitation back in December. We get a grand tour of the AFP building. We meet everyone, and I mean everyone, almost up to Mick Keelty, the Commissioner, it would seem. We get a tour of the ICC and the negs’ base. It’s the hub of all incoming intel, the nerve centre. We have lunch with most of the negs who have been up in Moore Park with us.

  Another strategy is suggested to us. It’s like a missing-person’s campaign, targeting people in Somalia empathetic to Nigel and Amanda’s plight and trying to generate local interest and concern – and hopefully information. We are given a mock-up poster to pass on to the rest of the family for their views. I immediately see a couple of disadvantages, but choose to keep quiet until everyone else has checked it out.

  We’re also told there’s a new strategy in play but it’s too top-secret to discuss in detail. It involves a number of international bodies and possibly the defence force. The prospect of military intervention scares the shit out of both Dad and me. And we are asked to sit tight. Yes, they realise there have been no recent POLs but they have no reason to doubt Nigel is alive – they have intel that suggests he is okay.

  Then comes our meeting at DFAT. There are security-tag doors everywhere; the only thing that’s missing is the retina scan. After we are ushered in, Dad and I are seated at a table with loads of people I’ve never met. They are like intern doctors sitting in on a case.

  We are told that the Australian and Canadian governments have set a unique mandate, just for this case. They will jointly facilitate a payment of up to US$250K. According to DFAT and the AFP, this is for costs only. Therefore, anything over US$250K sits in the ransom basket, and we all know they don’t use the R word.

  According to their intel, Nigel is being as well looked after as can be expected. He has a reasonable diet, getting two meals a day, plus pineapple and mangos. Both he and Amanda have been reading the Qur’an. Well, that’s smart, I think. We were all subjected to religious education at school. Nige will be able to pick bits and pieces out of the Qur’an like we did with the Bible when we wrote essays for RE. It appears they are a part of the village community. They are getting plenty of exercise. In fact, Amanda sprained her ankle while walking. They are teaching the village children English. Sounds a bit like Club Med, doesn’t it? I think. It’s all so fucking polite when this really is a very nasty, very dirty business.

  Nigel

  The Light House

  Monday, 19 January

  Amanda and I had discussed the possibility of escape but we’d always end up at the same dead-end: leaving our colleagues behind would spell their deaths. Neither of us was willing to have their blood on our hands. This, however, did not stop us from thinking about escape routes. Now we start considering these plans seriously.

  The boys whose job it is to guard us have become lazy. They’ve fallen into a routine, and over the last few months their monitoring has become patchy at best. They spend their days either sleeping or talking on the verandah.

  We have two escape options: up through the manhole in the kitchen and out onto the roof, or through our bathroom window. The roof would be great for hiding in but walking on the corrugated iron would make a hell of a noise. The bathroom window is a better option. The window is about 6 feet off the floor, 3-foot wide and 4-foot high; it’s framed by lattice-style besser blocks about 2 inches thick, stacked five high, and five half-inch reinforced-steel bars running horizontally. If I could dig out the mortar of the middle row of blocks and remove two or so bars, there would be enough space for us to squeeze through.

  The problem isn’t the blocks. It is the reinforced bars that have me scratching my head. Having built houses, I suspect the walls have been core filled, making it impossible to remove the bars without somehow cutting them, obviously not an option.

  I decide to take a closer look. Standing on the rim of the toilet, I pull myself up by gripping the bars. Suddenly one slides across into the wall. Slipping it backwards and forwards, I can see one end exposed just in the render of the wall. I hold the bar in the middle and use all my strength to bow it; with my other hand I pull the end of the rod. It comes out of the hole, taking a small chunk of render with it. I’m now able to slide the bar completely out of the other sidewall.

  I feel sheer delight at my handiwork. We have the perfect escape route. I replace the bar then try the others. Much to my excitement, all of them move. I will only need to remove the next bar down to give us the room to squeeze out. I manage to take this one out as well, before slipping it back into position. I then race back to my room, banging on the wall to bring Amanda to the window. I tell her the good news. All I have to do is dig out the mortar from between the blocks, which has only been dabbed in there.

  ‘How long do you think it will take you?’ she asks.

  ‘Probably two days maximum, but it’s going to depend on a lot of things.’ Noise and not being caught in the act are the major constraints. Amanda has the perfect solution; she can keep watch via the pinhole in her door.

  With my heart in my mouth we try out the plan. After knocking and hearing the click of one of the boys’ fingers indicating I could go, I head to the bathroom. Pulling myself up and wedging my thigh under the bottom bar for support, I slowly dig away with a dull pair of scissors and the small file of my nail clippers. I feel like my arse is swinging in the breeze.

  I’m terrified the entire time as I laboriously chip away, flushing the remnants of the mortar down the toilet. At one point the corner of one of the besser blocks breaks off, creating a fist-sized hole. All I can do to make it look less obvious is to jam a plastic bag into it.

  Wednesday, 21 January

  Backwards and forwards I go until finally, after two and a half days, my effort pays off, and I can pull the four top blocks out and put them to the side. Then, after carefully making sure the coast is clear, I stick my head out of the opening, the smell of victory in the air. It’s the most magical feeling.

  I put the blocks back, wedging the chunks of mortar in the gaps to stabilise them. I knock on the wall once I’m back in my room, telling Amanda that we are good to go.

  We discuss at great length our options and decide that it will be better to go after last prayer. The cover of night will give us some protection. My concern is how we will conceal ourselves once we get on the street so we don’t stick out like dogs’ balls. Amanda has the advantage of her abaya and hijab; being able to cover her face, she will blend in perfectly. It is a different story for me; my jeans and long sleeved shirt will hide my lily-white skin but my hands and face are going to be a problem. We talk about my dressing as a woman but decide against it: if we get caught it will be even worse for us. I decide instead to just wrap my head in my sarong so that only my eyes are visible, and pull my hands inside the cuffs.

  The other thing we mull over is what the actual plan will be once we get out the window. We decide to get a few kilometres away and lie low for a while. Amanda, being concealed, would then take the risk of knocking on the door of somewhere friendly-looking and talking to the female of
the house.

  It is risky and would mean putting our trust in someone. But we both feel that there are good people here who’d be willing to help us. Not everyone is like these bastards – we just have to hope we’re lucky in the house we pick.

  The other major question is when we are actually going to do this. My thoughts are that we should wait a few days. I haven’t slept for the last forty-eight hours, pepped up on fear and anxiety. Amanda is exactly the opposite, wanting to go tonight. She eventually convinces me: if we wait the boys might either notice the window, or worse still move us to another house. So it is decided. We agree to take only the bare minimum: food, water, some personal effects and our religious books, as they may come in handy if something goes awry.

  For the remainder of the day I’m on edge, trying to pump myself up, knowing we could very easily be killed tonight. One simple mistake could cause disaster. I run over the plan in my head, trying to second-guess the things that could go wrong.

  After five months if feels amazing to again have power, to take control of my destiny and choose the terms by which I live or die. All I can think is, Fuck them. I would love to be a fly on the wall when they realise we’re gone.

  I’m to follow Amanda to the bathroom after 7.30 p.m. prayer, but on the first attempt I baulk. I’m filled with fear; it’s like I’m frozen to the spot. Amanda waits for me but I don’t materialise. As she walks back to her room, she pushes open my door just enough to see me.

  ‘What happened? Why didn’t you come?’

  ‘I’m fucking terrified, Amanda, and it’s too risky with Donkey on duty.’ The house is now completely silent and I know the slightest noise will send him our way.

  ‘We have to go tonight; we can’t wait. This is our chance for freedom, Nige.’ I know she’s right and she gives me courage. She will wait ten or fifteen minutes before knocking again to go to the toilet. As she walks away I know it’s now or never. I suck in air, trying to calm my nerves as the minutes tick by. Then I hear Amanda knock on her door. Adrenaline shoots through every inch of my body when I hear the click of Donkey’s fingers.

  I stand up, throw my bag over one shoulder and pick up my shoes. Show time.

  I open my door as quickly as possible to avoid it squeaking. Amanda walks past on her way to the bathroom. Kneeling down, I close my door, jamming a folded piece of paper under it so as to stop it from swinging open. I move silently down the hallway and into the bathroom.

  I put down my things in the corner before I stand on the rim of the toilet and begin removing the two reinforced bars. I hand each one to Amanda and she places them near the sink.

  Pulling myself up onto the window ledge, I start removing the blocks and placing them on the outside sill. All of this is done in silence as anxiety and excitement press down on me. With a gaping hole now in front of me, I slide onto the floor. My back against the wall under the window, I cup my hands together for a foothold. I boost Amanda over my head and up onto the ledge, spinning around and putting my hands on her bum so she doesn’t fall backwards. Thoughts of freedom swim around my head but these soon change to fear and then panic. No matter which way she contorts herself, Amanda can’t get through the window. I feel like using all my power to just push her through the hole but I can see that the problem is the two reinforced bars at the bottom of the window. If Amanda can’t get through, I don’t have a chance.

  She finally turns around with a look of defeat.

  ‘I can’t fit, you’ll have to remove one more bar,’ she whispers, barely audible. It feels like every last ounce of oxygen has been sucked from my lungs.

  ‘I can’t do it tonight; too much noise. Donkey will hear,’ I whisper back. Minutes have elapsed and I know he will start to wonder where Amanda is. I motion for her to get down and we now stand staring at each other.

  ‘You go back to your room. I’ll put everything back.’

  ‘Nigey, what about my bag?’ Amanda croaks.

  ‘Leave it. I will put it in my room. You can get it at first prayer in the morning.’ Waves of nausea push up my throat as I follow Amanda out of the bathroom. I slink back to my room and close the door behind me. I conceal Amanda’s bag in the corner under some clothes and slump onto the mattress. I just want to scream. Any minute Donkey will walk down the hallway to find the gaping hole in the bathroom wall.

  After a few minutes I stand up and make my way to the door, opening it and knocking. I wait, filled with terror as Donkey walks down the dark hallway. He makes it to the corner, and shines his torch in my face so that I can no longer see him.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘My stomach. Fadlan moscotcha. Please, bathroom.’ I grimace, holding my stomach.

  He flicks his head to the left, motioning towards the bathroom then walks back to the front door.

  I pull back the curtain on the bathroom door and stare at the gaping hole in the window. Pulling this off is going to be a miracle. Hauling myself back up onto the window ledge, I begin to put the jigsaw puzzle of blocks back together. Sweat drips from my face, my hands are clammy and there’s fear in the pit of my stomach. I manage to get all the blocks back in place but they are precariously positioned.

  I notice a small wooden stick on the window ledge. Just as I pick it up, my eyes swing back to the window; they must look like dinner plates. The two top bricks are falling in slow motion. By sheer luck, I manage to grab them just before they crash to the ground. I put them back into position. Bile rushes up my windpipe. Minutes have passed and any moment Donkey is going to pull back the curtain. Fuck, fuck, fuck, how am I going to do this?

  I can feel the bricks wobble like a Jenga tower. I put the stick in my mouth and snap off a piece about a centimetre long. I then split it in half with my teeth. I jam splints down the sides of the bottom block, managing to stabilise it. Okay, its going to work, stay calm. I repeat the process; perspiration runs down my face and is dripping from my chin. Finally I manage to stabilise each block, and put the bars back in place.

  I jump onto the ground, and use the bottom of my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face. Noticing the hole where I broke the block the day before, I again stuff the plastic bag into it so it doesn’t look so obvious.

  I then have a sudden urge to evacuate my bowels. I manage to pull my jeans down and sit just as diarrhoea explodes into the bowl.

  I clean myself up and make my way back through the curtain, expecting to see Donkey in the hallway but he is nowhere in sight.

  I slip back into my room and close the door behind me. My heart feels like it will jump out of my chest at any moment. I collapse on my bed, in a sense pleased that I managed to fix everything but at the same time furious at myself. I should have just taken out another bar in the first place. I knock on the wall again to let Amanda know I’m back. I’m left with thoughts of what might have been but it’s not long before sleep comes; the anxiety and stress of the last few days leaves me exhausted.

  Thursday, 22 January

  Morning prayer comes and goes. The same routine: wake, wash, pray then straight back to sleep. Assam brings in breakfast some time around eight and opens my windows. He then goes next door and does the same in Amanda’s room. Within minutes Amanda knocks on the wall. I drag myself up and slowly walk over to the sill.

  ‘I haven’t slept at all,’ Amanda says.

  ‘I had the best sleep in days,’ I tell her.

  Shortly after breakfast, I knock to go to the toilet. I go to work removing the third bar. Within a few minutes, I have managed to take it out and slip it back into position. Walking back to my room, I knock to get Amanda’s attention and tell her the good news.

  I sit on my bed and think back to the night they threatened to kill Amanda. As they drove, Donald pointed out to her the gangs of armed young men roaming the streets. This fact bounces around my head and begins to frighten me. Maybe there’s a safer option than going at night. If I were in trouble in a western country, the first place I would go to is a house of worship. I explain this to
Amanda, saying it might be better and safer if we go during the day.

  ‘There is no safer place than a mosque. People will try to help us once they realise we are Muslim,’ I say. There’s a mosque close by; the call to prayer wails from the minaret five times a day – it can’t be more than 500 metres south of the house. I suggest we go just on midday prayer so that there will be lots of people inside. If we leave tomorrow, a Friday, there is certain to be an Imam there.

  Amanda is in complete agreement, except she is fixed on going today; she doesn’t want to chance waiting longer for fear they will discover our plan. Part of me feels like my hand is being forced. But it is Amanda’s life that has been threatened; she knows better than I do what the group is capable of.

  We agree that when she goes for her shower just on midday, I will follow, and we’ll make our break. My anxiety levels start to spike. I try to occupy my thoughts by reading. My attention is drawn away from the page as I notice a shadow pass by my door. Realising it’s not Amanda, I go into a cold sweat. Whoever it is, is now in our bathroom.

  My skin shrinks. I expect any second to hear shouting, then it’ll only be a matter of time before they come barging through the door, AK47s in hand. I can just see Donkey standing there, his gun in my face, screaming, ‘Do you think that we are that stupid?’ But there’s no noise. The silence is painful.

  I stand at the door and peek out the crack. I see Assam walking back from our bathroom, holding the washing detergent. I yank the door open, frightening him as he walks past.

  ‘Assam, what’s the time?’ I say, the words spilling out too fast. I am trying to gauge his thoughts. Does he know? Have we been discovered? He pulls his phone from his pocket, looks at the display. ‘It’s ten o’clock.’