The Price of Life

by Nigel Brennan

  Tuesday, 7-Thursday, 9 April

  Things slide further still. This time, though, Amanda takes the heat of it. A ruckus is coming from her room; Mohammad is grunting furiously, then there’s a meaty thud, followed by Amanda’s scream. My heart sinks.

  A few minutes later, the shadow of a figure blocks the doorway. I lie there under my mosquito net too afraid to look. Feet come pounding towards me, and I feel utter fear at what is about to happen.

  The net is ripped from around me, tossed to the side. Mohammad is there, standing over me with murder in his eyes. I try to sit up as he grunts at me. Before I can get to my haunches, he storms off. My heart is hammering; it’s like the day we escaped. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

  The next day the regime becomes even tougher; the boys seem determined to break me. Just before I go to shower Jamal stops me.

  ‘Captain says four minutes.’

  It’s almost impossible to undress, evacuate my bowels, wash my body and put my clothes and chains back on in four minutes, but I’m not going to tempt fate as Jamal stands outside with a watch in hand.

  I squat over the hole, pushing excrement out, and then furiously dump water over myself in the shower recess. I run out and Jamal says, ‘Three and half minutes.’ I’m wet rather than clean as I walk back down the hall and into the darkness of my room.

  The following morning I’m marched to the bathroom by Abdullah. I idly look out into the courtyard.

  He screams at me. What you see?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I reply, eyes on the floor.

  ‘No looking. Four minutes. Go,’ he barks, holding up four fingers. It’s like looking at Hitler reborn.

  I feverishly wash myself. He starts banging on the door. Still dripping wet, I throw my clothes on and walk out. He’s right in my face, spit flying from his mouth as he screams, ‘Ten minutes!’

  Unable to back away I say, ‘Not ten minutes, not possible,’ noticing that he doesn’t have a watch or a mobile phone.

  ‘No talking,’ he retorts, pushing me up against the wall. ‘Go!’ he snaps as he slams me through the doors and into the hallway. I try to walk quickly while he continually shoves me in the back, causing my chains to bite in and almost making me face plant.

  Around midday I hear someone banging on the front gate, then the sound of a woman’s voice. Romeo comes into my room and frantically tells me, ‘Quickly, take everything.’

  I start jamming things into my bag. I hold it and my shoes against my chest as he pushes me out the door. I turn left expecting to go into the courtyard, but he grabs me and ushers me across into Amanda’s room. He orders me to sit in the corner diagonally across from Amanda. Joseph follows him in and closes the door. Romeo takes up position next to the door while Joseph guards the window, opening it and peering out.

  I look over at Amanda, trying to give her an inconspicuous smile. I’m shocked at how frail she is; she’s too terrified to return my gaze. She looks broken. I can only imagine what she has been through these last months. I just wish I could give her a hug and tell her to stay strong.

  People are now walking in the hallway and I can hear a woman’s voice; Romeo and Joseph are extremely edgy. I sit there biting down on the urge to scream out and make our whereabouts known. Huddled in the corner, I can’t bring myself to do it, knowing the ramifications would be severe not only for us but for the strangers in the house.

  The minutes tick by slowly. It’s frustrating being this close to Amanda and not able to communicate. Then someone raps on the door. My heart jumps. Romeo says something in Somali. One of the boys replies on the other side. Joseph closes the window and then orders me out. As I leave, I glance towards Amanda, again giving her a thin smile, not sure when I will see her again.

  On entering my room, I can see that everything has been sanitised. The things I hadn’t gathered up are all stuffed under the chairs. Minutes later, I hear the clunk of the front gate shutting.

  In the afternoon Romeo comes into my room. I ask him what had transpired earlier. Still noticeably anxious, he says, ‘No problem, the woman comes to collect some belongs from the house.’ Feeling more at ease, I ask him, ‘Why do the guards close my windows? What have I done wrong?’ He looks sheepish.

  ‘This is not my decision. It is the Captain and the boys. I tell them what they are doing is wrong, but they will not listen to me.’ He is a born liar.

  Kellie

  Boomerang Beach

  Friday, 10-Tuesday, 14 April

  It’s the Easter long weekend and the shop is closed. Matt and I head off to Mum and Dad’s beach house so the kids can spend some time with their grandparents.

  I haven’t had a break since Christmas and I really can’t wait to just relax and do nothing. Matt has been doing the stay-at-home Dad thing with fantastic results, but he is really looking forward to spending some time reading. He has also been going back and forth to Moore Park to help out where he can, giving Nic a break from their folks or helping out Si on the farm.

  We haven’t heard from Nigel since September or October, I’m not exactly sure of the date. All I know is that it has been a long time and everyone is getting very anxious about it. Lorinda has asked Amanda about Nigel and she’s said that Nigel is fine. This is passed on to us but it doesn’t bring much relief.

  Easter at Boomerang Beach is always lots of fun. Mum organises an Easter egg hunt in the backyard for all the kids. I have been going to Boomerang for as long as I can remember and we have always had Easter egg hunts.

  I love that my family don’t ask about Nigel; they know that if anything happens we’ll tell them. Mum asks me quietly if Matt and I are okay and if we need any help. To know that we can turn to them at any time is comforting, for me at least.

  Matt’s positive attitude is still getting him through. Not a day goes by when he thinks we’ve hit a dead-end. His resolve is so solid; he has absolute faith that Nige and Amanda will get out safely, and that’s separate to the issue of who gets them out or how it happens.

  It’s Sunday and the Easter bunny has well and truly been. I’m a chocolate freak, but after the first two eggs the novelty has worn off and I need to eat something real.

  The hunt is starting at 10 a.m. so we have a bit of time to get the kids sorted and the eggs hidden. It is a grey day; the ground is moist from a light smattering of rain that came in the early hours of the morning, and there is a slight hint of autumn coolness in the air.

  The kids are already on sugar overload. Matt and I rely on our chocolate-management strategy: we let the kids eat as much as they want on Easter morning, because once it’s gone, it’s gone. We’ve learned that if you regulate the chocolate intake, the sugar high can last for days. If you let them go for it with no restrictions, they tend to gorge themselves, and the sugar rush only lasts a few hours before it’s over for another year.

  It’s Tuesday. The shop opens again tomorrow so Matt, the kids and I are preparing to head home. I’ve enjoyed my break and am looking forward to going back to work.

  My mobile phone goes off as I’m packing the car. It’s Heather and Geoff’s number.

  I take a deep breath, as I am not sure what mood Heather will be in when I answer. Lately I’ve been bracing myself whenever I answer a phone call from her. It feels like I am donning a suit of armour each time I do it, and after I’ve hung up, I notice that I exhale and my armour disappears. Sometimes, though, it seems like I don’t exhale for three or four days; it just depends on the situation. Actually, the more I think about it, it’s not like a knight’s armour but more like a coating of mercury that covers my entire body and protects me from negativity. It reminds me of that man in one of the Terminator movies. Silly as it sounds, it’s a little bit of self-preservation that I have no trouble indulging in.

  I answer the phone and imagine myself in a slick of mercury all shiny and silver. It’s Geoff. He is talking so quickly I can hardly understand what he is saying.

  ‘Nigel phoned on Saturday night. No
one was there to take the call; he left a message pleading with us to call him back. The AFP office was closed and the phone was left unmanned.’

  Oh god, if I am understanding this correctly, Nigel phoned thinking he was calling home, but got an answering service. The shit is going to hit the fan. The only reason the family said yes to moving the phone to Canberra was because we believed it would be manned twenty-four seven and all calls would be patched through to Nic. I explain to Geoff that we are at Boomerang but are just about to leave, and that we will call as soon as we get home.

  I hang up the phone and turn to Matt.

  ‘Nigel’s alive. He has called and left a message to call him back. The phone was unmanned, the long weekend, I guess, but he’s alive. It’s a good proof of life, and that is what your mum has been wanting.’ I can tell just from looking at my husband that he is both elated and angry. We decide to leave straightaway. We say goodbye to Mum and Dad and pile the kids into the car. Matt and I drive home in silence. I know Matt is thinking, Six months with no contact and he gets an answering machine. What must be going through Nigel’s head?

  Every time Nigel phones or we get some new piece of information, the sense to do something urgently is tremendous. But we can’t phone him back now; it’d be the middle of the night in Somalia. Even if we wanted to call him now, the Feds would disagree and explain to us in their police talk that a strategy needs to be worked out before anyone can call.

  The entire family is disheartened by the Feds and DFAT’s lack of progress; yet when they say not to call, we all listen. We all obey whatever they tell us, even if we don’t like it. All of us except Hamilton.

  Nicky

  Moore Park

  Sunday, 12-Monday, 13 April

  It’s Easter Sunday. Si, the kids and I are over at some friends’ place, doing the Easter thing, catching up and having a few drinks – trying for a normal life. I’ve deliberately left the mobile at home so I know something serious is up when Dad arrives flustered at Richard and Fern’s place. Not that Dad uses the phone; he was never a convert to letting your fingers do the walking. He would have driven to our place and all over the farm trying to find us. Then he would have started driving around town, looking for our car. There’s a chorus of ‘Hi Geoff’s but I can see in his eyes he’s in a real state, almost at the crazy-as-a-shithouse-rat stage.

  He searches me out in the crowd.

  ‘There’s been a call,’ he says to me.

  I’ve gone into question mode: Where? When? Who? After he’s gathered himself, Dad explains that Ben has called. He’s on holidays but work has rung him to say that we should expect a call from Nigel.

  With that established, I’m gone. People have become quite used to this behaviour. I get home and check the messages on the home phone. Nothing. Likewise nothing on my mobile. I check Si’s mobile. Zip. I ring Mum; nothing on hers either.

  ‘So what was Ben’s message?’ I ask her.

  ‘He just said that a call had come in.’ I ring Ham and Amy and Matt and Kel. Nothing. I wonder about the phone in Canberra and discuss it with everyone else as we play phone tag for the rest of the day. Well, if something came through there, they would have answered it. That’s its purpose, right? I don’t have a direct line to the ICC and I don’t want to ring Ben while he’s away so I try the Canberra main office: no answer, Okay, it’s Easter, leave a message.

  I wonder how I can get a call in to whoever is manning the phone. I don’t doubt for a second that there’s someone there. Maybe Ben meant there was a call coming in tonight. I don’t leave the house for the rest of the day, just in case. The calls almost always come through at night so that’s when it will happen, I reassure myself.

  Next morning, still no call. Ben phones Mum to let her know there has been a call on the NOK phone. It went through to the ICC and was recorded on the answering machine.

  What!?

  Mum gets the number of the policeman who was on duty and goes absolutely berserk. I’m not privy to this call, but I could easily envisage Mum in full attack mode and the poor unsuspecting cop on the other end. No doubt he had a preconceived idea of how to pacify an older country mother. How wrong was he?

  Mum initially gets some excuse that it’s Easter and everyone is away on holiday. She establishes that no one was manning the NOK phone, as we had been assured would be done all day, every day, but that it is checked ‘every day or so’.

  ‘Why the hell wasn’t it checked earlier? Ben had specifically called us to tell us there was a call,’ Mum wanted to know.

  ‘Well, I’m the only one here and I was very busy,’ was the reply. It is all one monumental cock-up for which no one in the AFP wants to take responsibility.

  We eventually get to hear the message. ‘Mum and Dad’ – no ‘Hi’, I note. Nigel must have had the phone just shoved at him. There’s a pleading tone in his voice – ‘If you are there, you really need to pick up now. If not, you’ve got to ring me back. It’s urgent.’ The pleading tone has peaked and his voice is quivery. ‘There’s no food or water. These guys are telling me Nairobi is saying they don’t want to solve this problem. You have to do something. You have to get the money to these people.’ Resignation starts to creep into his voice. ‘I don’t know who you are talking to in Nairobi, but if you want to see me again, you have to talk to them and get it sorted out.’

  And with that the call’s over. No goodbyes, no I love yous. I guess once he’d said what he was supposed to the phone was snatched from him.

  Christ, how disturbing must it have been for Nige to finally get to talk to one of us only to get the answering machine. He must think we’ve all moved on and are busy living our lives. That thought couldn’t be further from the truth: we are stuck in our own personal Groundhog Day until he gets out.

  Nigel

  The Couch House

  Friday, 10–Sunday, 12 April

  Having been cooped up in the dark for five days with little ventilation, I wake up disgusted at my own stench. The room has a layered smell: sweat, sleep, unwashed clothes, over-ripe mango and food scraps. It hits me every time I walk back into the room from the bathroom – it’s so thick and textured you can almost taste it. The boys aren’t happy about it either; they snort and hold their noses when they walk in.

  Mohammad comes in shortly after midday and hands me a bottle of aftershave. He motions for me to spray my bedding and myself. The sweet-scented musk is overpowering and floods my nostrils. I prefer the smell of my filth over this crap. It would make more sense just to open a window but I’m not flagging that idea with Mohammad; it’s just something I will have to grow accustomed to.

  The following day Captain Yahya, Mohammad, Abdullah and Romeo confront me. They close the doors and it’s like a prelude to the OK Corral as Yahya sits down on the lounge seat, his pistol resting on his knee. Fidgeting like mad, I move over and sit on the floor.

  ‘You have to call your family and tell them to pay whatever they have and we will release you,’ Romeo says.

  ‘You will release both of us?’

  ‘No, only you,’ he says.

  ‘They will not do this; they will not just pay for me. They want both of us because if they pay just for me, you will kill Amina,’ I reply.

  ‘We will not kill Amina. Your family does not know Amina; why would they think we would kill her?’ he says.

  ‘They think you are terrorists. They do not know we are Muslim, so of course they are going to think you will kill her if they give money for me.’ I try not to sound like I’m lecturing him.

  He turns to the others and starts to translate; I butt in. ‘They won’t do it, I’m telling you. I know my family and they will not just pay for me.’

  There’s an awkward pause as they digest this, then Yahya turns and talks directly at me in Somali, waving his pistol just inches from my head. I have the sickening realisation that I was too forceful. I’m now watching his finger tapping the trigger guard of the pistol.

  Romeo looks straight at me.
‘The Captain says this is your last chance. If your family does not pay the money, they will kill you in a few days,’ he translates, his expression deadpan.

  They’re not pissing about. A glance at the four faces now staring at me and I can see their patience has vanished. Trying to suck in air, my head spinning, I say to Romeo, ‘Pass me the phone, I will speak to them.’ It’s not the time to be brave.

  Yahya takes his phone and calls someone; as he speaks in a rough tone, I sit there in complete panic, unsure of how to explain this to whoever picks up the phone.

  I desperately want to hear the voice of someone in my family but at the same time feel like smashing the phone against the wall. Yahya hands me the phone; it begins to ring.

  Swallowing hard as it finally connects I hear Nic’s voice, the recording on Mum and Dad’s phone. C’mon, guys, now is not the time to be out, I think to myself as the message plays through.

  Hearing the beep, I say, ‘Mum and Dad; it’s Nige. Um, if you’re home, I really need you to pick up. If you’re not, can you please ring back; it’s urgent. Um, there is absolutely no food and water here any more. They’re telling me that Nairobi is saying they don’t want to solve this problem. You guys have to do something if you want to see me again. You, please, have to do something, get money to these people somehow. I don’t know, talk to whoever you are dealing with in Nairobi and get them to sort this out if you want to see me again.’

  As I hand the phone back, Romeo translates what I’ve said. They seem satisfied and file out. I lie down, a sense of abandonment filling me, which quickly turns to guilt and shame for what I’m doing to my family. I don’t move for the remainder of the day, except to wash for prayer.

  It’s a strange feeling to have a time limit put on your life. I think of the things I wanted to achieve. The grandiose plans don’t matter any more; I think of spending time with family and friends, falling madly in love again, having children, and it all seems to be slipping away.