Safe as Houses by Simone van der Vlugt

from making the mistake of whining or crying. Instead, she is keeping a keen eye on Lisa and copying her behaviour: a calm, distant, wait-and-see attitude.
    With as much composure as she can muster, Lisa goes into the sitting room and sets the dining table. Three placemats, three plates, just like it used to be.
    Back in the kitchen, she gathers up the cutlery. Just a fork and spoon – the absence of knives isn’t a problem with spaghetti. As she puts the cutlery next to the plates and a trivet for the pan on the table, she strains to overhear something of the conversation Kreuger is having with her daughter.
    â€˜You probably think I’m a really nasty man, don’t you?’ she hears him ask.
    Silence.
    â€˜Answer me now,’ Kreuger insists.
    Anouk’s eyes find her mother’s.
    Answer him, Lisa wills her.
    Anouk takes a deep breath. ‘Yes. You hurt Mummy. And Mummy didn’t do anything wrong.’
    Her voice sounds as accusing as a five-year-old’s can be.
    Kreuger slowly holds out his hand to her, and Anouk recoils just as slowly. Every muscle in Lisa’sbody tenses, like a predatory animal preparing to spring to protect her young.
    Kreuger touches Anouk’s cheek gently, as though she might crumble at the slightest touch. He lightly strokes her skin with his thumb.
    Anouk’s face darkens, as though she doesn’t know whether to cry or to bite Kreuger’s hand.
    â€˜Mummy didn’t do what I said,’ Kreuger says in a gentle voice. ‘And you didn’t either, but you can’t help that. The next time you don’t listen to me, though, I’ll be even less nice. Do you understand?’ His hand moves to her chin and lifts it up. ‘Do you understand me, Anouk?’
    â€˜Yes, she understands. We both do,’ Lisa butts in quickly.
    Kreuger swings around. ‘Shut your mouth!’ he screams at her. ‘I was talking to your daughter, not you!’
    Lisa takes a terrified step backwards. ‘All right, all right. I’m sorry.’
    After a few seconds Kreuger calms down again. ‘If you both do exactly as I say, nothing will happen to you. Then I’ll be off and you can act like nothing ever happened.’
    You pathetic bastard, Lisa thinks. You hold us hostage, you frighten my daughter; she’ll have nightmares for years now. And if she doesn’t, I will.
    With a superhuman effort, she manages to smile and nod. ‘Fine, agreed. Well, I’ll finish off the dinner, then. It’s almost ready.’
    â€˜This is nice,’ Kreuger says.
    They’re sitting at the table, Kreuger facing them. He is eating with gusto but in a refined manner, not like the savage who forced his way into her kitchen. He must have been a civilised person once, a father and husband, an employee, someone’s neighbour in a row of terraced houses in a respectable street. A man who taught his children table manners and complimented his wife on her culinary skills. An attentive and caring man.
    They eat without any conversation. The television, which Kreuger wants to keep on all the time, breaks the silence. This, and the sound of their forks and spoons as they twist their spaghetti. Anouk looks a little better: the fever has gone down, and she is actually eating something.
    It is still light outside, Lisa notices, but not for long. The darkness falls more quickly each day. It doesn’t seem so long ago that they could eat outside and sit on the terrace enjoying the sun for a while afterwards. Yet it still feels warm and summery during the day: yesterday she’d put on a vest and shorts and done some work in the garden.
    She keeps looking over Kreuger’s shoulder at theborders in the garden, the blooms of hydrangeas, pink phlox, hollyhocks and salvias fading with the light. Plants that she put in herself when she moved here and that she cherishes; their beauty fills her with happiness each year. She loves September,