* * *
—
. . . the car was spinning wildly and her head was smashed against the frame of her door. She felt the g-force in her stomach. Everything in her ears was ringing. Then it came to a stop and there was silence. It was still. She tried the engine. She felt the warmth of blood on her head when she touched it with her hand. Where was she again? She tried the engine. It whined and clicked but wouldn’t start. She looked up, around. Realized she’d been in an accident. She was vaguely aware of another car, maybe an Esteem, with its front smashed up, fifteen meters away. There was no one else around, an industrial district on a Sunday night. She should call someone. Her mother. As she was trying to remember how she’d gotten here, she heard a crunching of metal and voices raised and realized the doors of the other car were opening and the occupants were staggering out. Two young men from the front, a stout older man in the back. They stumbled, dazed, then turned to look toward her. They looked at each other.
They hit me, she told herself. They hit me.
The men started to walk across the junction toward her.
She realized one of them held a metal rod in his hand.
She tried to start her engine again, frantically turning the key, begging her little car to take her away, but the engine refused to start.
The men were getting closer, shielding their eyes from her headlights. She tried the engine over and over and the blood dripped down from her head. As the men drew up a few meters from the front of her car they seemed to hesitate. Maybe they couldn’t see who was inside.
She held her hand down on the horn.
She locked all her doors.
But the men seemed to come to a decision.
They advanced on her.
They were closing in around the car, surrounding it, peering in.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
The one with the rod stared at her.
“I’m sorry,” she just kept saying. “I’m sorry.”
The man with the rod smashed it on her bonnet.
“Do you see what you did!”
“I’m sorry,” she said. And she tried the engine again.
This seemed to enrage them.
“Bitch! You think you can run!”
“Please. I’m sorry.” She kept trying to start the engine. “I don’t have any money!”
“Get out!”
“I’m a journalist!”
It was an absurd thing to say.
The one with the rod started laughing. The laughter spread among the men. One of them marched back toward their car.
“You hit us,” the one with the rod said. “You need to pay.”
“I’ll send you money,” she said. “Please, just let me go away.”
“You need to pay,” he repeated. He hit the frame of her door with the rod. The third man opened the rear of their car and came back out with a cricket bat. She kept slamming on the horn, helpless, terrified. The older man went round the other side. He was drunk or damaged from the crash. He rattled her door, leered at her. The young man with the rod was shouting at her and she was pleading with them to let her go. He was calling her a bitch, a whore. The one with the cricket bat was halfway to her car. She started to cry. The one with the rod was lifting the metal in his hand . . .
* * *
—
They were all taken by surprise. A new flood of light, a vehicle screeching from speed to a halt, a figure marching toward them. The one with the rod wasn’t prepared, he underestimated the speed of this man bearing down on him. He spun and lifted the rod above his head, and the next thing Neda saw he was crumpled on the ground. The old man came round to the front of the car, fists raised, but it made no difference, the figure advanced on him, struck him with a flurry of punches and kicks, and he followed his friend into the concrete with a thud. Now she clearly saw her rescuer bathed in the headlights.
Ajay.
It was Ajay.
By now the man with the cricket bat was frozen.
Ajay pulled a pistol from inside his jacket and the one with the cricket bat turned and ran.
* * *
—
Ajay trained his gun on the one with the metal rod. He kicked the rod away, dragged the man into the headlights, examined him closely. She was half expecting to see the Caravaggio goon, but no, it was just a man. Any man on the street. Ajay smashed him in the head with the handle of his gun. He turned to the old man, looked down on him with coiled rage. She watched it all, trembling. The old man got to his feet, backed off. Ajay put the gun away.
“Madam,” he said.
And he was back to sweet, loyal Ajay. “Open the door.”
She did what he asked. She unlocked the door and opened it, and he took her by the arm and eased her out, and she leaned into him as he guided her to the SUV.