Page 17 of The Mismatch

His grip tightened around the steering wheel. ‘I need to get something from my house first.’

‘What?’ Her thoughts were jumbled – what did he need to get and why had he let her get in the car when he had errands to do? – and each new question jostled its way to the front of her mind. And then one jumped out, stuck in her throat, and lodged itself there.

Was she even in a taxi?

It wasn’t always clear-cut, regular cars and taxis weren’t easily distinguishable. Arguably, anyone could be a taxi driver. She’d heard before of girls being abducted by men pretending to be taxi drivers, but it never happened to people she knew, not people like her.

‘Let me out now!’ she yelled.

‘Darling, that’s not possible, we’re on a motorway,’ he drawled.

She peered at him. He was old enough to be her father, even had the same thick black moustache and receding hairline Baba had.

For once Neda was speechless.

‘You have beautiful legs,’ he said, again quietly.

‘What?’ she spat. She wanted to smack him, beat him, and that’s exactly what she planned to do when the car stopped.

‘I saw you running. Lovely, lovely legs.’

‘Take me back, now!’

‘Why did you get in the car, then? Dressed in a skirt like that.’ He let out a low whistle.

The car slowed as he drove down a slip road, and then there were shops again, people walking the street, billboards of glamorous American movie stars, cinemas, and French restaurants. It was bizarre that those around her shopping, hand in hand, were unaware that she was being abducted.

He was driving slower now, needing to seem inconspicuous among the pedestrians nearby. Neda’s hand was firmly on the door handle. It slipped against her clammy palm.

She pulled on the handle whilst the car was moving.

He noticed and attempted to speed up. She closed her eyes and pushed the door open, jumping from the moving car and rolling into the open gutter. She landed roughly on her side in a stream of dirty water, one of the many that ran along the streets in Tehran. Immediately she felt a surge of pain and wondered if she’d broken her shoulder or arm. She could almost feel the dirty brown water seeping into her grazed legs and arms.

The car sped off with its passenger door still open. She wanted to make a note of the registration plate, but all she could do was lie dazed in the water, her heart beating painfully loud and fast in her chest, her whole body numb. Passers-by ran over.

‘What happened?’

‘Are you OK?’

‘What’s going on?’

Concern was etched on their faces. But all Neda could think was that she had had enough. Had had enough of men leering at her, of her friends being groped in the street. Abductions such as these were commonplace and yet nothing was being done about it.

She wanted control.

A week later she joined the Islamic Society at university. It was something she had always meant to do, but had put off as a not quite pressing task. To begin with, she tentatively sounded out the idea of wearing a hijab to her friends.

‘It’s much better – you have more freedom, in fact!’ she said to her best friend.

‘Oh, come on, it’s so old-fashioned,’ the friend replied. ‘I bet you won’t last a week.’

‘No, it’s Islamic. As Muslim women we should wear it—’

‘Neda, just because you were stupid enough to get in a car with a donkey, doesn’t mean you should preach to us, understand?’

And when Maman saw Neda attempting to leave the house one day wearing a hijab, she stopped her in her tracks.

‘What are you doing?’