Case Number
The woman behind the pharmacy counter reached out with the card reader, and I tapped my card almost on autopilot, barely glancing at the machine. The screen flashed red, beeped, and spat out a cold Transaction declined. I tried again, this time a little slower, as though taking my time would somehow make me a man with money.
Do you have another card? she asked, not looking up.
I fished out my backupmy salary cardand once again heard that short, humiliating refusal. Someone behind me let out a loud sigh, and my ears started to burn. I shoved the box of tablets Id already requested into my pocket and muttered Id sort it out.
Outside, I stopped by the pharmacy wall, out of the way, and opened my banking app. Instead of the usual string of numbers, there was a grey box and a phrase that felt like the world dropped out beneath me: Accounts blocked. Reason: enforcement order. No amount, no explanationjust a button for Details and a reference that looked like someone elses passport number.
I stared at it as though I could will it away. Immediately, all the things I couldnt delay came to mind: in a week I needed to buy train tickets to Lincolnshire to see Mum, whod been sent for tests, and Id promised to go with her. Id managed to get two days off workmy manager complained but reluctantly agreed. Oh, and the medicinemedicine I now couldnt pay for.
I rang the bank helpline. Even before I spoke to anyone, a robotic voice wanted me to rate the service.
How can I help? said the operator. Her voice was carefully neutral, the way people are when theyre following a script, not out of malice but out of policy.
I spelled out my surname, date of birth, last digits from my passport. Explained my accounts had been blockedit had to be a mistake.
Theres an enforcement order on your account, she replied. Im afraid we cant lift the block. Youll need to contact the enforcement office. You see the reference number?
I do. Ive no idea what this is. Ive no debts.
I understand. But the bank isnt the initiator. Were just following requirements.
So who started this? I realised my voice was louder than I wanted.
Its from the County Enforcement Bureau, she told me. I can give you their address.
She dictated it, and I scribbled it on the back of my pharmacy receipt, my hand shaking with a mix of anger and shame, as if Id been caught pinching sweets.
What about the money? I said. It says its been withheld.
Its been held as part of the enforcement procedure. For a refund, you must contact the claimant or enforcement office.
So youre not going to help me, then.
We can file a ticket if you wish. Would you like me to do that?
What I wanted was for someone to say, Yes, theres been a mistake, well sort it now. Instead, I listened as she read out a reference number, the same way youre handed a cloakroom ticket.
Case number she repeated it as if handing me a queue slip. Well review within thirty days.
I repeated the number so I wouldnt forget. Thirty days felt like a sentence but I thanked her all the same. It came out by habit, like saying thanks, bye after a phone call that left you feeling small.
Back home, I opened the drawer where I keep paperworkbills, contracts, old forms. Id always prided myself on being organised: bills paid on time, never took unnecessary loans, even parking fines settled the same day. I spread my passport, NI number, tax documents on the table, as if they were proof of my decency.
My wife came in, saw the table and my face.
Whats happened?
I told her. Tried to keep my voice steady, but halfway through, it cracked.
Could it be an old fine? she ventured carefully.
What kind of fine could lead to this? And a block? I waved my phone at her, the warning still on screen. Ive not been anywhere but work.
I was only asking, she said, hands raised. It happens, these days.
The word happens set me offas if my life was just a statistic.
People get listed as debtors and have to prove theyre not criminals, I snapped, instantly regretting the tone.
She wordlessly set a glass of water on the table and left. I sat alone with my papers, feeling the air sucked out of the house.
Next day, I went to the bank. The branch was bright and hushed, like a GPs surgery after a refurb. People sat waiting, staring at their phones for their number to pop up on the display.
My slip read: Account Queries. As I waited, I felt my annoyance groweach person was no longer a person, just another item on some list with a ticket.
When my turn came, the manager gave a professional smile.
How can I help?
I showed her the screen and explained the block.
Yes, I can see theres a limitation, she said, clicking her mouse. We dont have access to enforcement records. All I can do is provide a statement of deductions and a confirmation letter.
Everything you can, please, I said. I need it today.
The official letter could take up to three working days.
What if I need to buy medicine? My voice started to wobble, and I hated that more than my anger.
She hesitated a moment.
I do understand, but it is the process, Im afraid.
I signed the request, accepted the copy, freshly warm from the printer. It became my only weapon against this invisible machine.
From there, I went to the councils help centre. The place smelt of machine coffee and cleaning fluid that barely masked the tiredness of people waiting. By the entrance stood a kiosk and a girl in a blue vest, helping people get the right ticket.
I need to see enforcement, I said.
Theyre not based here, she replied. But we can take your statement, submit a query, help you on GOV.UK. Whats your case?
I showed her my paperwork and the reference.
Youd be best off going straight to the Bureau, she advised. But if you want, we can print your GOV.UK record; sometimes it shows who matched your details.
I had no real choice. I took a ticket and sat. Around me, a stream of numbers, people returning to desks with folders, whispering arguments, someone crying in the loo. I watched my hands and thought they looked older than yesterday.
The advisor called me up and asked for my passport.
Is your GOV.UK account verified? she asked.
It is.
She spent ages scanning my details.
There is an enforcement record, she confirmed at last. But its against a different National Insurance number.
I leaned closer.
What do you mean?
Lookyour NI ends with these numbers. The file has a different digit.
One digit off. I felt a weird reliefpermission to be properly indignant.
Thats not my debt, I said.
Looks like a data error, she nodded. happens sometimessimilar names or birth dates.
So now what?
We can submit a challenge with your ID copies. The decisions down to the Bureau though.
She printed a form, I signed it, added copies of my documents. I watched my life become a sheaf of paper vanishing into a scanner.
How long will it take?
Thirty days, she answered, reading my face. Sometimes quicker.
Again, thirty days. I left with a folder, suddenly more important than my own name.
It took me two more days to get into the Enforcement Bureau itself. At the entrance, a security guard checked my bag and asked me to silence my phone. The corridor was lined with people, some with children, others with bundles of paperwork. A sign on the wall read, Appointments Only. Next to it, a handwritten sheet, peoples surnames listed top to bottom.
I turned to the woman in the queue:
Is this the sign-in?
This is life, she replied drily. First come, first served.
I scrawled my name at the bottom, perched on the window ledge because there werent enough chairs. Time didnt so much drag as break up into jagged frustrations: someone queue-jumping, another explaining loudly on the phone how enforcement does nothing, another sobbing in the loo.
When my name was finally called, I stepped into the office. Sat behind the desk was a woman in her forties, eyes tired, desk stacked with files and a monitor.
Name? she asked, still typing.
I gave it.
Case number?
I passed over the bank letter.
She glanced, clicked a mouse.
You have an outstanding loan default, she said.
I dont have any loan, I said tightly. Check my NI. Theres an error here.
She frowned, squinted at the screen.
Thats rightNI doesnt match. The system linked you by name and birthday.
So thats all it takes to freeze my accounts?
She sighed.
We work off the records were given. If its a mistake, you need to submit a correction request and ID. Have you already done that?
I pushed across my MFC copies.
Herecase number included.
She flipped through.
That was submitted at the council. We havent received it yet.
I cant wait for it to be received. My moneys frozen; I cant buy medicine.
She looked at me for the first time.
Dont think youre the only one, she said, quietly, not unkindly. Ive a hundred cases on this desk. I can take your challenge here, but the process isnt instant.
I wanted to lash out, but I could see how worn down she was. A rant would just make me another problem.
Fine, I said, measured. What do you need?
She handed me a form. I scribbled: Please remove my details from this enforcement database due to mistaken identification. Included my ID, NI. She stamped Received.
Up to ten days to check, she said. If confirmed, youll get a cancellation notice.
And my money?
Refunds a separate request, and the claimant will need to issue it. Thats not handled here.
Back outside, new stamp in hand, it felt like a tiny winbut won against what? Just being properly recognised as existing.
That evening, I went to ask my boss for half a day off tomorrow.
Are you joking? he grumbled, as if Id invented the whole thing for an excuse. Weve a report due.
My accounts are blocked, I said flatly. Im running round offices.
He leaned in, conspiratorial.
Honestlychild support, old loans?
Worse than the pharmacy rejection. I felt my face grow hard.
Nothing, I said. Its a clerical error.
He shrugged.
All right, but dont let it drag the team down. Payrolls already asking about why deductions show.
Back at my desk, an email from payroll: Please confirm if you have any enforcement orders. I felt the knot tighten. Replied, Error, investigating, paperwork available soon. Realised I now had to convince not just an official, but colleagues Id worked with for ten years.
At home, my wife asked what happened.
They accepted the claim, I said.
Well, thats something, she said. Pause. Are you sure its not your brothers old loan? You did co-sign
My head jerked up.
I never did, I snapped. I said no. I remember.
She nodded, but I could see doubt lingering. The machine had done its workcracks impossible to fix with paperwork.
A week later, a letter popped into my GOV.UK inbox. My hand shook as I opened it: Mistaken identification confirmed. All enforcement action cancelled. I reread it three times to be sure.
Straight onto my banking app. Accounts live again, numbers back like nothing happened. But still a warning: Restrictions may apply until records update. Tried paying my council tax; it worked, after a delay. I sat there, waiting for the loading circle to vanish.
I stopped by the chemists and finally bought the tablets from day one. The woman at the till didnt recognise me. I wanted to say, All fine now, but it felt strange, so I just took my bag and left.
Two days later, the bank rang.
Weve received your cancellation confirmation, said the operator. But your credit record may still show a flag until the bureau updates things. It could take up to forty-five days.
So, the stain remains, I said.
Temporarily.
Temporarily was cold comfort. I pictured myself, a month from now, trying to set up payment for Mums window repairs, only to be told, Youve had restrictions. Id have to explain myself yet again.
I sent my refund request. The enforcement officer explained the claimant was a bank whod loaned money to someone else, and their accounts team would need to process it. I sent over my cancellation notice, statements, details. The reply: Your claim is registered. Another number.
All this time, I noticed I spoke more quietly, as if any stray word might trigger the whole mess again. I checked my notifications obsessively, logged into GOV.UKs Enforcement Orders just to check it was still empty. Emptiness became the new normal.
Once, while back at the help centre sorting out a power of attorney for Mum, I noticed a bewildered man with a folder, clutching his ticket and staring at the screen in confusion.
What help do you need? I asked, surprising myself.
They say I owe moneyno idea why. Bank said go to enforcement.
I saw in his eyes exactly what Id just lived through: shame and fury, mixing together.
First, get a bank statement with the reference. Here, they can print your GOV.UK recordsit shows if your NI or date of birth was mixed up. If anythings off, submit a challenge with all your docs, get a received stamp.
He listened like Id handed him a map.
Thank you. Have you been through this?
I nodded. I have, I said. It takes time. It never feels fully over. But you get through.
I left the centre, doctors letter in my folder, and paused by the door to pack away the documents. The folder felt heavynot from paper, but from the habit of proving everything. I realised I was breathing steadily for the first time in weeks.
At home, I filed away the cancellation, the bank letters, all the statements under a new label: Enforcement Case, Error. Previously, Id have felt awkward about that label, as if it implied guilt. Now I didnt care. I shoved it in the drawer and, without raising my voice, told my wife,
If it happens again, I know what to do. And Im not apologising. Ill be demanding.
She held my gaze a moment, then nodded.
Right, she said. Lets have some tea.
I went to the kitchen and put on the kettle. The rumble of the water sounded, just for a moment, like proof that life still belonged to meand not to some number on a list, or a deadline on an official letter.
If theres one thing Ive learnt, its this: never let a system decide who you are. Hold your ground, even if the only thing left proving it is a stamp with your name.
