Reference Number
The cashier at the chemists handed me the card reader, and I tapped my bank card as I always did, hardly looking. The screen flashed red with a curt Transaction declined. I tried again, slower this time, as if carefulness might somehow make me a man with money.
Maybe another card? the cashier asked, not glancing up.
I pulled out my salary card and got the same sharp refusal. Someone behind me gave an exaggerated sigh, making my ears burn. I stuffed the box of tablets into my pocket and mumbled that Id sort it out.
Outside, I stopped by the wall to get out of the way and opened my banking app. No usual numbers, just a grey box with a heavy sentence: Accounts blocked. Reason: court enforcement order. No sum, no explanation, only a More details button and a reference number that looked disturbingly official.
I stared at my screen, as if my gaze might dissolve the problem. Immediately, my mind went to things I couldnt put off: I was due to buy train tickets for mums appointments in Yorkshire next week, and Id already arranged time off worka struggle with my boss, but hed given in. And now, the medicines I could no longer pay for.
I rang the banks helpline. The automated message asked for feedback before anyone had even picked up.
Hello, how can I help? asked the woman, her voice politely distanced by training, not malice.
Name, date of birth, the last digits of my ID. I explained my accounts were locked, that it must be a mistake.
Theres a restriction due to an enforcement order on your profile, she replied. Were unable to remove it. You’ll need to speak to Her Majestys Courts and Tribunals Service. Do you see the reference?
Yes, I said. But I have no idea what it is. I have no debts.
I understand, but the bank is only following instructions, not initiating them.
Who is? I caught myself raising my voice.
Its listed as HMCTS. I can give you the address.
She dictated it, and I scribbled it hastily on the chemists receipt with a hand shaky from anger and embarrassment, like I’d been caught pilfering.
What about my money? I asked. It says deduction here.
That was made in accordance with the order. For refunds, youll need to contact the claimant or enforcement officer.
So you cant help me.
I can log your query. Would you like to proceed?
What I wanted was for someone to say, Yes, its an error, well fix it. Instead, she read out a reference number, her tone like handing me a cloakroom ticket. Case can take up to thirty days to review.
I repeated the number aloud so Id remember. Thirty days felt like a punishment, but I thanked her anywaythe gratitude automatic, a goodbye at the end of a conversation that left me low.
Back home, I opened the file drawer stuffed with receipts, contracts, old tax letters. I prided myself on being meticulous: always paid on time, never unnecessary loansI’d even pay parking fines the same day, just so as not to forget. I set out my passport, National Insurance card, and driving licenceto me, proof of my respectability.
My wife came in, caught sight of the papers and my face.
Whats happened?
I told her, keeping my tone even until my voice faltered halfway through.
Could it be an old parking fine? she suggested gently.
What fine would lead to this? And a block on this scale? I tapped the restriction on my phone. Ive only been to work and home.
Im just asking, she said, raising her hands. It happens sometimes.
That wordsometimesinfuriated me. As if my life was a statistic.
Sometimes you get pegged as a debtor and you have to prove you’re not a criminal, I muttered, then instantly regretted my sharpness.
She quietly set a mug of water on the table and left. I was alone with the paperwork, and it honestly felt like there was less air in the room.
The next day I went to the bank branch. Bright, quiet, like a GPs surgery after a refurb. People sat on chairs, glued to their phones, waiting for their number to come up.
My ticket stub read Account queries. I sat, irritation building just from the act of waitinglike the ticket made me a problem instead of a person.
When I was called, the manager gave a professional smile.
How can I help?
I showed her my app. Ah, yes, I see the restriction, she said, clicking away. We dont have access to the Courts system. All I can give you is a statement of deductions and a letter confirming the account limitation.
Ill take everything you can printtoday, if possible.
The letter takes up to three working days to prepare.
And what about my medication? The plea in my voice was even worse than the anger had been.
The manager hesitated.
Im sorry. Thats the procedure.
I signed for the letter, took a printout still warm from the printerclutching it like the only weapon I had against a faceless machine.
I went next to the council’s advice centre. The place smelled of vending machine coffee and cleaning fluid, but it couldnt touch the tiredness clinging to people. At the entrance, a woman in a vest helped direct people to the right services.
I need court enforcement, I told her.
They dont have an office here, she replied. We can accept a written application, send an inquiry, help you access the government portal. Whats the issue?
I showed her the bank letter and the reference number.
Youre better off contacting HMCTS directly, she said. We can also print out your government portal statement if you like?
No real choice. Ticket in hand, I waited. Numbers fluttered across the board; people shuffled between desks, returned with folders, muttered complaints, someone sobbed in the toilets. I looked at my hands and thought they looked older than yesterday.
At the desk, the clerk asked for my ID.
Do you have a verified government account?
I do.
She searched my details.
There is an enforcement order, she finally said. But the reference number uses a different National Insurance number.
My stomach flipped. Different?
See, yours is she read out the digits. Their records have a one-digit difference.
One number. Relief flooded meI could be indignant again.
Thats not my debt.
Looks like a data entry errorcommon with similar names or birth dates.
So what now?
I can file a dispute and attach document copies. But its still up to the enforcement officer.
She printed the form and I signed, scanning and attaching passport, NI card, everything. My life now just a stack of documents going through a scanner.
How long?
Thirty days, she said, catching my look, but sometimes quicker.
Again, thirty. I left with a folder of copies and a receiptthe reference number now more important than my name.
Two days later, I finally got to the enforcement office. A guard checked my bag and asked me to mute my phone. The corridor crawled with peoplesome with kids, some clutching sheafs of paper. A sign read Appointments Only next to a handwritten waiting list.
Is this the queue? I asked a woman.
This is life, she said, not quite smiling. First come, first written down.
I added my name to the bottom. Sat on a windowsill, since the chairs were full. Time dissolved into petty irritations: queue jumpers, angry phone calls, someone crying in the loo.
Eventually, they called me in. At her desk, the enforcement officermid-forties, tired eyesflicked through files.
Surname? she asked, not looking up.
I gave it.
Reference?
I handed over my bank letter.
She read, clicked her mouse.
Theres a debt on a loan, she stated.
I dont have a loan, I barked. Please check the NI numbertheres an error.
She frowned, pulled her monitor closer.
The numbers do differ, she said. But the system links by name and date of birth first.
And thats enough to freeze accounts?
She sighed. We process the data we receive. If theres an error, we need a technical complaint and ID confirmation. Did you bring it?
I put my MCF documents on her desk.
Thats just the council form. We havent had it yet.
I cant wait. Moneys been takenI cant even buy medicine.
She looked at me directly at last.
Youre not the only one, you know, she said quietly. Ive got a hundred files here. Ill accept your statement now, but the process isnt instant.
I wanted to shout, but I saw her exhaustion and knew it would change nothing except to make me just another nightmare in her memories.
All right, I said, controlling myself. What do you need?
She handed me a form. I wrote: Please remove me from enforcement due to mistaken identity. Attached passport, NI card. She stamped it.
Its ten days for review, she said. If we confirm the error, well reverse the measures.
And the money?
Youll need a separate request. The claimantoften the bankmust return it. Thats not my department.
I left with a fresh stamptiny triumph, but a hollow one. I felt like Id finally been acknowledged as real.
That evening, back at work, I asked my manager for another half-day off tomorrow.
Are you kidding? He glared at me as if Id made it all up. Weve got the quarterly report.
My bank accounts are frozen, I said. Im dealing with the authorities.
He lowered his voice. Be straightare you in trouble? Child support? Credit issues?
That was worse than the chemist. I could feel my jaw stiffen.
No, nothing like that. Theres been a data error.
He shrugged.
All right. Just make sure it doesnt drag us into anything. Accounts asked why you had deductions.
Back at my desk, I found an email from Payroll: Please confirm if any enforcement letters have been received. My insides knotted. I replied: Mistake, sorting it, will provide paperwork. I realised now I’d have to prove myself not just to the authorities, but also my employer of ten years.
At home, my wife asked what happened.
They accepted the complaint, I said.
Well, at least thats something. She hesitated. Youre sure this isnt about your brothers loan? You were listed as a guarantor
I snapped my head up.
I said no to that. I remember.
She nodded, but the suspicion lingered. The system had done its damage, leaving cracks that paperwork couldnt close.
A week later, I received a message in my government portal: Mistaken identification established. Enforcement measures lifted. I had to reread it three times to believe it.
Straight to my banking appthe accounts were active, the balances back, as if nothing had happened. Yet a note lingered: Transactions may be restricted pending data update. I paid the utilities anyway. The payment went throughslowlybut the spinning load icon finally disappeared.
I returned to the chemist for my medicine. The cashier didnt recognise me. I almost told her Its sorted, but realised how odd it would sound. I just took the bag and left.
Two days on, the bank rang.
Weve received the reversal notice, the operator told me. Your credit file may still show a flag until bureau records update. Could be up to forty-five days.
So the mark stays, I said.
Only temporarily.
Temporarily, she saidbut it wasnt reassuring. Next time I needed a loan to fix mums windows, would they see restriction and turn me down? Id be back explaining myselfagain.
I submitted a claim for the lost money. The officer explained the creditormy bankwould process the return. I emailed copies of the ruling, bank statement, my details. Their reply: Your request has been registered. Another number.
All the while I found myself speaking in lower tones, as if any word might trigger the machine again. I checked notifications and my government account three times a day. The absence of records became my new state of normal.
At the council office again, sorting paperwork for mum, I spotted a man clutching a folder, looking utterly lost. He clung to his ticket, unsure where to go next.
Whats your query? I surprised myself by asking.
They say I owe a debt, he whispered. No idea whybank said court enforcement.
I saw the mix of shame and frustration in his eyesa feeling I knew too well.
First, get a statement from your bank with the reference number, I told him. Then check your government portal, see whose details theyre using. If its not your NI or date of birth, file for mistaken identityand get the stamp.
He listened as if I’d drawn him a map.
Thank you, he said. Did you go through this?
I nodded.
Yes. Not quickly. Not painlessly. But I did.
I left with mums paperwork, stopping outside to sort it into my bag. The folder was heavynot with paper, but with the habit of keeping proof. I realised my breathing was steadier.
At home, I carefully filed the enforcement officers letter, the bank documents, and all complaint forms into a folder, labelling it: EnforcementError. In times past Id have been embarrassednow, I no longer cared. I put it away, closed the drawer, and with a steady voice said to my wife:
If this happens again, Ill know what to do. And I wont be apologising. Ill insist.
She looked at me for a long moment, then nodded.
All right, she said. Lets have some tea.
I went to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. The hiss of boiling water struck me as proof that life still belonged to menot reference numbers or deadlines.
