Password
Helen was standing at the till holding a bag of yoghurt and a loaf of bread when the card terminal beeped and the screen flashed: Transaction declined. She automatically handed her card again, as if she could persuade the little machine, but the cashier was already watching her with weary suspicion.
Have you got another card? she asked.
Helen shook her head and pulled out her phone. There was a text from her bank: Account operations suspended. Please contact support. Immediately after came another message, from an unknown number: Loan approved. Contract no. She felt heat flush her cheeks. Behind her, someone shuffled impatiently.
She paid with the emergency cash she always carried and walked out onto the street. The bag was cutting into her fingers. She kept repeating to herself: this must be a mistake. It had to be a mistake.
Walking home, she rang the bank. The answering machine made her press numbers, then music, and finally a real voice.
Theres a block due to suspected fraudulent activity, the operator said calmly. New obligations have been added to your credit file. Youll need to visit a branch with your ID.
What obligations? Helen tried to keep her tone even. I havent taken anything out.
The system shows two payday loans and an application for a SIM card issued in your name, the operator intoned, as though rattling off utility bills. We cant remove the block until we investigate.
Helen ended the call and stood for several moments at the bus stop, staring at her screen. There was more than one text about loans. Three in total. One promised an introductory rate, another warned interest will accrue. She tried logging into her online banking, but it told her: Access restricted. Anxiety rose inside hercold, methodical, like waiting in a doctors office for bad news.
At home, she set the bag on the table, still in her coat. Her husband, Richard, was in the sitting room with his laptop.
Something wrong? he asked, glancing up.
My card didnt work. The banks blocked it. And she showed him her phone, apparently there are loans in my name.
Richard frowned. You havent signed up for anything, have you? Maybe you ticked something somewhere.
Me? Helen felt irritation stirring. Ive never even been to a payday lender.
He sighed, as though this was a household problem easily fixed.
Well sort it. Just go in tomorrow.
His just go in sounded as trivial as picking up a meter reading. Helen walked to the kitchen, switched on the kettle, and realised her hands were shaking. She put her phone in her pocket, then took it out again. There was a missed call: Debt Collection Service. She didnt ring back.
She slept little that night. Words repeated in her head: suspected fraud, obligations, SIM card. She imagined going to the bank, being told: It was you, and having to prove herself innocent for something she hadnt done.
The next morning Helen left early. She took leave from work, telling her manager it was a bank issue. The manager gave her a sharp look but asked no questions. That silence felt worse than pity.
At the bank, a queue wound its way towards a counter, people clutching passports and forms. Helen waited, listening to tales of transfers, loans, and just a quick question. When it was her turn, the staff member in a white shirt asked for ID and began tapping at her computer.
Youve two payday loan contracts, she said, eyes down. One for £1,500, another for £1,100. Plus a SIM card application with the mobile providerand an attempt to transfer money to a third-party account.
I didnt do any of this, Helen repeated. The words felt flat, like a rehearsed line.
Then you need to submit a fraud report and a complaint about unauthorised transactions, the woman handed her some forms. We can give you a print-out of your account activity and a letter confirming the block. I also suggest you check your credit file at the agency.
Helen took the papers. In tiny print at the bottom, it said the bank couldnt guarantee a positive outcome. She signed carefully, not wanting to muddle the boxes, and asked,
How did this happen? I use SMS confirmations.
The SIM card could have been reissued, the woman replied. So the security codes go to whoever has the new number. Youll need to check with your mobile provider.
She left with a file: statement, application copy, block confirmation. The paperwork felt heavyevidence of someone elses life.
The mobile phone shop was stuffy. A young consultant grinned as if selling cases.
There is a SIM card registered to your name, he confirmed after checking her ID. Issued two days ago, different branch.
I didnt get it, Helen felt her stomach tighten. How could someone get one without me?
He shrugged. Youd need a passport. Sometimes a photocopy. Or a written authority, but wed note that. He offered, Want to dispute the issue? We can block the SIM.
Block it, she said. And give me the branch address.
He printed the details: address, time, application ref. The contact number was her old oneetched in her memory. Next to it: SIM swap. Someone had requested a duplicate.
On the street, Helen rang the credit agency. More instructions: register online, verify her identity, await a report. She stood by the shop wall, entering details, each code feeling less like protection than a mockery.
By lunchtime, another call.
Mrs. Brown? The voice was male, brisk. Youre overdue on a payday loan agreement. When will you make payment?
I never took one, she said. This is fraud.
So everyone claims, the voice replied. But we have a contract, we have your details. No paymentwell send someone round.
She hung up. Her heart pounded like shed been running. Shame and fear swelled together, as if shed been caught in something seedy, when she was blameless.
Helen went to the police that evening. The corridor smelled of old paperwork and lino. The community officer, a man in his fifties, listened in silence, jotting down notes.
So, payday loans, SIM card, account transfer attempt? he summarised. Passportstill with you, never lost?
Never lost, said Helen. Photocopies perhaps. I once gave a copy for car insurance at work. And she hesitated, the building manager requested one for some council tax rebate.
Copies move around, the officer sighed. But the crucial point: the SIM card was reissued. Thats useful. Write a statement, attach your paperwork, the shop address. Well log the incident. Then well send the necessary enquiries.
He pushed over a sheet and pen. Helen wrote, fighting tears. The phrase unknown individuals seemed rather silly. She knew it wasnt just individualsit was someone who understood her life.
Back at home, Richard met her at the door.
So? What did they say?
I wrote a statement. Blocked the SIM. Tomorrow, Ive got to go to the council office and get official lettersand to the credit agency, Helen spoke quickly, as if speed could hold the chaos at bay.
Richard grimaced. Maybe its simpler to pay off the debt and forget it? All that stress cant be worth it.
Helen stared at him in disbelief.
Pay someone elses debt? she replied quietly. And what if they do it again?
I didnt mean he looked away, I just well, you know the police
She realised: he was scared, wanting it all to vanish. But that would erase her right to her own name and life.
Next day, she went to the council centre. An electronic queue of people clutching folders, someone arguing with a kiosk. Helen got her ticket and sat, hugging her paperwork. She sensed people stealing glances at her, as if she had debts written on her head. It was absurd, but not any easier for that.
The clerk explained what letters she could request, which applications she could file online, how to restrict credit access via the agency. Helen jotted everything down; her mind was beyond holding it all.
That evening, the credit report arrived. Helen opened it on her laptop: two payday loans, another loan application (rejected). Each line contained her passport number, address, workplace. On one form was a field: password. There, typed, was a word only her family knew.
She reread it several times. Shed picked her password years ago, giggling with the banker to choose something memorable. Once, shed shared it with Richard and their son, when setting up a family account. And suddenlyshe remembered last winter, helping Richards nephew, Ben, apply for a temp job. Hed sat at the kitchen table while she filled in the online application, joking, No one ever remembers those passwords anyway. That day shed actually said it aloudto see how it sounded.
Helen shut the laptop. Her insides felt hollow. The password hadnt leaked from the big bad Internet. It wasnt on a photocopy. It had been overheard nearby.
She pulled out a folder from the cupboard with all her old documents: passport copies, letters, contracts. She sifted through until she found a copy of her passport, one shed made for Ben ages agohed asked for help opening a bank account for work. Hed said he needed a copy as ID for HR, and shed given it because, well, he was familybecause Richard had told her, Help him, hes having a rough patch.
Her signature was scribbled on the side, supposed to stop it being misused. The signature was there. But it hadnt prevented any of this.
Helen sat in the kitchen, staring at the paper. She remembered Ben dropping by last month, asking to borrow money until payday, how Richard had brushed it offHelen, honestly, the lads back on his feet. How Ben joked, dodged straight answers, was always in a hurry to leave.
Richard walked in.
Whats wrong? he asked.
Helen set the credit report and passport copy in front of him.
My passwords listed here, she said. And the SIM card was issued with my info. Ben had a copy of my passport.
Richard scanned the sheet, frowning.
Are you saying he didnt finish.
I need to know who else knew the password, Helens voice was measured, holding in emotion, and who had a copy.
Richard shoved his chair back.
You cant be serious. He wouldntI mean, he just needs a break.
A break? Helen felt a cold anger growing. Im getting threats, my accounts frozen, and now I should pay up so you dont have to think about it?
Richard was silent. Not with agreement, but with resistanceprotecting not Ben, but the idea that your own would never do this.
The following day, Helen visited the branch where the SIM was issued. It was a small booth in a shopping centre. She showed her passport and asked to see the manager.
We cant disclose third-party data, the woman at the desk replied. If you think there was a fraudulent issue, please go to the police.
I already have, Helen said. At least tell me what ID was shown.
The woman hesitated, then lowered her voice. System says: original passport, photo matched, signature given.
Helen felt her fingers go numb. Someone had turned up with either something convincingly like her passport, or her detailsand a face close enough. She pictured Ben with his pale, thin face, eyes downcast, breezing through the process, claiming to have lost a SIM. She pictured the staff member, too tired to check closely.
She left the centre and called her friend, Susan, a solicitor at a small London firm.
I need some advice, Helen said. And I think Im going to have to say a name.
Susan didnt pry.
Come round this evening, she said. Bring everything. And dont even think of paying those scammers.
Susans office smelled of coffee and paperwork. Helen spread out her statements, complaint forms, credit report, the printout from the shop.
Goodyouve got a record, Susan said. Now, since youve reported it to the police, send written objections to the lenders saying you never applied, request copies of all application documents. And block credit applications at the agency. It wont solve everything but itll help.
What if itis a relative? Helen said the word with difficulty.
Susan looked her in the eye. All the more reason to act. Look the other way, and hell know he can do it again. This isnt about money. Its about boundaries.
Helen nodded. Boundaries felt foreign in a family where you always helped your own.
On Saturday Ben showed up himself. Richard had called him to have a word. Helen heard the door, his cheerful greeting, the half-joking deflection. She stood with the file in hand.
Hi Helen, Ben said. Richard said youve got some stuff going on with the bank.
She didnt invite him to the kitchen, just stayed in the hallway.
Ive got problems all right, she said. Someones taken loans and a SIM in my name. My passwords on the file.
Ben blinked. His grin wavered.
God, thats rough. Its happening to everyone lately.
Yes, everywhere, Helen echoed. And who had a copy of my passport, Ben?
Richard hovered, ready to interject.
Helen, dont pressure him, he muttered.
Im not pressuring. Im asking.
Ben dropped his eyes, then looked up again.
I needed it, he blurted. I thought you wouldnt notice so quickly. I meant to cover just one debt, then give it back. The interest is crazy, Helen. I cant keep up.
You used my name, Helen said, hearing her own voice distant and foreign. Did you realise theyd threaten me? Block my account?
I thought Id sort it in time Ben swallowed. I didnt mean to hurt you. But no one helps me. You alwayswell, you always do
That line hit harder than the confession itself. You always help as if it gave him the right.
Richard stepped forward.
Ben, what the hell he said, hoarse. This is a criminal offence.
Ill pay it back, Richard, Ben said desperately. Ill find a way. Get a job. Please dont
Helen held up the police report.
Its too late, she said. Ive reported it. Im not withdrawing it.
Ben turned pale.
But youre family, he gasped.
Family dont do this, Helen replied. She felt herself trembling, not from weakness but from finally taking a stand.
Richard looked at herand there was something changed, painful in his expression. Hed wanted to protect Ben, but now he saw the cost was her life, her name.
Leave, Richard told Ben. Now.
Ben hesitated as if hoping for a miracle, then left. The door clicked shut. The flat fell quietnot with relief, but with the emptiness a deep crack leaves.
Richard slumped on a stool, rubbing his face.
I never thought hed he began.
Nor did I, Helen said. She leaned against the wall. But I wont live as if trust is its own security.
He looked up.
What now?
I take it all the way, she said. And at home too. No more copies of documents for anyone. Passwords stay private. And if anyone asks for my phoneeven for a minutethe answer is no.
Richard nodded, heavily, as if admitting defeat without argument.
The next weeks were a relentless process. Helen sent recorded letters to lenders, appended police reports, demanded copies of loan documents. She opened a new bank account and had her salary redirected. Online, she blocked all credit file access and set up alerts for every credit check. At the phone shop she opened a new number, had the old one locked, and put security on further SIM swaps.
Each step left traces: mailing receipts, scanned applications on her laptop, handwritten passwords sealed in a separate envelope. She was tired, but felt the slow return of control, the sense that her choices governed her life.
The debt collectors still called, but now Helen answered with,
Put everything in writing. Fraud report filedref number as follows. Calls are recorded.
Some hung up. Others tried to intimidate, but she no longer apologised. She logged everything and forwarded it to Susan.
One evening a letter arrived from a lender: Account under review; collections frozen during investigation. It wasnt a victory, merely a first written acknowledgement that she wasnt in the wrong.
Richard grew quieter. He didnt question it when Helen moved the document file out of their shared cupboard and locked her desk drawer. He didnt ask about her new phone code. Occasionally he tried to raise the topic of Ben, but Helen stopped him.
I wont discuss him. Not whilst its ongoing.
There was no sense of triumph. Only a cautiousness, the aftermath of fireher home still upright, but the smell of smoke lingering.
At months end, Helen went to the bank for written proof the disputed debts were lifted. The clerk handed her the letter and said,
The blocks removed, but Id recommend renewing your passport if possible, and keep checking your credit history.
Helen stepped outside and let herself breathe. At a kiosk, she bought a notebook and pen, sat on a park bench, and wrote across the first page: Rules. No slogans, no vows. Just a list.
Dont hand out document copies. Never say passwords out loud. Only I have my phone. Only those I can refuse borrow money.
She closed the notebook, tucked it into her bag, and zipped it shut. She wasnt free from worry yet, but her anxiety was now practicalnot paralysing. She realised trust itself hadnt vanished, only stopped being unconditional.
At home, she put the kettle on, took the new passwords in their envelope and slipped them into the fireproof wallet shed bought from the stationers. Richard joined her, silently setting down two mugs.
I get it now, he said at last. Youre right. I just wanted things back the way they were.
Helen looked at him.
They wont be the same, she said. But they could be better. If we look after one anothernot with words, but actions.
Richard nodded. She listened as the drawer lock clicked shut, the tiny sound marking the return, bit by bit, of control through careful habits.
