The Safe Word When Sarah stood at the supermarket check-out clutching a bag of yoghurt and a loaf o…

Code Word

Samantha was clutching a bag of yoghurt and a loaf of bread at the Sainsbury’s till, when the card machine screeched and flashed up: Transaction declined. Out of sheer hope, she swiped her card again, as if she might sweet-talk technology, but the cashier was already regarding her with the wary fatigue of someone whos seen every excuse in the book.

Would you like to try another card? the cashier asked bleakly.

Samantha shook her head, fished for her phone, and found a text from her bank: Account activity suspended. Please contact support. Hot on its heels came another message, this time from an unknown number: Loan approved. Agreement No She felt an uncomfortable heat rise behind her ears. Someone in the queue behind shifted, impatient.

Thankfully, she had that emergency fiver stashed away and paid in cash, then escaped onto the street. The carrier bag was nipping her fingers. Only one thought ran through her mind: this had to be a mistake.

On her walk home, she rang the bank. Robots droned, she pressed buttons, endured off-brand Vivaldi, until finally a human voice.

Your account is frozen due to suspected fraudulent activity, the operator intoned. Your credit record reflects new obligations. Youll need to come into a branch with your ID.

What obligations? Samantha tried to keep her voice steady. I havent taken anything out.

There are two short-term loans and an application for a replacement SIM card registered in your name, the operator recited, as if reading off pizza toppings. We cant remove the block without verification.

Samantha hung up. Three more loan texts blinked onto her screen. One mentioned a grace period, another warned of interest charges. She tried logging into her banking app, but got: Access Denied. A neat, business-like wave of cold dread washed over herlike hearing your name called in a hospital waiting area.

She plonked the bag on the table at home, coat still on. Her husband, Steve, was in the living room hunched over his laptop.

Something wrong? he asked, glancing up.

My card got declined. The banks blocked it. And she held up her phone. Apparently I have some loans to my name?

Steve frowned.

Youre sure you didnt accidentally tick something? Sign up for one of those deals?

Me? Samantha bristled. I dont go within a mile of those places.

He exhaled, as if shed reported a backed-up sink rather than bank fraud. Well sort it. Just pop in tomorrow.

His just pop in made it sound like a quick trip for milk. Samantha fled to the kitchen, flicked the kettle on, and tried not to spill her shaking hands. She slipped her phone back into her pocket, took it out again. A missed call flashed: Collections Agency. She did not fancy calling back.

That night sleep evaded her. Her mind reeled: suspected fraud, obligations, SIM card. She pictured herself, tomorrow, proving she hadnt done somethingapologising for a crime that wasnt hers.

The next morning, she set out early. She hedged work by calling her manager: Bank emergency. Her manager scrutinised her, then nodded. The silence was somehow worse than any sympathy.

The bank branch queue curled around people clutching passports and paperwork. Samantha soaked up conversationstransfers, loans, just a quick question. When her turn came, a woman in a white shirt asked for her ID and began tapping away.

Youve two loan contracts on your record, the woman said without looking up. One for twenty grand, one for fifteen. Plus an application for a replacement SIM card and a failed attempt to transfer funds to a third party.

I didnt do any of this, said Samantha. Her words landed dull, as if rubber-stamped.

Then youll need to file a fraud complaint and a declaration of non-consent, the banker pushed forms across. We can provide a statement and a note confirming your accounts locked. Best to order a fresh credit report too.

Samantha took the forms. Tiny print at the bottom confirmed the bank could not guarantee a positive outcome. She signed anyway and carefully checked the boxes. How could this happen? she asked. Dont you do text confirmations?

Someone may have replaced your SIM card, the banker shrugged. Means the codes would go to the new number. Best raise it with your mobile provider.

Samantha left with a folder: statements, forms, a letter. Paperwork heavy as evidence from a strangers life.

The mobile shop was stuffy. A young assistant greeted her with the insistent cheer of someone whose job involves selling pointless phone covers.

There is indeed a SIM card registered in your name, he said after checking her ID. Was picked up two days ago. Different branch.

I didnt get one, Samanthas stomach dropped. How did you hand it out?

He shrugged. Just needed a drivers licence. Or a photocopy. Sometimes a letter of authority, but wed note that. Want to lodge a dispute? We can block the SIM.

Please do, Samantha said. Also, can I have the branch address?

He printed a slip: address, time, request number. Under contact number, her previous phone number appeared, one she could recall without effort. Next to it: SIM change. Sosomeone had ordered a replacement.

Outside, Samantha rang the credit bureau. More instructions, identity proofs, more codes. She perched against the mobile shop wall, toggling between screens, each code barely feeling like security at all.

By lunchtime, they rang her again.

Mrs. Archer? the voice was flat and male. Overdue payment on your loan account. When will you clear it?

I didnt take out a loan. This is fraud.

All say that, the voice retorted. We have a contract, your data. No payment means house visit.

She hung up. Her heart galloped; shame mixed with fearas if shed been publicly caught shoplifting, though completely innocent.

By evening, shed made her way to the local police station. The place smelled of paper and old floor polish. The constable, a burly man in his fifties, took notes as she spoke, letting her finish.

So: payday loans, SIM swap, transfer attempt, he summarised. You still hold your passport? Not lost it?

Never lost it, said Samantha. But copies have been made. For work insurance once. And for the property management, I think

Paper copies go walkabout, the constable sighed. But this SIM replacementnow that we can act on. Write down a statement. Attach your forms, mobile shop details. Well take it from here.

He slid forward pen and paper. As Samantha wrote, she tried not to cry. The phrase unknown person or persons felt laughable. It didnt feel like faceless criminals. It felt like someone who knew her day-to-day.

When she arrived home, Steve hovered at the door.

Well?

I filed a report. SIMs blocked. Tomorrow I need to pop into the council office to get paperwork sorted, and Ill ask for another copy of my credit file, Samantha reeled off her tasks quickly, as if speed could hold disaster at bay.

Steve winced. Sammie, wouldnt it be easier just to pay it off and let it go? Less stress.

Samantha stared at him, baffled. Pay off someone elses debt? And hope they stop?

I didnt mean he faltered. You know how it is with the police

Samantha realised what he really meant: he was scared and wanted it all quietly to vanish. Except the price of vanishing was her right to her own name.

Next morning, she made a pilgrimage to the councils drop-in centre. Everybody clutched folders, glaring at the ticket machine. Samantha gripped her documents tight, imagining DEBT tattooed on her forehead. Ridiculous, but not less humiliating.

At the desk, a staffer explained which certificates she could obtain, what forms to fill, how to lock down her credit record. Samantha wrote notes in a little spiral notebook, for her head was now a colander.

By evening, her credit report came through. She opened it on her laptop. There they were: two payday lenders, one rejected application. Each line bore her ID, address, workplace. In one fieldsecurity wordshe read something only her closest family knew.

Samantha read it again. The security word had been set years ago, when a bank clerk suggested extra protection. Shed joked about keeping it simple so she wouldnt forget. Shed once recited it to Steve and her son, while opening a family account. And thenshe remembered last winter, helping Steves nephew, Jamie, apply for a job. Hed sat at their kitchen table cracking jokes, as she filled out his form online. Shed even said the security word aloud, testing how it sounded.

Samantha closed her laptop. A hollow, post-impact feeling set in. The code word couldnt escape the cloud. It wasnt on her passport photocopies. Someone inside earshot had heard.

She rummaged out her important papers folder. Inside: old copies of passports, insurance letters, contracts. Flicking through, she found a photocopy of her passport, made for Jamie when hed needed help opening a salary account. Hed mentioned trouble registering online and asked for just the copy for the office. Shed agreed; hes family, Steve said. Hes having a tough time.

Shed even scrawled not for use elsewhere on it, as a precaution. The note was still there. That hadnt stopped anything.

Samantha sat at the kitchen table turning the paper in her hands. She remembered Jamie asking for a loan just last month, Steve brushing her off: Dont start, Samits fine, hes doing better. Jamies bright banter, his avoidance, his quick exits.

Steve entered the kitchen.

Whats going on? he asked.

She put the credit report and the passport copy in front of him. The code words in the file. And the SIM was switched using my details. Jamie had a copy of my passport.

Steve scanned the page, brow furrowed. You cant think He wouldnt. Hes just going through something.

Going through something? Samantha swallowed angry tears, but her voice was icy. Im getting threats, my accounts frozen, and youre suggesting I just pay off some strangers debt because its easier for you?

He went silent. She knew his silence by now: not support, but refusal. Not for Jamie; for the world as he wanted it. Where family would never.

The next day, Samantha visited the mobile shop branch that had issued the replacement SIM. A cramped kiosk in a retail park. She presented her ID. Can I speak to your manager?

We cant share information about third parties, the shop assistant said, all customer-service smile. If you believe theres been fraud, raise it through the police.

I have, said Samantha. But at least tell me what proof was shown.

The assistant peered over, then leaned in. System says passport was shown, looked genuine. Signature matched.

Samanthas hands tingled. Someone had turned up in-person, either with a fake ID or just a strong resemblance. Or both. She pictured Jamiethin, evasive, mumbling hed lost his SIM, the employee too weary to care.

She stepped outside and phoned her friend, Jenny, who dabbled in legal advice at a small firm.

I need a bit of help, said Samantha. And I think I know whos involved.

Jenny didnt press. Come over tonight. Bring everything. And for heavens sake, dont pay those sharks.

Jennys office smelled of old coffee and pens. Samantha spread out the grim artefacts of her weekstatements, reports, mobile slip, council forms.

Well done saving all this, Jenny nodded. Nowkeep pushing. The police reports in. Write to the payday loan companies insisting you did not sign up, demand contract copies, and lock your credit record. Not foolproof, but it helps.

What if it is someone I know? The words barely came out.

Even more reason to act. If you drop this, theyll do it again. Its not about the cash. Its about boundaries.

Samantha nodded. The word boundaries was foreign to her extended family, where its just a favour was code for anything goes.

On Saturday, Jamie turned up himself. Steve called him round for a chat. Samantha heard the door, Jamies forced banter, his hopeful joke. She met them in the hallway, folder in hand.

Hi Sam, Jamie beamed. Steve said thered been a bit of bother?

Samantha didnt invite him into the kitchen. She stayed put. The bother is mine, Jamie. Loans and a cloned SIM on my name. The code word in each form is one only my family knows. And you had my passport copy.

Jamies grin faltered. Blimey. Thats everywhere these days, isnt it?

Everywhere, Samantha repeated, eyes steady. And my passport copy was with you.

Steve glared at her, tense. Dont push.

Im not pushing, she replied. Im asking.

Jamie avoided her gaze, then drew in a breath. I needed the cash, he blurted. Thought you wouldnt notice right away. Meant to pay it off before you found out. But I kept slipping behindinterest, you know. It got too much.

You put these loans in my name. Did you even care that Id be harassed? Or have my account blocked?

I figured Id sort it in time, Jamie mumbled. Didnt want to hurt you, honest. Its just no one else would help. But youSam, you always help.

That stung worst of all. You always help as if that obliged her.

Steve stepped forward, aghast. Jamie, do you realise this is criminal?

Ill pay you back, Steve, promise! Jamie clutched at hope. Just give me a chance. Dont

Samantha unzipped her folder, drew out the police statement. Already done. Im not withdrawing it.

Jamies face went pale. But were family, he pleaded.

Family dont do this, Samanthas voice was calm, but she shookfinally standing her ground after long years.

Steve looked at her, seeing now what shed paid to preserve his normal. Price: her name, her peace.

Go, Steve told Jamie quietly. Now.

Jamie hesitated, searching for one last free pass, then left. The door shut. Quietness fell, not like calm, more like a deep crack in the walls.

Steve sat on the hallway stool, rubbing his face.

I just never thought he he started.

Me neither, Samantha said, leaning on the wall. But from now on, trust isnt armour. Not anymore.

He looked at her, defeated. What now?

I see it through. And at homeno more loose document copies. Passcodes arent for chat. If anyone wants my phone for a sec, its not happening.

Steve nodded, with the caution of someone learning not to touch a hot stove twice.

Weeks blurred into red tape. Samantha mailed special delivery letters to the lenders, attached the police report, demanded contract copies, and the mobile record. She opened a new account, got payroll switched, blocked all new credit requests. The mobile provider locked her number so thoroughly it now needed a retina scan and a written essay to move. Everything logged: letters, scans, new passwords in a physical envelope under lock and key. She was exhausted, but it felt like a sort of powerher life slowly obeying her again.

Collectors kept ringing but she was now direct.

Correspondence by post only, Samantha replied. Fraud reported, police reference XYZ123. This calls recorded.

Some hung up, some growled, but she never apologised. She logged it all. Jenny kept tabs.

Finally, an email from one lender: Agreement on hold pending investigation. Hardly a parade, but at last, a scrap of official recognition that she wasnt endlessly at fault.

Steve grew quieter. He didnt challenge when Samantha locked away the documents or changed device codes. He sometimes tried to open a Jamie discussion, but Samantha would cut in:

Im not talking about him. Not while this is still open.

No feeling of victory. Just a wary, working calm, as if after a firethe house stands, but the smell lingers.

At months end, Samantha picked up a confirmation from her bank: Disputed transactions closed. The clerk advised, Change your passport if you can. And do keep an eye on your credit score.

Outside, Samantha finally allowed herself a breath. On impulse, she bought a new notebook and pen from a newsagent, took a seat by a bus stop. On page one she wrote large: Rules. No grand statements, just a list.

No sharing document copies. Security words never spoken out loud. Only I touch my phone. Loansonly by mutual agreement, and only for people I could bear to say no to.

She closed the book, zipped it carefully into her bag. Inside, the anxiety was still there, but it was tameda working sort of worry. Trust hadnt disappeared; it just shed its old, blind skin.

Back home, she set the kettle, fetched the new password envelope and tucked it into a tamper-evident wallet from Rymans. Steve brought two mugs over, setting them on the counter wordlessly.

I get it now, he finally said. Youre right. I just wanted things the way they were.

Samantha met his eyes. They wont ever be the way they were, she said. But they could be better, if we protect each other with action, not just hope.

Steve nodded. The faint click of a lock as Samantha closed her desk drawer sounded small, almost invisible, but to her it meant everything: a sense of control, earned back, one turn at a time.