**The Wrong Ride**
When the penalty notice flashed on his phone screen, Edward didnt grasp what was happening at first. He was slumped at the kitchen table, elbows digging into the laminate surface. The flat was dimming into dusk, the last stubborn patches of snow outside melting into uneven puddles on the pavement. Just another evening routinechecking messages, mindlessly scrollinguntil the car-sharing app pinged with an email. The subject line read: *”Speeding Fine: £120 Charge.”*
His first thought was *glitch*. The last time hed rented a car was weeks agoa quick trip to the Tesco Extra on the outskirtsand hed properly ended the session in the app. Since then, no drives, no plans: work was remote, errands were done on foot or the bus. His coat, still damp from the drizzle earlier, hung by the door. He hadnt so much as glanced at a car.
He read the notice three times. The fine was definitely his, timestamped last night. The details listed a registration plate and a stretch of road near the train stationsomewhere he hadnt been in ages.
Annoyance flared. He opened the app. The logo blinked, loading painfully slowbloody Wi-Fi always sputtered in the evenings. The trip history showed a rental the previous night: started just past eight, ended forty minutes later on the other side of Manchester.
Edward squinted at the details. The rental began while hed been eating dinner in front of *Gardeners World*, distinctly recalling a segment on robotic lawnmowers. He tapped *”View Route”*the map unfurled, grey streets scrolling under the highlighted path.
His mind raced. System error? Hacked account? But his password was a fortress, and his phone never left his pocketexcept when charging bedside overnight.
The email had a standard appeal linksupport promised a response within 48 hours if he could prove his innocence.
Fingers twitching, he fired off a message in the apps chat:
*”Evening. Received a speeding fine for rental # but I was home all last night. Please check this is correct.”*
The auto-reply was instant: *”Thanks for reaching out! Weve logged your query”* Blah blah.
A grim thought: if no one fixed this, *hed* foot the billuser accountability, per the apps terms. He vaguely remembered that clause from last years update.
A floorboard creaked in the hall. The heating had been off for daystoo warm in daylight, but evenings still held a stubborn chill. He absently registered the fridge humming, muffled voices drifting up from the stairwell.
The wait gnawed at him. He scrolled back through the rental history and spotted another oddity: the session had ended without the usual interior photosnormally, the app demanded proof of the cars condition.
Helplessness prickled. No human contact, just automated forms and bot replies.
He scribbled details on a takeaway receipt: trip start/end times aligning with *Antiques Roadshow*, the pickup location a retail park three stops from his flat.
A fleeting thought to ring his mate Dave, a solicitor whod once moaned about fighting these fines without ironclad proof. But instinct said to gather his own evidence firstfor support, maybe even the police.
Next morning, bleary-eyed from a night of half-sleep, he checked his inbox. Nothing. Status still *”Under Review.”*
He dug deeper: bank statements showed a Deliveroo order at seven, work Slack messages timestamped 8:309 PMsmack in the alleged rental window. Screenshots taken, he resent them to support.
Waiting felt easier now, but the absurdity lingeredbuilding a case to prove he *wasnt* some speed demon in a rented Vauxhall.
Dusk again. Outside, yellow streetlights bled into wet tarmac. Someone hurried past the building, breath misting in the unseasonable evening chill.
By eight, support replied: *”Thanks! Weve escalated your case For faster resolution, file a police report and send us a copy.”*
Brilliant. More paperwork.
That evening, Edward trudged to the local station. The queue was short; the officer listened, nodding, and helped draft a statement about unauthorised account use. Copies were taken, screenshots attached.
Back home, he uploaded everythingsupport emails, police reportto the apps portal.
The final hurdle: whod used his account?
Next morning, security finally called. Theyd pulled CCTV from the retail park.
The footage loaded in-app. A figure in a hoodie approached the car, unlocked it via phone, slid inside. Quick, furtive. Face obscured, but unmistakably *not* Edward.
Relief, then weary frustration. By afternoon, another email: *”Fine cancelled. Unauthorised access confirmed. Thanks for your vigilance!”*
A follow-up call: *”Enable two-factor authentication, yeah?”*
He did, immediately. Password updated, SMS codes set. The app chirped confirmation.
Over pints with mates that night, he recounted the saga.
*”Bloody hell,”* Tom said. *”Guess Id better check my settings.”*
A drizzle followed him home. Streetlights wobbled in puddles. His phone stayed silentno new alerts.
By the window later, it struck him: less fear of glitches or strangers, more annoyance at his own complacency.
The next day, he forwarded the security memo to a few contacts. Two replied instantlyone asking how hed fought the fine, the other thanking him for the 2FA tip.
The week ended quietly. No more phantom rentals, no panicked emails. But every login now came with a habit: a quick check of the security settings, a new ritual in the autumn routine.
