**A Strange Journey**
When the notification for a speeding fine flashed on his phone, James didnt understand at first. He sat at the kitchen table, elbows resting on the laminate surface. The flat was dimming into evening, the last of the snow outside melting into damp patches on the pavement. Routine stuffchecking messages, scrolling through the news. But then came the email from the car-sharing service. The subject line read: *Speeding Fine Issued.*
At first, he assumed it was a mistake. The last time hed rented a car was weeks agoa quick trip to the out-of-town supermarket, carefully ending the session in the app. Since then, hed had no reason to drive; work had gone remote, and errands were done on foot or by bus. His coat hung by the door, still damp from the drizzle earlier, but he hadnt gone near a car.
He opened the email, reading it three times. The fine was addressed to him, with a timestamp from the previous eveningdetails of a cars registration and a stretch of road near the train station, a part of town he hadnt visited in weeks.
Irritation replaced confusion. He opened the car-sharing app, the logo flashing before the screen loaded sluggishlyhis home Wi-Fi always struggled in the evenings. The trip history showed a rental the night before: starting just past eight, ending forty minutes later on the other side of Manchester.
James studied the details. The start time matched when hed been eating dinner in front of the telly, half-watching a segment about a tech expo. He tapped *View Route*, and the map unfoldedgrey streets beneath a traced line of movement.
His mind raced. A glitch? A hacked account? But his password was strong, and his phone never left his side.
Back in the email, he spotted the standard appeals linksupport promised a response within two days if he could prove his innocence.
Fingers tense with frustration, he typed a quick message in the apps chat:
*”Evening. Received a fine for speeding under rental # but I didnt use the car yesterdaywas at home all evening. Please check this.”*
The auto-reply was immediate: *”Your query has been logged. Await further updates.”*
He exhaled. If this wasnt resolved, hed be stuck paying for someone elses mistakethe services terms pinned responsibility to the account holder. He remembered that from last years policy update.
A floorboard creaked in the next room. The heating had been off for a weekspring days were warm, but nights still carried a chill. The flats usual sounds filtered in: the fridge humming, faint voices from the hallway.
The wait gnawed at him. Scrolling back through the rental history, he noticed something oddthe session had ended without the usual photos of the cars interior. The app always required them before closing a booking.
Frustration grew. No direct contact with a human, just automated replies.
He scribbled details on a notepadstart time matching the evening news, the pickup location a retail park three bus stops away. A half-formed thought about calling an old colleague, a solicitor whod once mentioned how hard it was to dispute fines without solid proof of fraud. But first, hed gather his own evidence.
The next morning, he woke early, unrested. No updates from supportjust the same *”under review”* status. Determined, he cross-referenced the rentals timestamp with his own records: mobile banking showed a takeaway order around seven, work messages exchanged between half-eight and nineright when the car was supposedly in use.
He screenshotted everythingthe route, the rental log, his transactionsand resent them to support.
Waiting felt easier now, but he couldnt shake the odd sensation of building a case in his own defence.
By evening, the reply came: *”Thank you for your patience. For further action, we advise filing a police report and forwarding us a copy.”*
More bureaucracy. Now hed have to prove his innocence to the authorities.
That night, he visited the local station. The queue was short; the officer listened, helped draft a statement about unauthorised account access, and took copies of his evidence.
Back home, James uploaded everythingsupport tickets, the police report. One question lingered: *Who had used his account?*
The next morning, car-sharing security reached outthey had CCTV footage of the rentals start.
The video loaded in the app. A figure, hood up, unlocked the car with a phone, slid into the drivers seat. The face was turned away, but one thing was clearit wasnt James.
Relief came slowly. By afternoon, another email: *”After review, the fine has been voided due to confirmed unauthorised access. Thank you for your diligence.”* Attached was a guide on account security.
A support call followedcalm, professional. *”We recommend enabling two-factor authentication. Instructions will be sent separately.”*
He did it immediatelynew password, SMS verification. The app confirmed the change.
The resolution left him wary. A close callone slip, and hed have paid for a strangers recklessness.
Over drinks with colleagues later, he recounted it.
*”Nearly had to pay a fine for a joyride I didnt take. Thank God for CCTV. Two-factor everything now.”*
One frowned. *”Didnt think that could happen. Ill check my settings.”*
A quiet unease settled in. Digital habits didnt feel so harmless anymore.
Walking home in the rain, pavement gleaming under streetlights, he double-checked his phoneno new alerts.
At the kitchen window later, he lingered. Less fear of glitches or malice nowjust a sharper awareness of his own complacency.
The next day, he forwarded the security guide to a few contacts with a note: *”Worth a look. Better safe.”*
Two repliedone asking about appeals, the other thanking him for the tip.
The week passed quietly. No more alarming emails, no odd transactions. But every login, he checked his settingsa new habit, folded into the rhythm of ordinary days.
