What the hell is going on? Part 1

[Foxy Lady]

Sitting at my desk, watching my hands shake, I tried to piece together what had happened. At the time, all I was aware of was the pain. But the pain subsiding and the shock receding, my brain began to understand what had happened.

It was about a quarter to nine in the morning, a Monday morning. I was walking the final few blocks to work when suddenly I found myself whisked off my feet and literally thrown into an alley. I landed on my face, winded, and one of my assailants landed on my back, jolting my spine. As soon as she – why did I feel sure it was a woman? – rolled off, two punches hit me in each kidney. My body jumped and hands grabbed my ankles. I was sure I was about to be raped when they pulled my legs apart, but instead I received a single punch, up my skirt, between my legs, right into my crotch. I knew it hurt guys to be busted like that – I’d done it to my brother often enough when we were kids – but sweet fuck, oh sweet fuck, I’d never felt pain like that before. Oh and I was screaming - did I forget to mention that? Well who wouldn’t be, after a beating like that?

They were gone as swiftly as they had come. I just lay there for a while, with paroxysms of pain surging through me. Every time I tried to sit up, the pain doubled me over again. When I finally managed to get upright, the nausea hit me. Having deposited my breakfast into the garbage, I looked around for my purse. There it was, on the ground just a few feet away. A quick check reassured me: my cards were still there, so was my cash. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t a robbery.

I reported it to the police, of course, but they weren’t hopeful. With nothing to indicate who had done and no theft, this would just be added to the statistics as another random attack. ‘You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ the office on the desk told me. As I was about to leave, she muttered, almost to herself, ‘I wonder why they went for your crotch. Unusual that.’

And so I went about my business as before, but sore and caution, making sure to keep close to groups of people if I could. My journeys to and from work passed without incident. I bought my groceries, ordered goods on line, paid for my facial, just like normal. The memory of the attack began to fade with the soreness.

Then, it was on the fourth day, I had bought some underwear and the assistant returned my card with the receipt and said ‘Have a nice day, Ms Wherry.’ At least that’s what I thought she’d said. But why, my name was Martha Chandler, not Wherry. I must have misheard her. Then, as I was putting my credit card into my purse, I noticed the name: Mrs D Wherry. I turned back, thinking she had handed me the wrong card. But then, no that couldn’t be it, because my personal number had worked. I stared at the card. It was my number and, on the back in my writing, was the signature for D Wherry. I checked my other cards; they were all the same. Everything was as before, except my name.

As soon as I got back to my desk, I checked my credit card account on line and yes, my password still worked. The account showed all my recent transactions. The only thing that was different was my name. It was now Wherry. And I had a new first name as well: Dona. It was the same for all my cards. Someone had changed my name to Dona Wherry. Somehow they had switched my old cards. And there was only one time when that could have happened – when I was attacked. But why?

What the hell was going on?


TO BE CONTINUED

 

[Foxy Lady]

RE: What the hell is going on? Updated August 20

‘Excuse me, are you alright?’

The question shook me back to the present. I’d gradually got used to shop assistants calling me Mrs Wherry. Some even commented how unusual it was. I’d found myself forced to use Wherry as my name. Online orders, for example, required the purchaser’s billing name and address. Even in shops it was easier to use the name on the card. How else could I explain why I had a different name without arousing suspicion?

So more and more of my post came in my new name. Some because it related to my accounts, some because I had had to use the name, and the rest because someone was arranging for it to be sent to me. It would not have come as a surprise to find the name on my door at work changed, but it wasn’t. There, I was still Ms Chandler. At least for the moment.

Having two identities can be useful. I’ve got to admit that I got a secret thrill out of using a false name, like I was some secret agent or a criminal on the run. But that didn’t stop me wondering. What was going on? Who was doing this? And just as important: why were they doing it? There had to be a point, surely. It couldn’t just be some kind of joke or experiment. Could it? That was what I was pondering as I sipped my coffee in Starbucks.

‘Excuse me, are you alright?’

I turned to the man sitting at the next table.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I was distracted. What did you ask?’

‘I asked if you were OK. I wouldn’t have spoken, only you look like something’s troubling you.’

‘You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,’ I replied.

‘Try me,’ he said. So I did.

‘And that,’ I concluded, ‘is why I am puzzled. Who is doing this and why?’

He moved across to join me at my table.

‘Maybe those are the wrong questions,’ he suggested.

‘Really? What question would you ask then?’

‘How?’ he replied. ‘Work out how the person got the name changed on your accounts and that may tell you who did it and that may help you understand why.’

‘I’ve thought about the how bit, but I just don’t understand it. It would take a lot of technical expertise to be able to forge my new cards to work just like the old ones and then get into my accounts online and change my name there. That would require access to all sorts of specialist equipment to print the cards and insert the data.’

The guy laughed.

‘You’re trying to make this too complicated. The how bit, as you call it, is real easy.’

‘OK,’ I said, ‘tell me how, but first tell me your name.’

‘That’s even easier,’ he grinned. ‘I’m Andrew Antrim. Call me Andy. And what shall I call you?’

‘Call me Dona,’ I smiled. ‘And then tell me how this could be organised so easily.’