I am on my laptop computer, looking at my investments on the website of my financial adviser. I’ve just clicked on my quarterly statement.

When my computer explodes. A loud, persistent ringing alarm. Flashing lights. MICROSOFT in big letters. A computer-generated voice repeating over and over again:

“This is Microsoft. You have been attacked by a Trojan Horse virus – do NOT shut down your computer. Ring this number immediately!”

Yes, there is a number below the word Microsoft. And I cannot shut down my computer anyway. The whole screen is pulsating with flashes and screeching. The keyboard doesn’t work. I wait. The cacophony continues. I escape out of my office, my ears ringing with the noise. Still, it goes on. I cannot bear it. I go back to the computer and copy the number into my mobile phone, then go into the sitting-room again, shutting the door on the alarms. And wait.

I can bear it no longer and I make the call. An Indian voice answers. There is background noise – must be a call center. “Who are you?” I shout and strain my ears for an answer. I think I hear a faint voice saying Microsoft. Of course he would say that. “I can’t hear you,” I say, then repeat my usual mantra: “I’m deaf, so please speak  s l o w l y and there’s too much background noise.” I hold on and the noise subsides.

“I’m from Microsoft…”

“What is your name?” I interrupt. “Are you a scammer? My computer is sounding alarm bells, and I cannot stand the noise.” He mumbles something in an offended tone and cuts me off.

I collapse into a chair. There is nobody around in the middle of the day, and I can still hear the computer clamouring through the closed door. I go back to try the keyboard again. No luck. My brain is becoming befuddled. I escape to the kitchen and wait five whole minutes, then ring the number again. A woman answers with a soothing sort-of middle eastern voice, and I repeat my mantra.

“All I want is for you to stop the noise on my computer – it is driving me crazy!”

She calms me down, invites me to return to my computer, and takes me through the steps of installing some software. I wait for what seems an age, watching the mouse wavering over the flashing screen. The noise stops and my computer returns to normal. What a blessed release. “Thank you!”

“Now please wait while I put you through to my supervisor…”

He has a soft Celtic accent and tells me his name is Daniel. Do I know what a Trojan Horse virus is? Yes. It is a malicious program which lurks doggo in your computer, then erupts dramatically when triggered. He is from the Government, he says, and is here to help me. First, I need to make sure that my bank account has not been compromised. Going through the two stage security checks, I open my account. Thankfully, the balance is unchanged. Then I watch him moving the cursor on the screen. He raises the balance of my account by $2,000.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just showing you – Have you ever heard of a Sting?” And he proceeds to tell me. It is catching a thief by pretending to be a victim. “We want to pretend there is more money in your account and transfer it into another account for the hacker to access. He would have already cloned your account onto his computer…”

I don’t wholly understand the details but am all for catching the criminal. I watch the cursor explore my online banking site and raise my daily withdrawal limit to $2,000. I can hardly believe my eyes. I look at my watch. It is nearly time to go for my weekly lunch with friends. I also need to contact my son for support. My watch creeps past noon, and I WhatsApp my friends saying I can’t come. I text my son, but there is no reply.

“You must keep the phone line open to me,” says Daniel, “Are you alone?” Yes.

“It is important not to shut down your computer. We must now provide some money, the more the better, so the hackers will be tempted.” The cursor hovers over my savings account. I refuse to use my savings account. Okay then, I must go out and get some cash with my credit card. The best way is to buy Apple gift cards – $2,000 at the very least. I’ve never heard of Apple gift cards.

“Any Post Office has them,” he says. The phone cuts off and I breathe a sigh of relief. I can now shut down my computer. A black screen faces me and white typing appears in code. It must be him again. “What’s happened?” I type back. I am told to wait while he restores the computer. Eventually, the familiar welcome screen appears. My mobile rings. It is Daniel calling me from a different number.

“What happened?” No problem – he was cut off at his end. He tells me to log back onto my internet banking account. “You see,” he says. “Your balance is back to normal! Now you must buy some Apple gift cards. Leave your computer on, and drive with your credit card and your mobile phone to the nearest post office. Then wait in the car while I give you more instructions.”

I don’t mind leaving my laptop on. They’ve already had ample time to do their worst, which isn’t much as I never save my passwords on computer. And my bank website has to be resuscitated with 2-step authentication at regular intervals. But I do not want to buy anything under his instructions. I wish my son would answer my text.

I grit my teeth, place my phone (on loudspeaker) beside me on the passenger seat, and drive to the local PO. There is a notice on the pavement saying the post office is closed. Thank goodness! I cannot keep the relief out of my voice when I tell Daniel.

“No problem – you can go to your nearest supermarket to buy the Apple gift cards. How far away is it?”

I prevaricate. No way do I fancy going any further afield. I start the car. I know – I’ll drive to my son’s house. Parking outside, I leave my phone in the car, lock it, and ring the doorbell. No reply. I ring again. There is nobody at home. The neighbour is cleaning out his caravan, so I hail him.

“Do you know where they are?”

“He’s playing golf this morning – coming back at around two o’clock.”

Now what am I going to do? Slowly, I return to the car. On my way home, Daniel speaks. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going back home,” I tell him firmly, then turn into my garage and enter my house.

He is very persuasive, re-affirming that I really should get the gift cards. So I return to the car and drive off. Daniel is still talking to me.

“Now you’ve got me driving illegally while talking on the phone!” I interrupt.

“You don’t need to hold the phone.”

“I know, I know…” fumbling around to put it on its magnetic holder, while steering with my other hand. I pull up outside a small local supermarket, lock the car again with the phone inside it, and go in.

“Do you sell Apple gift cards?” I ask the youth behind the check-out counter. “No.”

“They haven’t got any Apple gift cards,” I tell Daniel when I get back to the car. Then, firmly, “I’m going home.”

It is only 12.45 pm and my son isn’t due back until two o’clock. I text him again, to please call in at my house on his way back from golf as I need his help. I go into the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee.”

“Oh.” Daniel sounds relieved. But is he beginning to suspect?

He allows me time to relax and enjoy my coffee before sending me back to the computer. The screen is blank, and I have to restart it using my Microsoft pin. Then I am told to revisit my bank website “to ensure that the balance is still as it should be.” He asks me to take a photo of the screen. He talks about withdrawing money through an ATM. The screen changes to a map of my area (so – he knows my location). I watch as the cursor jumps and scrolls, looking for what – ATMs? Supermarkets? It hovers over a Bunnings, then passes on.

He makes a decision. “We will open a bank account in your name, and we will operate it to trap the hacker.  Don’t worry – I will talk you through it. Do you have a driving licence? And your passport number? I want you to take a photo of the front and back of your driving licence.”

I can’t believe I am doing this. I feel utterly trapped, wishing my son would hurry up. The computer screen changes into a HSBC bank form, and under his direction I key in my name and email address. Then the number of my driving licence and my passport.

“Good,” he says. “I will fill in our details, so that we can operate the account. You don’t have to worry about it anymore.” I need another cup of coffee and my mobile needs charging. “We’re nearly done,” he says. “You just need to get some cash to put into the account.” I go to the other room to put the phone on charge. It is past two o’clock, and I resolve to end the matter immediately.

The front door rattles. It is my son, in a blazing fury. “Mum – what’s wrong with you? I’ve tried and tried to ring you and have been knocking at the door for ages!”

“I couldn’t hear you…  My son’s here!” I say loudly into the phone, as I let him in and gesture for him to go to the kitchen. Daniel starts talking rapidly. He tells me I must not tell anybody about the Sting, least of all my son. It would spoil everything. I must get rid of him as soon as possible. I put the phone down, go to the kitchen and tell my son everything. He is astounded.

“Mum. How could you…?”

I give him a hard look and fetch the phone. “YOU talk to him!”

“What stories have you been telling my mother?” he demands angrily.

Then he listens – and listens. And listens. “Wait a minute – “ my son’s voice has softened considerably. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate that I need to make some checks. What is your name – and your physical address?” I find a pen and a piece of paper. Why didn’t I think of asking those questions at the beginning? I leave them to it and pour myself another cup of coffee. Eventually, my son brings me the phone, shaking his head.

“It’s a scam,” he says quietly. “The man is very persuasive, but he has to go and find out what address to give me. It’s not even worth checking.” I grab the phone and cut it off. Then I go into my office and shut down my computer. It has been four whole hours of stress and exposure.

“Now quick – we must notify my bank – and the HSBC about the phony account opening. Oh, and my investment bank, whose website I was on when the alarm went off at the beginning …”

We work together.

The following day an IT professional spends another four hours changing the password on my router, re-formatting the hard drive of my laptop, and reconfiguring my mobile phone. He tells me I could have switched off my laptop by pressing the start button for twenty seconds. Of course I know that. Why did I not think of it at the time? Meanwhile my son composes a cyber security report, with me dividing my attention between the two of them, as I must change all my passwords and order a new credit card.

Thankfully, no money is lost, but the repercussions only end after I go in person to a HSBC bank to ensure they physically close the phony account. And three weeks later, I finally receive delivery of a new passport.

I’m glad I decided to write about this – it has served as a catharsis, and I can now move on. Let this be a lesson for us all…

Have a Happy Christmas everyone!