In the hallway of Block Six, where the stairwell always smelled of damp umbrellas and fresh cement, spring felt almost palpable. The air was cool, but the evenings lingered in a soft glow, as if the day were reluctant to leave.
The Harrison family was coming home: David, Claire and their teenage son, Jake. Each clutched a bag of vegetables and a loaf of bread, the green stalks of spring onions poking out of the tops. By the front door a thin film of water clung to the tilessomeone had just entered without shaking off their umbrella.
Pinned to the doors and the mailboxes were freshly printed noticesplain white sheets from a home printer. In bold scarlet letters they read: Attention! Emergency replacement of water meters! Must be done by the end of the week! Fines apply! Call the number below. The paper was already curling in the damp, ink bleeding at the edges. Downstairs, Aunt Lucy stood by the lift, fumbling with a phone while balancing a sack of potatoes in her other hand.
They say therell be fines if we dont replace them, she whispered, halfto herself, as the Harrisons passed. I called earlier; a young man told me its a special programme just for our block. Maybe its time.
David shrugged. It feels very rushed. No one warned us beforehand. The management company is silentno letters, no calls. And a programme? Sounds a bit too slick.
Later, around the dinner table, Jake slipped another notice from his baga twin of the first, folded in two and tucked into the door jamb. Claire turned the slip over, eyeing the date of the last meter inspection on their latest bill.
Our last inspection was only a year ago. Why the hurry? she asked. And why does nobody we know recognise the company?
David thought for a moment. We should ask the neighbours who got the same leaflets. And find out what this service really iswhy are they handing them out everywhere?
The next morning the stairwell buzzed with more voices. Somewhere above, a heated phone argument echoed; on the landing by the rubbish chute, two women from flat three swapped worries.
If we dont change it, theyll cut off our water! one protested, clutching her babys blanket. Ive got little ones!
Just then, the hallway doorbell rang. Two men in identical navy jackets, briefcases at their sides, strode past the flats. One held a tablet; the other a stack of papers.
Good evening, residents! Mandatory watermeter replacement! Anyone overdue on their inspection will face fines from the landlord! the taller man boomed, his voice smooth but overly syrupy. The second man pounded on the opposite door, eager to move through as many flats as possible.
The Harrisons exchanged glances. David peered through the peephole: unfamiliar faces, no badges, no ID cards. Claire whispered, Dont open. Let them go to the others first.
Jake moved to the window and saw a car parked in the courtyard, no markings on its side. The driver exhaled a plume of smoke and stared at his phone. Streetlights reflected off the wet asphalt, still glistening from the earlier rain.
Within minutes the men slipped past, leaving damp footprints on the carpet by Aunt Lucys door. A thin ribbon of water traced a line down the mat.
That evening the whole stairwell hummed like a beehive. Some residents had already signed up for the replacement, others were on the phone with the management office receiving vague answers. In the buildings WhatsApp group the debate raged: should we let these strangers in? Why the urgency? Aunt Lucys neighbour from flat17 chimed in, Their ID was just a laminated card with no seal. I asked for a licence and they vanished.
The Harrisons grew wary. David suggested, Tomorrow well catch them again and demand every document. Ill also call the landlord directly. Claire agreed, and Jake promised to record the conversation.
At dawn the trio returned, jackets and folders identical to the first pair. They rattled through the corridors, knocking on doors, urging immediate signups.
David opened his door halfway, the chain pulled taut. Show us your paperwork. Give us your licence and the reference number you claim the landlord gave you, if this is a scheduled job.
The first man fumbled, digging through papers, and slid a sheet with an unfamiliar logo through the crack. The second glanced at his tablet, eyes skimming.
We have a contract to service this block Heres the contract, he said.
What contract? With our landlord? Give me the name of the responsible manager, the job reference, and the dispatch number, David demanded calmly.
The men exchanged uneasy looks, muttering about urgency and fines. David then dialled the landlords office right there.
Hello, could you confirm whether you sent service staff to replace water meters today? We have strangers walking our floors
A crisp voice replied, No scheduled work has been arranged. We never send technicians without prior written notice signed by the leaseholders.
The impostors tried to protesta mixup, the wrong buildingbut David had already hit record on Jakes phone.
Night fell quickly, the stairwell dimming into a halflight. A cold draft slipped through an open window, rattling the frame on an upper floor. Umbrellas and shoes piled by the entrance, a wet trail of soles leading to the rubbish chute. Voices from adjoining doors rose in alarm, replaying what had just happened.
The climax arrived almost quietly: the Harrisons realised they were facetoface with a scam masquerading as a compulsory meter swap. The decision was clearwarn the others and stand together.
In the dim hallway, David called Aunt Lucy and the woman from flat17, and a couple of residents from the top floor joined them, along with a few mothers with toddlers. The smell of damp coats mixed with fresh bakery waftssomeone had just brought in a batch of scones. Jake turned on the recorder, ready to share the audio with anyone who couldnt be there.
Listen up, David began, flashing the phone screen. The landlord says no work is planned. Those men have no licence, no reference, no paperwork. Theyre frauds.
Ive already signed up! shouted a neighbour from the third floor, cheeks reddening. They sounded so convincing
Youre not alone, her mother said. We all got a call. If this were genuine, the landlord would have warned us in writing first.
A murmur rose, questions about fines, worries about personal data already handed over. David steadied the crowd: The rule is simpledont let anyone in tomorrow, and dont pay on the spot. If they return, demand proper documents and call the landlord on the spot. Better yet, keep the door shut.
Jake displayed a leaflet hed printed, listing the hallmarks of a legitimate inspection: expiry dates on the bill, the servicing companys name confirmed by the landlord, and the fact that any fine must come from a court order, not a doorstep threat.
Lets draft a joint letter to the landlord, alert them to these visits and warn the rest of the block, Claire suggested. Well also post a notice on the ground floor.
Heads nodded. Someone fetched a pen and an old filing box. As they typed the statement, a sense of solidarity settled over the stairwellno one wanted to be duped alone; together they felt steadier.
Through the stairwell window, occasional pedestrians hurried home under a drizzle; the courtyard glittered in streetlamp reflections.
The notice was simple: Attention! Fraudulent individuals posed as service technicians for watermeter replacement. The landlord confirms no work is scheduled. Do not open the door to unknown persons! The sheet was tucked into a waterproof sleeve and taped over the mailboxes in layers of clear tape.
Nearly everyone present signed the collective complaint; the neighbour from the third floor volunteered to deliver it to the landlord first thing. Others promised to pass the word to relatives and friends staying elsewhere.
As residents drifted back to their flats, the atmosphere shiftedfrom suspicion to purposeful camaraderie, even a hint of humour. Now nobody can pull the wool over our eyes! one laughed, We should rename the WhatsApp group AntiScam Squad!
David smiled. At least we now know each others faces. Next time well meet not in panic, but as a community.
Later, only a couple of umbrellas rested on the heater and a forgotten grocery bag lay by the door. The landing fell silent; muffled voices behind doors discussed the days events or shared updates with relatives on the phone.
By morning the fake notices had vanished from every door and mailbox as swiftly as they had appeared. No impostor ever returned to the courtyard or the stairwell. The caretaker found a crumpled flyer with red letters tucked under a shrub, a strip of tape stuck to a door.
Neighbours gathered by the lift, smiling gratefully; each now knew a little more about their rights and the tricks of strangers. Aunt Lucy brought the Harrisons a tray of homemade scones for saving us from foolishness, and the upstairs neighbour slipped a thankyou note onto their door.
The courtyard was still wet from the nights rain, but the traces of yesterdays turmoil faded with the last drops of water under the morning sun.
On the landing, chatter resumed about local news: someone bragged about a genuine meter installed a year ago, another teased about the service men, and many simply enjoyed the newfound trust among the buildings residents.
The Harrisons realised the price of victory: an evening spent explaining, paperwork piled up, a few embarrassed moments, and a break in the habit of trusting doortodoor flyers. Yet now the whole block stood more alert to strangers and a little closer to each other.
