In the stairwell of Block Six, where the landing always smells of wet umbrellas and old concrete, spring feels especially sharp. The air is cool, but at night the light lingers it seems the day is in no hurry to go.
The Smiths were coming home: dad, mum and their teenage son. Each of them was lugging a bag of veg and a loaf, the tops of which were speckled with long green leeks. By the front door a few drops had collected someone had just entered without shaking the water from their umbrella.
On the doors and the letterboxes were fresh notices plain white sheets printed on a home printer. In bright scarlet letters they read: Attention! Urgent watermeter replacement! Must be done by the end of the week! Fines! Call to book number below. The paper was already curling in the damp, the ink feathered at the edges. Downstairs, Aunt Lucy was standing by the lift, trying to dial, a sack of potatoes tucked under her other arm.
Theyre saying therell be fines if we dont change them, she said, worry in her voice as the Smiths passed. I called them up and a young bloke explained its a scheme just for our block. Maybe its time after all?
Dad shrugged.
Sounds awfully urgent. No one warned us beforehand. The managing agent is silent no letters, no calls. And this scheme it sounds a bit too grandiose.
The conversation drifted to the kitchen over dinner. Their son fished another slip of paper from his schoolbag the same notice, folded in half and slipped into the door gap. Mum turned the sheet over, looked at the date of the last meter test on the bill.
Our meter was only due for inspection next year. Why the rush? she asked. And why does nobody we know recognise this company?
Dad thought for a moment.
We should ask the neighbours who got the same flyers. And what sort of service is this thats being handed out everywhere?
The next morning the landing was noticeably busier. Voices echoed up the flights someone arguing on the phone, a couple of residents on the landing by the refuse chute chatting about the news. Two women from flat three voiced their worries.
If they dont replace it, theyll cut off our water! one exclaimed, indignant. Ive got little children!
Just then a sharp knock sounded at the door: two men in identical jackets, briefcases at their sides, were making their rounds. One held a tablet, the other a stack of papers.
Good evening, dear residents! Were here on urgent instruction to replace water meters. Anyone whose inspection is overdue will face fines from the managing agent! the taller man announced, his voice loud and a little syrupy. His partner slapped a neighbours door hard, as if trying to hurry through as many flats as possible.
The Smiths exchanged glances. Dad peeked through the peephole unfamiliar faces, no badges. Mum whispered, Dont open yet. Let them go on.
Their son moved to the window and saw a nondescript car parked in the courtyard, the driver smoking and scrolling on his phone. The hood reflected the street lamps and the slick asphalt after the recent drizzle.
Within minutes the men were moving on, leaving wet footprints on the carpet by Aunt Lucys door. A thin line of water traced along the runner by the entryway.
That evening the whole landing buzzed like a beehive. Some residents had already signed up for the replacement, others were on the phone with the managing agent getting vague answers. In the buildings WhatsApp group they debated whether to let the men in. Why so urgent? asked one.
A neighbour from flat seventeen piped up, Their IDs were odd just a laminated card with no stamp. I asked for a licence and they bolted.
The Smiths grew more uneasy. Dad suggested, Tomorrow well try to catch them again and demand proper paperwork. Ill also ring the managing agent directly.
Mum agreed. Their son promised to record the conversation on his phone.
The next morning the trio returned, still in the same jackets and with identical folders. They raced up the flights, knocking on doors, urging everyone to book the replacement straight away.
Dad opened his door halfway, chain taut.
Show me your documents. Let us see your licence. Give us the work order number from the managing agent if this is a scheduled job.
The first man fumbled, digging out a sheet with an unfamiliar logo and thrusting it through the gap. The second glanced away, scrolling on his tablet.
Were contracted to service this block Heres the contract
What contract? With our managing agent? Give us the name of the responsible officer, the work order number and the dispatchers phone, Dad asked calmly.
The men exchanged looks, muttering about urgency and fines. Dad then pulled out his phone and dialed the managing agent right there.
Hello, could you tell me if you sent out service crews today to replace meters? We have strangers walking the corridors
The reply was clear: no scheduled work had been planned, no crew had been dispatched, and any legitimate contractor would have given advance written notice signed by the occupants.
The men tried to excuse themselves a mixup, the wrong building but Dad had already started the recording on his sons phone.
Dusk fell quickly; the landing slipped into halfdark. A cold draft slipped through an open window, wind rattling the frame on a higher floor. Umbrellas and shoes piled by the entrance, a damp track from wet boots led toward the refuse chute. Behind the doors, neighbours voices rose in alarm, recounting what had just happened.
The climax arrived in a matterofseconds: the Smiths realised they were facing a scam masquerading as a mandatory meter swap. The solution was obvious warn the others and act together.
It was already dark, but the Smiths didnt wait to speak. Dad called Aunt Lucy and the lady from flat seventeen, two more people from the top floor came down, and a few mums with children joined. The landing smelled of damp coats and fresh bakery goods someone had just delivered a bun from the corner shop. Their son switched on the recorder so anyone who couldnt attend could hear the exchange later.
Listen up, Dad began, holding up his phone screen. The managing agent has confirmed there are no planned works. Those men are impostors no proper licence, no work order. Theyre fraudsters.
Ive already signed up! cried a neighbour from the third floor, turning scarlet. They sounded so convincing
Youre not alone, replied her husband. We were called too, but a real agency would have warned us in writing first.
People started asking about fines, about personal data theyd already handed over. Dad calmed them: The key is: dont let anyone in tomorrow, and dont pay anything on the spot. If they return, demand documentation and call the managing agent while theyre there. Best to keep the door shut.
Their son showed a sheet outlining what a genuine inspection looks like dates on the bill, the contractors name verifiable with the managing agent, and that any fine without a court order is just scaretactics.
Lets draft a collective letter to the managing agent so theyre aware of these visits and can alert everyone, Mum suggested. And put up a notice on the ground floor.
Neighbours nodded. Someone fetched a pen and an old file folder. As they wrote the letter, a feeling of unity spread through the landing no one wanted to be duped alone.
Through the landing window, occasional passersby hurried home under a light drizzle; the courtyard glittered with puddles under the street lamps.
The notice was simple: Attention! Fraudsters posing as service technicians have been seen in the building. The managing agent confirms no meter replacements are scheduled. Do not open the door to unknown persons! The paper was laminated and taped to the letterbox area in multiple layers.
Almost everyone present signed the statement; the neighbour from the third floor volunteered to deliver it to the managing agent the next morning. Others promised to pass the word to anyone on holiday or staying elsewhere.
As residents drifted back to their flats, the atmosphere shifted from suspicion to a busy, almost cheerful camaraderie. Someone joked, Now theyll never pull a fast one on us again! We should rename the WhatsApp group AntiScam Squad!
Dad smiled. At least we now know each others faces. Next time well meet over something less stressful.
Late that night only a couple of umbrellas rested on the radiator and a forgotten grocery bag lay by the stairwell. The landing grew quiet; muffled voices behind doors discussed the days events or chatted on the phone with relatives.
Morning brought change at once: the urgent replacement flyers vanished from every door and letterbox as quickly as they had appeared. No more service men turned up on the courtyard or in the stairwell. The caretaker found a crumpled flyer with red letters tucked under a shrub, plus a strip of tape on a door.
Neighbours gathered by the lift exchanging grateful smiles; everyone now knew a little more about their rights and about the tricks of strangers. Aunt Lucy baked the Smiths a batch of scones for saving us from foolishness, and the lady from the top floor left a note that read Thank you! on their door.
The courtyard was still damp from the nights rain, but the tracks of yesterdays hustle faded with the last drops of water under the morning sun.
Back on the landing, residents bragged about a brandnew meter that had genuinely been installed a year ago, teased about the service men, and simply enjoyed the newfound trust among them.
The Smiths realised the price of their victory: an evening spent explaining, paperwork, a few embarrassed moments, and a little loss of blind faith in doortodoor notices. Yet the whole block was now keener on strangers and a little closer to each other.
