In the old council block on number six, where the landing always smelled of damp umbrellas and aged cement, spring seemed especially vivid. The air was cool, yet at night the light lingered, as if the day were reluctant to depart.
The Smith family was returning home: Mr Smith, Mrs Smith and their teenage son, Tom. Each clutched a bag of vegetables and a loaf of bread, the tops of which were crowned with long stalks of fresh leek. At the door a few drops of rain collected; someone had just entered without shaking the water from their umbrella.
Pinned to the doors and postboxes were freshly printed notices plain white sheets from a home printer. In bold scarlet letters they warned: Attention! Urgent watermeter replacement required! Must be completed by the end of the week! Penalties apply! Phone to book see below. The paper was already curling in the damp, the ink smearing in places. Downstairs, Aunt Lucy stood by the lift, fumbling with a number on her phone while a sack of potatoes dangled from her other hand.
They say therell be fines if we dont change them, she whispered anxiously as the Smiths passed. I called, and a young man explained its a special offer just for our block. Perhaps its really time?
Mr Smith shrugged. It does sound rather urgent. No one warned us in advance. The managing agency has been silent no letters, no calls. And this special offer it sounds a touch too loud.
The discussion continued over dinner. Tom slipped another notice from his school bag the same wording, folded in half and tucked into the door jamb. Mrs Smith turned the slip over, noting the date of the meters last inspection on the bill.
Our last inspection was only a year ago. Why the rush? she asked. And why have none of us heard of this company?
Mr Smith thought a moment. We should ask the neighbours who have received similar flyers. And what exactly is this service thats being handed out everywhere?
The next day the stairwell bustled. Voices echoed up the flights a heated telephone argument somewhere above, a small crowd at the rubbish chute swapping the latest gossip. Two women from flat three exchanged worries.
They told me if we dont replace the meter theyll cut off the water! one protested. I have small children!
At that instant a knock sounded at the landing. Two men in identical dark jackets, briefcases at their sides, paced the corridor. One held a tablet, the other a stack of papers.
Good evening, dear residents! Were here for the urgent watermeter replacement as mandated! Anyone whose inspection is overdue will face penalties from the managing agency! the taller man announced, his voice booming and a little too syrupy. His companion hurried to the opposite door, knocking insistently as if racing against time.
The Smiths exchanged glances. Mr Smith peeked through the peephole: unfamiliar faces, no badges, no identification. Mrs Smith whispered, Dont open yet. Let them move on.
Tom moved to the window and saw a car parked in the courtyard with no markings. The driver smoked, eyes glued to his phone. Reflections of street lamps danced on the wet tarmac from the earlier rain.
Within minutes the two men moved on, leaving wet footprints on the carpet by Aunt Lucys door, a rivulet of water trailing across the mat.
That evening the landing buzzed like a beehive. Some residents had already signed up for the replacement, others called the managing agency and received vague answers. In the blocks WhatsApp group the debate raged: should we let these men in? Why the haste? The Smiths decided to ask the residents above what the service men had said.
Their IDs were odd, reported the occupant of flat seventeen. Just a laminated piece of paper with no stamp. I asked for a licence and they walked away straight away.
The Smiths grew more wary. Mr Smith suggested, Tomorrow well try to catch them again and demand to see all their documents. Ill also call the managing agency directly.
Mrs Smith agreed, and Tom promised to record the conversation on his phone.
The following morning the trio of service men returned, still in the same jackets and carrying identical folders. They swept through the floors, knocking on doors, urging immediate signups.
Mr Smith opened his flat only a crack, a chain pulled tight. Show us your papers. Let us see your licence. Give us the reference number from the managing agency if this is a scheduled job.
The first man fumbled, pulling out a sheet with an unknown companys logo and thrusting it through the door slit. The second stared at his tablet, scrolling.
We have a contract to service this block heres the contract the first stammered.
What contract? With our managing agency? Name the responsible officer, give the job reference and the dispatchers number, Mr Smith asked calmly.
The men exchanged nervous looks, muttering about urgency and fines. Mr Smith then dialled the managing agency right there.
Hello, could you confirm whether you sent service personnel today to replace water meters? We have strangers roaming the flats
The reply was clear: no scheduled work had been arranged, no one had been sent, and any legitimate technicians would be announced in writing and signed by residents beforehand.
The men tried to spin a story of a mixup, but Mr Smith had already captured the call on Toms recorder.
Night fell swiftly, casting the landing in halflight. A cold draft slipped through an ajar window, the wind rattling the higherup frames. Umbrellas and shoes gathered by the entrance, a wet trail from damp boots winding toward the rubbish chute. Behind the doors, neighbours voices rose in alarm, rehashing the incident.
The climax arrived in a most ordinary fashion: the Smiths finally understood they faced a fraud scheme masquerading as a mandatory meter swap. The decision formed itself they must warn the others and act together.
Even as darkness deepened, the Smiths did not linger. Mr Smith called Aunt Lucy and the lady from flat seventeen, two more residents from the top floor, and rallied the mothers with children. The landing smelled of damp coats and fresh scones, someone having just brought a bun from the bakery. Tom switched on his recorder, ready to share the conversation with anyone who could not attend.
Listen, Mr Smith began, displaying the phone screen, the managing agency has confirmed: no work was planned. These men are impostors. No proper licence, no reference. Theyre con artists.
Ive already signed up! cried the woman from the third floor, blushing. They sounded so convincing
Youre not alone, her husband added. We were called too, but a genuine request would have come in writing first.
Neighbours clamoured for answers about fines, about the personal data they had already handed over. Mr Smith soothed them: The key is not to let anyone in tomorrow, and never pay on the spot. If they return, demand paperwork and call the agency while theyre there. Better yet, keep the door shut.
Tom displayed a leaflet outlining how authentic inspections work: dates appear on bills, the company can be verified through the agency, and any fine without a court order is merely intimidation.
Mrs Smith proposed, Lets draft a joint letter to the managing agency, so they know about these visits and can alert everyone. And well post a notice on the ground floor.
The neighbours nodded. Someone fetched a pen and an old file, and as they wrote the appeal, a palpable solidarity settled over the landing. It seemed that together they felt less vulnerable than facing a swindle alone.
Through the landing window, occasional passersby hurried home under a light drizzle; the courtyard glistened with puddles under the street lamps.
The notice was simple: Attention! Fraudsters posing as service technicians have been seen in the stairwell. The managing agency confirms: no meter replacements are scheduled. Do not open the door to unknown persons! The paper was tucked into a waterproof folder and taped to the postbox wall in several layers.
Almost everyone present signed the collective statement; the woman from the third floor offered to deliver it to the agency the next morning. Others promised to pass the word to anyone on shift or away with relatives.
When the residents drifted back to their flats, the atmosphere had shifted wariness gave way to a lively camaraderie, even a touch of humour. Now no one will ever pull a fast one on us again! someone joked, We should rename the WhatsApp group AntiScam Squad!
Mr Smith smiled. The important thing is we now know each others faces. Next time well meet not in panic, but as neighbours.
Late that night, only a couple of umbrellas rested on the heating pipe and a forgotten grocery bag lay by the entrance. The landing fell quiet; muted voices lingered behind doors, discussing the days events or sharing news with relatives over the phone.
Morning brought swift change: the fraudulent flyer vanished from every door and postbox as abruptly as it had appeared. No further service men were seen in the courtyard or the landing. The caretaker spotted a crumpled leaf of redlettered paper and a scrap of tape tucked beneath a shrub.
Residents gathered by the lift, exchanging grateful smiles; each now understood a little more about their rights and the tricks of strangers. Aunt Lucy brought the Smiths a batch of homemade 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 wet from the nights rain, but the tracks of yesterdays hustle faded with the last droplets under the rising sun.
On the landing, chatter resumed: someone boasted about a newly installed, genuinely inspected meter from a year ago, another made a light-hearted jab at the service men, and many simply enjoyed the renewed trust among them.
The Smiths realised the price of their victory: an evening spent explaining, paperwork, a few embarrassed neighbours, and a loss of the easy trust in doorposters. Yet the whole block emerged more vigilant toward strangers and a little closer to one another.
