In the stairwell of block six, where the landing always smells of wet umbrellas and old concrete, spring feels especially sharp. The air is crisp, yet the evenings stay bright its as if the day refuses to rush off.
The Smiths were coming home: my wife, our teenage son and I. Each of us carried a bag of veg and a loaf, the green stalks of spring onions poking out the top. A few drops had collected by the front door someone had just stepped in without shaking the water from their umbrella.
Pinned to the doors and the communal mailbox were fresh flyers plain white sheets printed on a home printer. In bold scarlet text 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 smeared in places. Downstairs, Aunt Lucy was by the lift, trying to dial a number while clutching a sack of potatoes in her other hand.
They say therell be fines if we dont change them, she said, worry in her voice as we passed. I called, and a young man told me its a special offer just for our block. Maybe its time after all?
I shrugged. It sounds awfully urgent. No one warned us ahead. The managing agent has been silent no letters, no calls. And this special offer it sounds a bit too loud for me.
Later that night, over dinner, our son pulled another flyer from his school bag the same one, folded in half and slipped into the door jamb. My wife turned the sheet over, looking at the date of the last meter inspection on the bill.
Our last check was only a year ago. Why the rush? she asked. And why does nobody we know recognise the company?
I thought for a moment. We should ask the neighbours who got the same notice. And find out what this service is supposed to be, why theyre handing out flyers everywhere.
The next morning the stairwell was busier. Voices echoed up the flights someone arguing on the phone, a group by the rubbish chute chatting about the news. Two women from flat three swapped worries.
If they dont replace it, theyll cut off the water! one protested. Ive got little children!
Just then the intercom buzzed. Two men in identical jackets, briefcases at their sides, patrolled the hallway. One held a tablet, the other a stack of papers.
Good evening, residents! Were here on urgent order to replace water meters. Anyone overdue on their certification will face fines from the managing agent! the taller man declared, his voice booming and a little too rehearsed. His partner knocked insistently at the opposite door, as if trying to get through as many flats as possible in a short time.
We exchanged glances. I peered through the peephole unfamiliar faces, no badges. My wife whispered, Dont open. Let them go to the others first.
Our son moved to the window and saw a car parked in the courtyard, no markings on it, the driver smoking and staring at his phone. The streetlights reflected on the wet tarmac after the recent drizzle.
Within minutes the men moved on, leaving wet footprints on the stair carpet. A thin trail of water ran down the mat at Aunt Lucys door.
By evening the whole block buzzed like a beehive. Some residents had already booked the replacement, others were on the phone with the managing agent getting vague answers. In the buildings WhatsApp group we debated whether to let these strangers in. Why the hurry? What was their legitimacy?
Even their IDs looked odd, said the lady from flat seventeen. Just a laminated card with no seal. I asked for a licence and they darted off.
We grew more cautious. I suggested, Tomorrow we try to catch them again and demand to see all their documents. Ill also call the managing agent directly. My wife agreed, and our son promised to record the conversation.
The next morning the trio returned, same jackets, same folders. They rattled through the flats, knocking and urging people to sign up on the spot.
I opened my door just a crack, keeping the chain taut. Show me your paperwork. Give me your licence and the reference number from the managing agent if this is a planned job, I said.
The first man fumbled, digging through papers, and handed me a slip with an unfamiliar logo. The second stared at his tablet.
Were contracted to service your building Heres the contract he said.
What contract? With our managing agent? Name the responsible person, give me the reference and the dispatchers number, I pressed calmly.
They glanced at each other, mumbling about urgency and fines. I pulled out my phone and dialled the managing agent right there.
Hello, did you send anyone today to replace water meters? We have strangers walking around the flats, I asked.
The reply was clear: no scheduled works, no dispatches. Genuine technicians always get written notice and sign a receipt with the resident.
The men tried to excuse themselves a mixup, the wrong building but Id already hit record on my sons phone.
Dusk fell quickly, the stairwell slipping into halfdark. A cold draft slipped through an open window, wind rattling the upstairs frames. Umbrellas and shoes gathered by the entrance, a wet trail from damp boots leading to the rubbish chute. Voices from behind doors sounded alarmed as neighbours recapped what had just happened.
The climax came almost mundanely: we realised wed been facing a scam pretending to be a mandatory meter replacement. The solution seemed obvious warn everyone and act together.
The stairwell was now dark, but we didnt waste any time. I called Aunt Lucy, the lady from flat seventeen, and a couple from the top floor. A handful of mums with young kids gathered, the smell of damp coats and fresh pastries drifting from the communal kitchen someone had just brought in a fresh scone. Our son switched on the recorder so anyone who missed the meeting could hear what had been said.
Listen up, I began, holding up the phone screen. The managing agent has confirmed no work is planned. These men are frauds no licence, no paperwork, no request. Dont let them in or pay anything.
Ive already signed up! shouted a neighbour from the third floor, flushing. They sounded so sure
Youre not alone, her mother added. They called us too, but a real notice would have come in writing first.
People started asking about fines, worrying about the personal data theyd already handed over. I calmed them: The main thing is dont open the door tomorrow and dont hand over any money on the spot. If they return, ask for full documentation and call the managing agent right there. Better yet, keep the door shut.
Our son showed a sheet hed printed with the hallmarks of a genuine inspection certification dates on bills, the procedure for confirming companies with the managing agent, and the fact that any fine without a court order is just intimidation.
Lets draft a collective letter to the managing agent, so they know these people turned up and can warn the rest of us, my wife suggested. And put a notice on the ground floor for everyone.
Neighbours nodded. Someone fetched a pen and an old folder, and we began drafting the letter. As we wrote, a real sense of community grew none of us wanted to be duped alone.
Through the stairwell window we could see a few passersby hurrying home under a light drizzle; the courtyard glistened in the streetlights.
The notice we left was simple: Attention! Fraudulent individuals posing as service technicians have been seen in the stairwell. The managing agent confirms no meter replacements are scheduled. Do not open the door to unknown persons! We sealed the paper in a plastic sleeve and taped it to the mailbox wall with several strips of tape.
Almost everyone present signed the statement; the woman from the third floor volunteered to deliver it to the managing agent first thing in the morning. The rest promised to pass the word to anyone away on holiday or on a shift.
When we all drifted back to our flats, the atmosphere had shifted caution had turned into purposeful camaraderie, even a bit of humour.
Now no one will pull the wool over our eyes! someone joked. We should rename the WhatsApp group AntiScam Squad.
I smiled. At least we now know each others faces. Next time well meet for something better than a panic.
Late that night only a couple of umbrellas rested on the radiator and a forgotten grocery bag lay by the door. The landing fell silent; muffled voices behind doors discussed the days events or chatted with relatives on the phone.
Morning brought change: the urgentreplacement flyers vanished from every door and mailbox as quickly as theyd appeared. No more strangers prowled the courtyard or the stairwell. The caretaker even spotted a crumpled red flyer and a bit of tape stuck under a bush.
Neighbours greeted each other at the lift with grateful smiles; everyone now knew a little more about their rights and the tricks of strangers. Aunt Lucy brought us homemade scones for saving us from foolishness, and the lady from the top floor left a thankyou note on our door.
The courtyard was still damp from the nights rain, but the traces of yesterdays hustle faded with the last drops of water under the sunrise.
Back on the landing, chatter resumed about the newest water meter (the one actually installed a year ago), jokes about the fake technicians, and simple relief that trust in the building had grown.
Wed paid a price an evening of explanations and paperwork, a few embarrassed moments, and a loss of blind faith in doortodoor notices. But now the whole block watches strangers a little closer and looks after each other a little more.
