In flat six of the old block, where the stairlandings always carry the scent of damp umbrellas and fresh cement, spring feels especially sharp. The air is cool, but the evening light lingers it seems the day is in no hurry to leave.
The Smith family is coming home: father, mother and their teenage son. Each of them carries a bag of vegetables and a loaf of bread, with long stalks of green onion poking out of the top. Water drips from the front door someone has just entered without shaking the rain off their umbrella.
On the doors and the communal mailboxes are fresh notices plain white sheets printed on a home printer. Bright red letters announce: Attention! Urgent replacement of water meters! Must be done by the end of the week! Fines apply! Phone to book see below. The paper is already curling in the damp, the ink smudging in places. On the ground floor, Aunt Lucy stands by the lift, trying to dial a number while holding a sack of potatoes in her other hand.
They say therell be fines if we dont change them, she says worriedly as the Smiths pass. I called, and a young man explained its a special programme just for our block. Maybe its really time?
MrSmith shrugs. It feels rushed. No one warned us beforehand. The managing agent is silent no letters, no calls. And this programme it sounds a bit too loud.
The conversation follows them into the kitchen at dinner. Tom pulls another slip from his school bag the same notice, folded in half and slipped into the door crack. MrsSmith turns the paper over, looks at the date of the last meter test on the bill.
Were only due for a test next year. Why the hurry? she asks. And why does nobody in our building know this company?
MrSmith thinks. We should ask the neighbours who got the same flyers. And what sort of service is handing these out everywhere?
The next morning the hallway is busier. Voices echo up the stairwell someone arguing on the phone, a group near the rubbish chute swapping the latest gossip. Two women from flat three share their concerns.
If we dont replace them, theyll switch off the water! one says, exasperated. And I have little children!
Just then a knock sounds at the landing: two men in matching jackets, briefcases at their sides, drift from flat to flat. One carries a tablet, the other a stack of papers.
Good evening, residents! Mandatory watermeter replacement under urgent directive! Anyone whose test is overdue will face fines from the managing agent! the taller man declares, his voice loud and a little too sugary. The second man rushes to the opposite door, knocking hard as if trying to get through as many flats as possible in a short time.
The Smiths exchange looks. MrSmith peers through the peephole: unfamiliar faces, no badges. MrsSmith whispers, Dont open yet. Let them move on.
Tom looks out the window and sees a car without any markings parked in the courtyard, the driver smoking and scrolling on his phone. The hood reflects the street lamps and the wet tarmac after the recent rain.
Within minutes the men move on up the floor, leaving damp footprints on the carpet and a trail of water droplets along Aunt Lucys mat.
By evening the hallway hums like a beehive. Some residents have already signed up for the replacement, others are on the phone with the managing agent getting vague answers. In the buildings WhatsApp chat they argue whether to let these people in, why the notice is so urgent. MrsSmith asks a neighbour from flat17, Did they show any ID? The neighbour replies, Just a laminated card with no seal. I asked for a licence and they walked away.
MrSmith becomes more cautious. Tomorrow well try to catch them again and demand all their paperwork. Ill also call the managing agent directly. MrsSmith agrees, and Tom promises to record the conversation on his phone.
The following morning the trio returns, same jackets, same folders, moving quickly from door to door, urging residents to sign up on the spot. MrSmith opens his door halfway, chain pulled 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. He asks calmly.
The first man fumbles, pulls out a sheet with an unknown logo and slides it through the crack. The second glances at his tablet.
We have a contract to service this building heres the agreement he says.
Contract with whom? With our managing agent? Give me the name of the responsible person, the order number, and the dispatchers phone, MrSmith repeats.
The men exchange uneasy looks, mumble about urgency and fines. MrSmith then dials the managing agent right there.
Hello, could you confirm whether you sent service staff today to replace meters? We have strangers walking through the flats, he asks.
A clear voice answers: No planned works today, we didnt send anyone. Genuine contractors always give written notice and sign off with the residents.
The men try to explain it was a mistake, the wrong block, but MrSmith has already hit record on Toms phone.
Dusk settles quickly, the corridor growing dim. A cold draft slips through an open window, wind rattling a higherup window frame. Umbrellas and shoes pile by the entrance, a wet trail from soggy boots leads to the rubbish chute. Behind doors, neighbours worried voices discuss what just happened.
The climax arrives almost mundanely: the Smiths realise they are facing a scam masquerading as a compulsory meterchange. The solution is obvious warn everyone and act together.
Night falls over the stairwell, but the Smiths dont delay their talk. MrSmith calls Aunt Lucy and the flat17 neighbour, two more people from the top floor join, mothers with children drift in, the smell of damp coats mixes with fresh bakery goods someone just brought in a loaf. Tom turns on his recorder so anyone who couldnt attend can hear the exchange later.
Listen up, MrSmith begins, holding up the phone screen, the managing agent has confirmed no work is scheduled. These men are impostors no licence, no order number. Its a fraud.
I already signed up! a flatthree resident exclaims, blushing. They sounded so convincing
Youre not alone, her mother adds. We got a call too, but a real notice would have come in writing well before.
The chat erupts: questions about fines, concerns over personal data already given, and the need to stay calm. MrSmith advises, Dont let anyone in tomorrow and dont pay anything on the spot. If they return, demand documents and call the managing agent while theyre there. Better yet, keep the door shut.
Tom shows a leaflet outlining how genuine inspections work test dates on bills, the contractors name can be checked with the managing agent, and any fine without a court order is just intimidation.
Lets draft a collective letter to the managing agent so theyre aware of these visits and can warn the rest of us, MrsSmith suggests. And put up a notice on the groundfloor landing.
Everyone nods. Someone fetches a pen and an old file folder. As they write the appeal, a feeling of unity spreads through the hallway no one wants to be duped alone, together it feels safer.
Through the landing window, occasional pedestrians hurry home under a light drizzle; the courtyard glistens with puddles under the streetlights.
The notice they post reads simply: Attention! Fraudsters posing as service technicians have been seen in this building. The managing agent confirms: no work is being carried out. Do not open the door to strangers! They laminate the paper, tape it to the mailbox area in several layers for protection.
Almost every resident signs the statement; the flatthree neighbour volunteers to deliver it to the managing agent in the morning. Others promise to tell anyone on duty or away at relatives houses.
As people drift back to their flats, the atmosphere shifts from suspicion to purposeful camaraderie, even a hint of humour. One neighbour jokes, Now well rename the WhatsApp group AntiScam Squad!
MrSmith smiles, The important thing is we now know each others faces. Next time well meet under better circumstances.
Late that night only a couple of umbrellas remain on the heating unit and a forgotten grocery bag sits by the entrance. The stairlanding is quiet; muffled voices behind doors discuss the meetings details or share news with relatives on the phone.
Morning brings a swift change: the fraudulent notice disappears from every door and mailbox as quickly as it had appeared. No more service men roam the courtyard or the landing. Only the caretaker spots a crumpled slip with red lettering and a piece of tape stuck to a door.
Neighbours gather by the lift, smiling politely; each now knows a little more about their rights and the tricks of strangers. Aunt Lucy brings the Smiths a batch of homemade scones for saving us from foolishness, and the upstairs neighbour leaves a thankyou note on their door.
The courtyard is still damp from the nights rain, but the traces of yesterdays hustle fade with the last drops of water under the morning sun.
On the landing, chatter resumes about the latest news: someone boasts about a genuine meter installed a year ago, another jokes about the service men, and a few simply enjoy the newfound trust among the flats.
The Smiths recognise the price of their victory an evening spent explaining, paperwork, a few embarrassed moments, and a loss of blind faith in doortodoor notices. Yet the whole block is now more vigilant toward strangers and a little closer to each other.
