The landing of block six on Maple Street, where the scent of damp umbrellas and cold concrete always lingered, felt unusually crisp this spring. The air was cool, but the evenings seemed to stretch the light, as if the day refused to hurry away.
The Smith family trudged homeJohn, Margaret, and their teenage son Tomeach lugging grocery bags heavy with potatoes, crusty loaves, and stalks of spring onions that poked out of the handles. A thin film of water clung to the front door; someone had just entered without shaking the rain from their umbrella.
Pinned to the lobby doors and the mailboxes were fresh notices, printed on a homeoffice printer. Bold scarlet letters screamed: ATTENTION! Urgent watermeter replacement! Must be completed 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 lingered by the lift, fumbling with a battered bag of potatoes as she tried to dial the number.
Word is theyll fine us if we dont swap them, she muttered when the Smiths passed. I called earlier; a young bloke said its a special offer just for our block. Maybe its time.
John shrugged. Sounds awfully sudden. No one gave us a headsup. The managing agent is silentno letters, no calls. And an offer? It sounds too loud to be legit.
The conversation followed them into the kitchen. Over dinner Tom slipped another slip of paper out of his schoolbagidentical to the first, folded in half and tucked into the door crack. Margaret turned the sheet over, eyes landing on the date of the meters last inspection printed on the bill.
Our last inspection was a year ago. Why the rush? she asked. And why does nobody here know this company?
John thought a moment. We should ask the neighbours who got the same flyers. And find out what kind of service this is, why theyre handing them out everywhere.
The next morning the lobby buzzed. Voices echoed up the stairwell, a heated phone argument somewhere above, a small crowd gathered by the refuse chute swapping the latest gossip. Two women from flat three spoke in alarm.
If we dont change them, theyll cut off our water! one exclaimed. Ive got little babies!
A sudden rap at the door announced the arrival of two men in identical navy jackets, briefcases at their sides. One brandished a tablet; the other clutched a stack of papers.
Good evening, residents! Were here on an urgent directive to replace water meters. Anyone overdue on inspection will face penalties from the managing agent! the taller man announced, his voice loud and syrupy. The second man pounded on the opposite door with a determined rhythm, as if racing to cover as many flats as possible.
The Smiths exchanged glances. John peered through the peephole: unfamiliar faces, no badges, no identification. Margaret whispered, Dont open. Let them go to the others first.
Tom slipped to the window and saw a black van without any markings parked in the courtyard. The driver exhaled a cloud of smoke, eyes glued to his phone. Reflections of street lamps danced on the wet tarmac.
Within minutes the men moved on, leaving damp footprints on the hallway rug. A thin stream of water traced a line along Aunt Lucys mat.
Evening settled over the block like a hive of restless bees. Some residents had already signed up for the replacement, others were on the phone with the managing agent, receiving vague answers. The buildings WhatsApp group erupted: Should we let them in? Why the urgency? The Smiths decided to query the floor above.
Even their IDs looked odd, reported Mrs. Patel from flat17, holding up a laminated card lacking any official seal. I asked for a licence and they shuffled off immediately.
Johns caution deepened. Tomorrow well catch them at the door and demand proper paperwork. Ill also call the managing office directly.
Margaret nodded. Tom promised to record the conversation on his phone.
The following morning the trio of men returned, still in their navy jackets, still carrying matching folders. They rattled down the stairs, knocking on each door and urging immediate signups.
John cracked the door open just enough to keep the chain taut. Show us your documents. Give us your licence and the work order number from the managing agent, if this is a scheduled job.
The first man fumbled, producing a slip of paper with an unfamiliar logo and thrusting it through the crack. The second glanced at his tablet, scrolling quickly.
We have a contract to service this building 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, John pressed, steady.
The men glanced at each other, muttering about urgency and fines. John lifted his own phone and dialed the managing office right there.
Hello, can you confirm whether you sent service personnel today to replace meters? We have strangers walking through the flats
The reply was crisp: no scheduled work, no dispatch, and any genuine technician would be notified in writing and sign a receipt with the resident.
The men tried to backtrack, claiming a mistake, but John had already hit record on Toms phone.
Dusk fell fast, casting the landing into halfdarkness. A draft slipped through an ajar window, rattling the frame. Umbrellas and shoes piled by the entry, wet footprints traced a path to the refuse chute. Voices from behind the doors buzzed with nervous chatter about what had just happened.
The climax arrived with a quiet determination: the Smiths realized they were facing a swindle masquerading as a mandatory meter swap. The solution was obviouswarn the others and act together.
The lobby grew gloomier, but the Smiths didnt waste a moment. John called Aunt Lucy and Mrs. Patel from flat17, a couple from the top floor, and even the mother of a child from flat3. On the landing, the scent of damp coats mingled with the aroma of fresh scones someone had just brought from the bakery. Tom switched on his recorder, ready to capture any future encounter.
Listen up, John began, flashing his phone screen. The managing office says no work is planned. These guys are impostorsno licence, no order number. Theyre frauds.
I already signed up! shouted a neighbour from the third floor, turning a deep shade of red. They sounded so convincing
Not just you, her mother added. We were called too, but a real agency would have warned us in writing first.
The crowd murmured, some worrying about fines, others about the data theyd already handed over. John steadied them.
Dont let anyone in tomorrow, and dont pay on the spot. If they return, demand proper documents and call the managing office on the spot. Better to keep the door shut.
Tom displayed a sheet outlining how genuine inspections are scheduled, how to verify a company through the managing agent, and why any fine without a court order is just scaretactics.
Lets draft a collective complaint to the managing agent, so theyre aware of these visits and can alert everyone, Margaret suggested. And put up a notice on the ground floor.
Hands reached for pens, a battered folder opened, and the residents began drafting the letter. A strange solidarity blossomed; no one wanted to be duped alone.
Through the landing window, occasional pedestrians hurried home under a light drizzle; the courtyard glistened with puddles reflecting the streetlamps.
The notice read: Attention! Fraudulent individuals posing as service technicians have been seen in the building. The managing agent confirms no work is scheduled. Do not open the door to strangers! The paper was sealed in a plastic sleeve and taped to the mailbox cluster in layers.
Almost everyone signed the statement; the neighbour from the third floor volunteered to deliver it to the managing office the next morning. Others promised to spread the word to relatives and friends.
As the residents dispersed to their flats, the atmosphere shifted from wary suspicion to a brisk, almost cheerful resolve. A laugh broke out.
Now no one can pull the wool over our eyes again! We should rename the WhatsApp chat AntiScam Squad!
John smiled. The important thing is we now know each others faces. Next time well meet on a calm note, not a crisis.
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 drifted from behind doors, sharing plans and jokes over the phone.
Morning erased the fraudulent flyers from every mailbox as quickly as they had appeared. No more vans or strangers prowled the courtyard. The caretaker even found a crumpled redlettered flyer tucked under a shrub, its tape halfpeeled.
Neighbours gathered by the lifts, exchanging grateful smiles. Everyone now knew a little more about their rights and a lot more about the tricks of con artists. Aunt Lucy brought the Smiths a batch of homemade scones for saving us from foolishness, and the neighbour from the top floor left a thankyou note on their door.
The courtyard was still wet from the nights rain, but the lingering footprints of yesterdays panic faded under the sunrise.
Back on the landing, chatter resumed about real meter upgrades, jokes about the impostors, and simple relief that trust in the building had grown. The Smiths reflected on the price of their victoryhours spent explaining, paperwork filed, a few embarrassed momentsbut also on the newfound vigilance and camaraderie that now pulsed through Maple Streets block.
