In flat six of the old block on Maple Street, where the stairwells always smelled of damp umbrellas and fresh cement, spring felt especially vivid. The air was crisp, but the evenings lingered in light it was as if the day didnt want to rush off.
The Smith family was trudging home: dad, mum, and their teenage son. Each of them clutched grocery bags full of veg and a loaf, a bunch of spring onions poking out the top. By the front door, little puddles collected someone had just walked in without shaking off their umbrella.
On the doors and the postboxes hung freshly printed notices plain white sheets from a home printer. In bold scarlet letters they read: Attention! Immediate watermeter replacement required! Must be done by the end of the week! Fines apply! Call number at the bottom. The paper was already curling from the damp, the ink blurring in spots. Downstairs, Aunt Lucy was standing by the lift, trying to dial a number while holding a bag of potatoes in her other hand.
Apparently therell be fines if we dont get it done, she told the Smiths as they passed. I called earlier and a young chap explained its a special promotion just for our block. Maybe its time?
Dad shrugged. Sounds awfully urgent. No one warned us beforehand. The managing agent has been silent no letters, no calls. And a promotion? That sounds a bit too loud for a council block.
Later, at dinner, the son slipped another slip of paper out of his school bag the same notice, folded in half and slipped into the door crack. Mum turned it over, stared at the date on the meter reading on the bill.
Our last inspection was only a year ago. Why the rush? she asked. And why does none of us know this company?
Dad thought for a moment. We should ask the neighbours who got the same flyers. And whats this service anyway, why are they handing them out everywhere?
The next morning the hallway buzzed. Voices drifted up the stairs someone arguing on the phone, a group by the rubbish chute chatting about the news. Two women from flat three shared their worries.
If we dont replace it, theyll cut off our water! one exclaimed. Ive got small kids!
Just then a knock sounded. Two men in identical jackets, briefcases at their sides, started making their rounds. One held a tablet, the other a stack of papers.
Good evening, residents! Were here for the urgent watermeter replacement as mandated! Anyone whose inspection is overdue will face fines from the managing agent! The taller mans voice was loud and overly cheery. The other rushed over to the opposite flat, knocking persistently as if he wanted to cover as many doors as possible in record time.
The Smiths exchanged looks. Dad peered through the peephole: unfamiliar faces, no badges. Mum whispered, Dont open it yet. Let them move on.
The son went to the window and saw a car parked in the courtyard without any fleet markings. The driver was smoking and scrolling on his phone. Streetlights reflected off the wet tarmac from the earlier rain.
Within minutes the men moved on, leaving wet footprints on the carpet by Aunt Lucys door. A thin line of water ran down the mat.
That evening the hallway hummed like a beehive. Some neighbours had already signed up for the replacement, others were on the phone with the managing agent getting vague answers. In the blocks WhatsApp chat they debated: should we let these people in? Why the rush? A neighbour from flat 17 added, Their ID was just a laminated card with no seal. I asked for a licence and they bolted.
Dad grew more wary. Lets try to catch them tomorrow and ask for all their paperwork. Ill also call the managing agent directly, he suggested.
Mum backed him up. The son promised to record the conversation on his phone.
The next morning the trio returned, same jackets, same folders. They hurried up the stairs, banging on doors, urging everyone to sign up immediately.
Dad opened his door just a crack, the chain pulled taut. Show me your documents. I want to see your licence and the work order number from the managing agent if this is a scheduled job, he said.
One of the men fumbled through his papers, handed over a sheet with an unfamiliar logo through the door gap. The other stared at his tablet.
Were contracted to service this building heres the contract, the first said.
Contract with who? With our managing agent? Give me a name, a reference number, a phone, Dad asked calmly.
The men exchanged nervous glances, muttering about urgency and fines. Dad then pulled out his phone and dialed the managing agent on the spot.
Hello, could you confirm whether you sent technicians today for meter replacements? We have strangers in the flats, he asked.
The reply was clear: no scheduled work, no technicians sent, and any legitimate contractor would be notified in writing and would sign a receipt with the residents.
The men tried to explain it was a mistake, that theyd got the wrong block. By then the son had already hit record on his phone.
Dusk settled, the hallway fell into a halfdark. A draft slipped through an open window, the wind rattling a higherup window. Umbrellas and shoes piled by the entrance, a wet trail from soggy boots leading to the rubbish chute. Behind closed doors, neighbours voices rose, recounting what had just happened.
The Smiths finally saw the whole picture it was a scam masquerading as an urgent service. The solution was obvious: warn everyone and act together.
The hallway was now dim, but the Smiths didnt waste any time. Dad called Aunt Lucy, the flat17 resident, and a couple from the top floor gathered. The scent of damp clothing mixed with fresh bakery smells someone had just brought in a sack of rolls. The son turned on the recorder so anyone who couldnt make it could hear the conversation later.
Listen up, Dad began, holding up his phone. The managing agent says there are no works planned. These guys are frauds no licence, no work order. Dont pay anything or let them in. He played the recording.
A neighbour from third floor blushed, Id already signed up! They sounded so convincing
Her mother chimed in, We all got the same call. If it were real, the agent would have warned us beforehand in writing.
People started asking about fines, about personal data theyd already handed over. Dad soothed them, The key is: no one opens the door tomorrow, and never pay on the spot. If they return, demand proper documents and call the managing agent right there. Better yet, dont open the door at all.
The son showed a sheet outlining how genuine inspections work: dates on bills, the contractors name on the agents records, and that any fines must come from a court, not a phone call.
Mum suggested, Lets draft a collective letter to the managing agent, so they know these visitors showed up and can alert the rest of us. And put up a notice on the ground floor.
Everyone nodded. Someone fetched a pen and an old file folder. As they wrote the statement, a real sense of community blossomed nobody wanted to be duped alone.
Through the hallway window you could see the occasional passerby hurrying home under a fine drizzle; the courtyard glistened with puddles under the street lamps.
The notice was simple: Attention! Fraudulent service men have been seen offering watermeter replacements. The managing agent confirms no work is scheduled. Do not open the door to strangers. The paper was slipped into a waterproof sleeve and taped firmly by the postboxes.
Almost everyone signed the statement. The thirdfloor neighbour volunteered to deliver it to the managing office first thing in the morning. Others promised to pass the word to anyone away or on shift.
When everyone drifted back to their flats, the atmosphere had shifted from suspicion to a kind of brisk camaraderie, even a few jokes. Now no one can pull a fast one on us! We should rename the WhatsApp group AntiScam Squad! someone laughed.
Dad smiled, At least now we know each others faces. Next time well meet over something pleasant, not a scare.
Later that night only a couple of umbrellas leaned against the heating ducts and a forgotten grocery bag rested by the entrance. The stairwell fell quiet; muffled voices behind doors talked about the days events or called relatives.
By morning the bogus flyers had vanished from every door and mailbox as quickly as theyd appeared. No service men were seen in the courtyard or the hallway again. The caretaker even found a crumpled flyer with red letters tucked under a bush, halftaped to a door.
Neighbours gathered by the lift, smiling, now a bit wiser about their rights and the tricks out there. Aunt Lucy brought over some homemade scones for saving us from foolishness, and the topfloor resident left a note that simply read Thank you! on the Smiths door.
The courtyard was still wet from the nights rain, but the remnants of yesterdays hustle faded with the last drops of water under the morning sun.
On the landing, people chatted about the latest news again: someone bragged about a brandnew meter theyd actually installed a year ago, another joked about the service men, and many just enjoyed the newfound trust in the building.
The Smiths realised their victory had cost them an evening of explanations and paperwork, a bit of embarrassment in front of neighbours, and a loss of blind faith in doorstep notices. But now the whole block was a little more vigilant about strangers and a lot closer to each other.
