In flat six of the walkup on Willow Street, where the stair landings always smelled of damp umbrellas and freshset concrete, spring felt especially vivid. The air was cool, yet the evenings kept the light a little longer, as if the day were reluctant to leave.
The Smith family was coming home: father, mother and their teenage son. Each clutched a bag of veg and a loaf of bread, the tops of the bags spilling long green leeks. A few drops gathered by the doorsomeone had just entered without shaking the water from their umbrella.
Pinned to the doors and letterboxes were freshly printed notices, plain white sheets from a home printer. In bold scarlet letters they read: Attention! Urgent replacement of water meters! Must be completed by the end of the week! Fines apply! Call the number below to book. The paper was already curling in the damp, the ink running at the edges. Downstairs, Aunt Lucy, who was waiting by the lift, fumbled with a phone while cradling a sack of potatoes.
They say therell be fines if we dont replace them, she remarked anxiously as the Smiths passed. I called earlier; a young man said its a scheme just for our block. Maybe its time.
Father shrugged. It feels rushed. No one warned us beforehand. The managing agent has been silentno letters, no calls. And scheme that sounds a bit too loud.
The conversation continued at dinner. Son slipped another slip of paper from his school baga duplicate of the notice, folded in half and tucked into the doorframe. Mother turned the slip over, looking at the date of the last meter inspection on the bill.
Our last inspection was only a year ago. Why the hurry? she asked. And why does nobody know this company?
Father pondered. We should ask the neighbours who got the same flyers. And find out what this service is, why theyre handing them out everywhere.
The next morning the stairwell was busier. Voices echoed up the flightssomeone arguing on the phone, a group near the refuse chute swapping the latest gossip. Two women from flat three voiced their worries.
If we dont change them, theyll cut off the water! one exclaimed. Ive got little children!
Just then a knock sounded at the landing. Two men in identical jackets, briefcases at their sides, moved from door to door. One held a tablet, the other a stack of leaflets.
Good evening, residents! Mandatory watermeter replacement by urgent order! Anyone whose inspection has expired will face fines from the managing agent! the taller man announced, his voice booming and overly polished. The second man pounded on the opposite door with a sense of urgency, as if trying to tick off as many flats as possible.
The Smiths exchanged glances. Father peered through the peepholestrangers, no badges, no identification. Mother whispered, Dont open. Let them go to the others first.
Son looked out the window and saw a car without any markings parked in the courtyard; the driver was smoking and scrolling on his phone. Streetlights reflected on the wet tarmac, still glistening from the recent rain.
Within minutes the men moved on, leaving damp footprints on the stair runner. A thin line of water traced down the mat at Aunt Lucys door.
That evening the whole landing buzzed like a beehive. Some residents had already signed up for the replacement, others were on the phone with the managing agent getting vague answers. In the buildings WhatsApp group the question was repeated: should we let these men in? Why the haste? The Smiths decided to ask the flats above them what the service men had said.
They even had strangelooking IDs, a neighbour from flat17 told them. Just a laminated card with no seal. I asked for a licence and they hurried away.
The Smiths grew more cautious. Father suggested, Tomorrow well try to catch them again and ask for all their documents. Ill also call the managing agent directly. Mother agreed, and son promised to record the conversation on his phone.
The next morning the service men returned, this time three of them, still in matching jackets and carrying identical folders. They rattled through the stairwell, pounding on doors, urging residents to book the replacement immediately.
Father opened his door only a crack, keeping the chain taut. Show us your paperwork. Let us see your licence. Give us the managing agents work order number if this is a scheduled job, he demanded.
One of the men shuffled through his papers, pulling out a slip with an unfamiliar logo and thrusting it through the gap. The second man stared at his tablet.
Were contracted to service this building Heres the contract, the first said.
What contract? With our managing agent? Give us the name of the responsible officer, the work order number and a contact phone, Father replied calmly.
The men exchanged nervous looks, muttering about urgency and fines. Father then dialled the managing agent while they stood there.
Hello, could you confirm whether you sent anyone today to replace water meters? he asked. We have strangers knocking on doors.
The reply was clear: no scheduled work had been arranged, no technicians had been dispatched, and any legitimate contractor would give residents advance written notice signed by the occupants.
The men tried to excuse themselvesmust be a mistake, were at the wrong blockbut Father had already captured the call on his sons recorder.
Dusk fell quickly, the stairwell slipping into halfdarkness. A cold draft slipped through an open window, the wind rattling a higherfloor pane. Umbrellas and shoes piled by the entrance, a wet trail from soggy boots leading to the refuse chute. Behind the doors, neighbours whispered, still processing what had just happened.
The climax came almost mundanely: the Smiths realised they were facing a fraud scheme masquerading as a compulsory meter swap. The solution was obviouswarn the others and act together.
Even as the corridor grew dark, Father didnt wait. He called Aunt Lucy and the flat17 neighbour, and a couple from the top floor joined them, along with a few mothers with children. The smell of damp coats mixed with fresh bakery scents; someone had just brought a loaf from the corner shop. Son switched on his recorder so anyone who couldnt attend could hear the exchange later.
Listen, Father began, holding up his phone. The managing agent says there are no works planned. These men have no licence, no work order. Theyre scammers.
I already signed up! shouted a resident from the third floor, turning crimson. They sounded so convincing
Youre not alone. We were called too, her husband added. If this had really been from the agent, we would have got a written notice first.
A murmur rose as residents asked about fines, about their personal data theyd already given. Father steadied them: The key is not to let anyone in tomorrow and never pay on the spot. If they return, demand proper documents and call the managing agent right there. Better still, dont open the door at all.
Son displayed a cheatsheet hed prepared, outlining how genuine inspections work: the next inspection date appears on the bill, the contractor can be verified through the managing agent, and any fine without a court order is merely intimidation.
Mother proposed, Lets draft a collective letter to the managing agent, so theyre aware of these visits and can warn everyone. She also suggested posting a notice on the ground floor.
Everyone nodded. Someone fetched a pen and an old folder, and they began drafting the statement. As they wrote, a feeling of solidarity grew; it was clear that no one wanted to be duped alone, but together they felt steadier.
Through the corridor window, a few late walkers hurried home under a drizzle; the courtyard glittered with puddles beneath streetlamps.
The notice they posted was simple: Attention! Fraudulent service men posing as watermeter technicians were seen in this building. The managing agent confirms: no work is scheduled. Do not open the door to unknown persons! They laminated the paper and taped it over the letterboxes in several layers.
Almost everyone signed the joint letter; the resident from the third floor volunteered to deliver it to the managing agent the next morning. Others promised to pass the information to anyone on shift or away visiting relatives.
When the residents dispersed back to their flats, the atmosphere had shiftedfrom wary suspicion to active cooperation, even a touch of humour. One neighbour joked, Now well rename the WhatsApp group AntiScam Squad! Father smiled, The point is we now know each others faces. Next time well meet over coffee, not crisis.
Late that night only a couple of umbrellas rested on the radiator and a forgotten grocery bag lay by the door. The stair landing fell silent; behind the doors low voices carried on, sharing details of the days meeting or chatting with family on the phone.
Morning brought an immediate change: the fraudulent notice vanished from every door and letterbox as quickly as it had appeared. No more service men roamed the courtyard or the landing. Only the caretaker noticed a crumpled slip of red paper and a strip of tape stuck to a door under a shrub.
Neighbours gathered by the lift, exchanging grateful smiles; everyone now knew 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 topfloor neighbour left a thankyou note on their door.
The courtyard was still damp from the nights rain, but the footprints of yesterdays bustle faded with the final drops of water in the sunrise.
On the landing, chat returned to the usual news: someone bragged about a brandnew meter that had genuinely been installed a year ago, another laughed about the service men, and many simply enjoyed the renewed confidence in each other.
The Smiths realised the cost of their victory: an evening spent explaining, paperwork, a few embarrassed moments, and a temporary loss of blind trust in notices. Yet the whole block now paid closer attention to strangers and felt a little closer to one another.
The lesson was clear: vigilance shared among neighbours turns a potential scam into a communitys strength, proving that looking out for each other is the best safeguard against deception.
