In Block Six, where the stairwell always carried the scent of damp umbrellas and old concrete, spring felt particularly pronounced. The air was crisp, but the evenings lingereddaylight seemed reluctant to fade.
The Carrington family returned home: father, mother, and their teenage son. Each carried bags of groceriesvegetables, bread, and the long green stalks of spring onions poking out the top. Water droplets clung to the front door; someone had hurried inside without shaking off their umbrella.
Fresh notices hung on doors and mailboxeswhite sheets printed on a home printer. Bold red letters declared: *”URGENT! Water meter replacements required by weeks end! Fines apply! Booking number below.”* The paper had already warped from the damp air, the ink smudged in places. Downstairs neighbour, Auntie Margaret, stood by the lift, balancing a bag of potatoes in one hand while dialling the number listed.
“Theyre saying therell be fines if we dont replace them,” she fretted as the Carringtons passed. “I calledsome young man insisted its a special offer just for our block. Maybe we should?”
Mr. Carrington shrugged. “Feels too rushed. No prior notice. The council hasnt sent letters or called. And special offer? Sounds fishy.”
The conversation continued over dinner. Their son pulled another leaflet from his schoolbagidentical, but folded and wedged into their doorframe. Mrs. Carrington turned it over, then checked their meters inspection date on the latest bill.
“Our certification isnt due for another year. Why the hurry? And why hasnt anyone heard of this company?”
Mr. Carrington frowned. “We should ask the neighbours if theyve had these. And whos behind this service?”
The next day, the block buzzed with chatter. Voices echoed in the stairwellsomeone arguing on the phone upstairs, a cluster by the rubbish chute swapping rumours. Two women from Flat 3 exchanged anxious whispers:
“They told me theyd cut our water off if we dont comply!” one hissed. “Ive got small children!”
A sharp knock interrupted them. Two men in matching jackets, clutching briefcases, worked their way along the floor. One held a tablet, the other a stack of forms.
“Good evening! Urgent water meter replacementsmandatory council order!” announced the first, voice slick. “Miss the deadline, and its fines!”
His partner rapped insistently on the opposite door, as if racing to cover more flats.
The Carringtons exchanged glances. Mr. Carrington peered through the peepholeno IDs, no uniforms. Mrs. Carrington murmured, “Dont answer. Let them move on.”
Their son edged to the window: a plain van idled below, its driver scrolling on his phone. Puddles glittered under the streetlamps.
Minutes later, the men left wet footprints trailing down the hall.
By evening, the block hummed like a beehive. Some had booked replacements; others got vague answers from the council. The WhatsApp group debated: *Were they legitimate? Why the rush?* The Carringtons decided to consult the upstairs neighbours.
“Their IDs looked dodgyjust laminated printouts,” said the woman from Flat 17. “When I asked for a licence, they bolted.”
Alarm deepened. Mr. Carrington proposed, “Tomorrow, well corner them for proper documents. Ill call the council directly.”
Their son promised to record the exchange.
The service team returned at dawnthree this time, same jackets, same urgency. Mr. Carrington cracked the door, chain still fastened.
“Show your credentials. Your licence. And the councils reference number for this order.”
The lead man fumbled, producing a flimsy sheet with an obscure logo. His colleague avoided eye contact, swiping his tablet.
“Were under contract for this estate”
“With whom? Name the council contact and reference.”
Muttering about fines and deadlines, they faltered as Mr. Carrington dialled the council on speakerphone.
“Hellohas anyone authorised meter replacements in our block today?”
The answer was clear: *No scheduled work. No teams dispatched. Legitimate contractors always notify in writing.*
The men backpedalled”Wrong address”but the Carringtons had the recording.
Dusk fell swiftly. Puddles from their boots led to the bins. Behind closed doors, neighbours compared notes. The truth was plain: a scam, pressuring households into fake mandatory upgrades.
Action followed naturally. The Carringtons rallied Auntie Margaret, Flat 17, and others by the lifts. The landing smelled of raincoats and fresh bakerysomeone had just returned with a loaf. Their son readied his phone to replay the councils confirmation.
“Listenthe council confirmed no works planned,” Mr. Carrington announced. “These men are frauds.”
“I already booked!” cried a woman from Flat 3, flushing. “They sounded so sure”
“Youre not alone,” Mrs. Carrington reassured. “But real contractors give proper notice.”
Questions eruptedabout fines, shared details. Mr. Carrington steadied them:
“Dont let them in tomorrow. Dont pay a penny. Demand paperwork and call the council on the spot.”
Their son listed hallmarks of genuine inspections: dates in bills, verifiable company details, no fines without court orders.
“Lets draft a group complaint to the council,” Mrs. Carrington suggested. “And post warnings downstairs.”
Nods all around. Someone fetched a pen; another offered a folder. As they debated wording, the block felt newly unitedno one wanted to face this alone.
Through the window, drizzle silvered the pavement. Their notice was blunt:
*WARNING: Scammers posing as meter inspectors. Council confirms NO replacements planned. Do NOT admit strangers.*
They laminated it, taped it firmly by the mailboxes. Nearly all present signed the complaint; Flat 3s tenant vowed to deliver it.
As neighbours dispersed, tension gave way to purposeeven laughter.
“Next time, well meet for tea, not just emergencies,” Mr. Carrington joked.
By morning, the fake notices had vanished. No inspectors returned. Only a crumpled leaflet by the bins and leftover tape hinted at the ruse.
Neighbours exchanged grateful smiles at the lifts. Auntie Margaret brought the Carringtons scones “for saving us from folly”; a thank-you note appeared on their door.
Puddles dried in the sun. The block, once wary, now stood a little closerand far wiser.
