In block six, where the stairwell always carried the scent of damp umbrellas and old concrete, spring felt particularly tangible. The air was cool, but the evening light lingeredas if the day was reluctant to leave.
The Johnson family returned home: father, mother, and their teenage son. Each carried bags of vegetables and bread, with long green onion stalks poking out. Droplets clung to the front doorsomeone had just entered without shaking their umbrella.
Fresh notices hung on doors and mailboxesprinted white sheets with bold red letters: “Attention! Urgent water meter replacements! Must be completed by weeks end! Fines apply! Booking number below.” The paper had already swollen from the damp air, ink bleeding in places. Mrs. Thompson from downstairs stood by the lift, trying to dial the number while clutching a string bag of potatoes.
“They say therell be fines if we dont replace them,” she fretted as the Johnsons passed. “I rang, and a young man said its a special offer just for our block. Maybe we should?”
The father shrugged.
“Its all very sudden. No prior warning. The housing association hasnt sent letters or calls. And a special offersounds too pushy.”
The conversation continued over dinner. Their son pulled another folded leaflet from his schoolbagidentical, slipped through the letterbox. The mother turned it in her hands, checking the meters inspection date on their bill.
“Our inspection isnt due for another year. Why the rush?” she asked. “And why hasnt anyone heard of this company?”
The father frowned.
“We should ask the neighbours who else got these. And who exactly is behind this service?”
The next day, the stairwell buzzed with activity. Voices echoedsomeone arguing on the phone upstairs, others exchanging updates by the rubbish chute. Two women from flat three shared their worries.
“They told me theyd cut off our water if we didnt comply!” one exclaimed. “Ive got little kids!”
Then, the doorbell rang. Two men in matching jackets, clutching briefcases, went door-to-door. One held a tablet, the other a stack of papers.
“Good evening, residents! Urgent water meter replacements! Fines apply for non-compliance!”
The man spoke loudly, confident, but overly sweet. His partner rapped insistently on the neighbours door, as if hurrying to cover more flats.
The Johnsons exchanged glances. The father peered through the peepholeno uniforms, no IDs. The mother whispered,
“Dont answer. Let them try others.”
Their son looked out the window: an unmarked van idled below, its driver smoking and scrolling on his phone. Puddles glistened under streetlights.
Minutes later, the men moved on, leaving wet footprints down the hall.
By evening, the block hummed like a hive. Some had booked appointments; others called the housing association, getting vague replies. The WhatsApp group buzzed: Should they let these men in? Why the urgency? The Johnsons decided to ask upstairs.
“Their IDs looked dodgy,” said the woman from flat 17. “Just laminated paper, no stamp. When I asked for a license, they backed off.”
The Johnsons grew warier. The father suggested,
“Lets confront them tomorrowask for proper documents. Ill call the housing association directly.”
The mother agreed. Their son promised to record the conversation.
The next morning, the “service men” returned. Now a trio, they moved swiftly, knocking, pressuring residents to book immediately.
The father opened the door just a crack, chain still fastened.
“Show us your credentials. Your license. And the housing associations reference number, if this is official.”
The man hesitated, fumbling through papers, producing a leaflet with an unfamiliar logo. His partner avoided eye contact, flipping through the tablet.
“Were contracted for this block… Heres the agreement…”
“With whom? Name the contact at the housing association. Give us the reference number,” the father pressed calmly.
The men exchanged glances, muttering about deadlines and fines. The father dialled the housing association on speakerphone.
“Hello, could you confirm if youve sent contractors for meter replacements today? Weve got people going door-to-door…”
The reply was clear: no scheduled work, no contractors sent. Legitimate technicians always notify in writing, with residents signing off.
The men backtrackedwrong address, mix-upbut the father had already recorded everything.
Dusk settled quickly; the stairwell dimmed. A draught whistled through an open window upstairs. Wet footprints trailed to the rubbish chute. Behind doors, neighbours murmured anxiously.
The realisation was stark: a scam, disguised as mandatory meter replacements. The solution came naturallywarn the others, act together.
Though it was dark, the Johnsons didnt delay. The father gathered Mrs. Thompson, the woman from flat 17, a few others. The landing smelled of damp coats and fresh breadsomeone had just returned from the shops. The son replayed the recording for those who missed it.
“Listenthe housing association confirmed its a scam,” the father said, holding up his phone. “No licenses, no paperwork. These men are frauds.”
“But I already booked!” cried a neighbour from flat three, flushing.
“Youre not alone,” the mother reassured. “But real contractors give proper notice.”
The group eruptedquestions about fines, shared fears over handing out details. The father steadied them.
“Key thingdont let them in tomorrow. Dont pay upfront. Demand paperwork, call the housing association on the spot.”
The son listed signs of genuine inspections: dates in bills, verifiable company details, fines only enforceable via court.
“Lets draft a joint complaint,” the mother proposed. “And post a warning downstairs.”
Nods all around. Someone fetched a pen and paper. As they debated wording, an unexpected solidarity emergedno one wanted to face this alone.
Outside, rain speckled the pavement; puddles mirrored streetlights.
The notice was simple: “Warning! Scammers posing as meter inspectors. Housing association confirms no replacements scheduled. Do not admit strangers!” They laminated it, fixing it firmly by the mailboxes.
Nearly everyone signed the complaint. The woman from flat three volunteered to deliver it in the morning. Others promised to spread the word.
As they dispersed, the mood liftednervousness replaced by resolve, even laughter.
“Next time, well meet for something nicer,” the father smiled.
By late evening, only abandoned umbrellas and a forgotten grocery bag remained.
Morning brought change: the fraudulent notices vanished. No “service men” returned. Only a crumpled leaflet under a bush, and tape residue on the door.
Neighbours exchanged grateful smiles at the lift. Mrs. Thompson brought the Johnsons scones “for saving us from folly.” A “Thank you!” note appeared on their door.
The courtyard still glistened from overnight rain, but yesterdays chaos dissolved with the last droplets.
On the landing, chatter resumedsome bragged about new meters (legitimately installed), others joked about “inspectors.” But most simply appreciated the newfound trust in the block.
The Johnsons knew the cost of their victory: time spent explaining, awkward conversations, shattered trust in door-to-door notices. Yet now, the whole block watched for strangersand felt a little closer as neighbours.
