In the dimly lit stairwell of Flat Six, where the scent of damp umbrellas and old mortar clung to the walls, spring announced itself quietly. The evenings stretched longer, the air crisp yet reluctant to surrender the last of the daylight.
The Wilkins familyFather, Mother, and their teenage sontrudged home, arms laden with groceries. Bundles of vegetables and a loaf of bread poked from their bags, fresh spring onions trailing like green banners. Droplets glistened on the doorframe; someone had hurried inside without shaking the rain from their coat.
Fresh notices, printed on plain A4 paper, had appeared on every door and postbox. Bold red letters declared: *”URGENT: Water Meter Replacement Required by Weeks End! Penalties Apply! Call to Book Below!”* The damp air had already warped the paper, ink bleeding in places. Downstairs neighbour, Mrs. Edith, stood by the lift, clutching a string bag of potatoes as she dialled the number scrawled at the bottom.
“They say therell be fines if we dont change them,” she fretted as the Wilkinses passed. “The man on the phone claimed its a special offerjust for our building. Do you think we ought to?”
Father shrugged. “Odd, isnt it? No warning, no letters from the council. And since when do they call it an offer? Sounds more like a sales pitch.”
Over supper, the conversation continued. Their son produced an identical leaflet, folded and wedged into their doorframe. Mother turned it over, comparing the date to their last meter inspection on the utility bill.
“Our check isnt due for another year. Why the rush?” she murmured. “And whos ever heard of this company?”
Father frowned. “We should ask the neighbours if theyve had these. And find out whos behind it.”
By morning, the stairwell buzzed with uneasy chatter. Voices echoed from the landingssome arguing on phones, others clustered by the rubbish chute, swapping rumours.
“They told me theyd cut the water off!” a woman from Flat Three exclaimed, arms crossed. “Ive got little oneswhat am I supposed to do?”
Then came a knock. Two men in matching jackets, clutching clipboards, moved door to door. One brandished a tablet, the other a stack of forms.
“Good evening! Emergency water meter replacementscouncil directive!” announced the first, his voice slick with rehearsed cheer. “Delays mean penalties!”
Father peered through the peephole. No badges, no uniforms. Mother whispered, “Dont answer. Let them try next door.”
Their son edged to the window. Below, an unmarked van idled, its driver scrolling on his phone. Puddles mirrored the streetlamps on wet tarmac.
The men left damp footprints down the halla trail leading straight to Mrs. Ediths doormat.
By evening, the building hummed like a beehive. Some had already booked appointments; others rang the council, only to be met with vague replies. The neighbourhood WhatsApp group lit up: *Were these men legitimate? Why the urgency?* The Wilkinses decided to consult the couple upstairs.
“Their IDs looked dodgyjust laminated paper, no stamps,” reported the woman from Flat 17. “When I asked for credentials, they left in a hurry.”
Fathers jaw tightened. “Tomorrow, well corner them. Demand proper paperwork. And Im calling the council directly.”
Mother agreed. Their son readied his phone to record.
The “inspectors” returned at dawnthree this time, same jackets, same urgency. They hammered on doors, insisting appointments be made *now*.
Father cracked the door, the chain taut. “Show us your authorisation. The councils work order number, too.”
The lead man fumbled through papers, producing a sheet with an unfamiliar logo. “Were under contractsee?”
“Contract with whom?” Father countered. “Name the council contact. Give us the reference.”
The men exchanged glances, muttering about “deadlines” and “fines.” Father dialled the council on speakerphone.
“Hellohave you dispatched meter inspectors today? There are men here claiming”
The answer was swift: *No scheduled work. No authorised visits.*
The “inspectors” backpedalled*wrong address, mix-up*but Father had already recorded every word.
Dusk fell early, shadows swallowing the stairwell. A draught whistled through an open window upstairs. Neighbours voices seeped through doors, tense and questioning.
The truth was plain now: a scam, dressed up as bureaucracy. The Wilkinses acted.
Father gathered Mrs. Edith, the couple from 17, others trickling in from upper floors. The landing smelled of wet wool and fresh breadsomeone had just returned from the bakery. Their son replayed the recording for latecomers.
“The council confirmed it,” Father said, phone aloft. “These men are frauds.”
“I booked them!” blurted the woman from Flat Three, cheeks flushing. “They sounded so sure”
“Youre not the only one,” Mother soothed. “But real inspectors notify properly. In writing.”
The group eruptedsome feared fines, others dreaded leaked details. Father raised a hand.
“Lock your doors tomorrow. Demand IDs. Call the council *while they wait*. Better yetdont answer.”
Their son circulated a checklist: *Real inspections are scheduled on bills. Verify firms via the council. Threats of fines? Bluster.*
Mother proposed a petition”To alert the council and warn the rest.” Neighbours nodded, fetching pens and paper.
As they drafted the notice, an unspoken solidarity settled over them. *Easier to stand firm together.*
The final warning, slipped into a plastic sleeve, was taped by the mailboxes:
*”ALERT: Scammers posing as water inspectors. Council confirms NO replacements scheduled. Do NOT admit strangers!”*
Nearly everyone signed. A shift worker volunteered to deliver it at dawn. Others promised to spread the word.
As the group dispersed, the mood liftedjokes cracked about renaming the chat *”Scam Watch,”* shoulders loosening.
Father smiled. “At least now we know each other beyond nods on the stairs.”
By morning, the fake notices had vanished. No vans lurked outside. Only a crumpled leaflet by the bins, sodden and forgotten.
Neighbours exchanged grateful smiles in the lift. Mrs. Edith brought the Wilkinses mince pies”For saving us from folly.” A Post-it on their door read simply, *Thank you.*
The courtyard, still glistening from overnight rain, bore no trace of the men. Only the echoes remainedin shared laughter over tea, in the newfound ease of borrowed sugar, in the unshakable certainty that next time, theyd face the unknown as one.
