Dave pushed the door open with the flat of his back. It swang right open and he found himself heaved against door-frame, panting.
Suddenly whatever was going on in the bedroom opposite the kitchen stopped, and two half dressed teens rolled out into an excuse of a hallway.
The red on Dave’s stained jumper was running down off the door onto the carpet. He rolled his face from off his shoulder towards the guy with his girlfriend.
He was moving. One heavy shoe after the other, he stumbled towards the laundry.
“Dave, I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to-” Ross was choking now, he could barely make out Dave’s profile with the front curtains drawn.
Bleeding through the hand on his ribs, David put a sprawled palm before the two faces to his left:
“Could not - give less - of a - fahhk.” The corners of his mouth twitched for a split second at an accidental pun - but now the laundry was all he wanted.
The laundry door now closed, the sordid pair heard a dull thud against the tiles, and all the bottles in the cabinet behind the mirror spill all over its damp hillside. They’d been in there, too.
The water ran, and almost every painful movement involved in undoing the zip on Dave’s jumper could be heard. When the carpet outside the laundry started becoming wet the door was opened.
And there was David, dead on the laundry floor.