THIS HOUSE

When I got back from being south of the river the two gulls I’d filmed last night were outside the flats...at least I thought it was them the way they looked at me...feeding on the worms they were is what I thought...they watched me as I passed before resuming.
Three young women stood by a man lying on the floor in front of the lift the strap of a shoulder bag wrapped round his legs and a coat over his feet.
There was blood and cuts looked like they’d been made by a sharp object on his face and bald head and a strong smell of alcohol.
‘We were only visiting,’ said one of the women when I asked what happened.
‘He was in the lift when it opened,’ said the another.
The third was on the phone.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘How old do you think he is?’
‘Fifty-five, sixty,’ I said kneeling down by the man, ‘how old are you? How old are you?’ a bit louder.
‘Fifty-four,’ he said and I saw blood in his mouth.
‘He’s been hit. Look at the cuts,’ said one of the women.
The police and an ambulance arrived.
‘The attacker still here?’
The paramedic knew the man’s name.
‘What you doing in this house?’ he said.
‘What you mean "this house"?’