I was walking along the deserted main street of a small seaside town in the north of England looking somewhere to make a phone call. My car had broken down outside the town and I wanted to get in touch with the Automobile Association .Low gray clouds were drifting across the sky and there was a cold damp wind blowing off the sea. It had rained in the night and water was dripping from the bare trees that lined the street. I was glad that I was wearing a thick coat. I could see no call box, nor was there anyone at that early hour I could ask. I had thought I might find a shop selling the Sunday papers or a milkman doing his job, but the town was completely dead. Then suddenly I found what I was looking for. There was a small post office, and almost hidden from sight in a dark narrow street next to it was the town's only public call box, which badly needed a coat of paint, I hurried forward but stopped in astonishment when I saw through the dirty glass that there was a man inside. He was very fat, and was wearing a cheap blue plastic raincoat and rubber boots. I could not see his face - he was bending forward over the phone with his back pressed against the glass and didn't even raise his head at the sound of my coming nearer and nearer. Carefully and surprisedly, I remained standing a few feet away and lit a cigarette to wait my turn. It was when I threw the dead match on the ground that I noticed something bright red trickling from under the call box door. What do you suppose happened to the man in the call box?
He slept. He was too fat to move around. He was lost in his important phone call. He had most probably been killed.