He woke up. He was moving down. He banged his fists on the roof.
“Damn you!” he screamed. “Damn you!”
He fumbled in his pocket, found a matchbox, flicked out a match and struck it.
His vision blurred. He drew what air he could into his lungs.
Above him, in red felt-tip pen. ‘Tight arse couldn’t buy me a fancy coffin’.