praying have all their attention fixed on God.
So the church was a good place to be right now, for a small soul hiding in a dark cornerâ¦
Chapter Seven
L eonard curled himself up into a ball at the back of the church, behind a curtain where it looked as if they kept the sort of stuff that wasnât wanted every day: broken chairs, a bent and tarnished altar rail, and a dusty picture of the crucified Jesus.
He didnât know what time it was. Groups had come in, and groups had gone. Some had lingered a bit longer than others, but no one had stayed long enough to wander around.
It was getting dark now, and after a long spell with no one coming in, Leonard reckoned thatthe visitors must have gone for the day. But he wasnât coming out. He had found a good place here, and although he imagined he could hear voices hissing,
We kill you! Get that, Angel Boy!
he realised that it was the sound of the wind in the battlements; and the distant shouting in his ears wasnât the street kids, but the boat-builders and footballers down below on the beach.
Night falls fast in Ghana, and it was dark within minutes. Now what? He could stay here until morning and try and get help from some fresh visitors who hadnât seen him begging. He could hang about in the hope that tomorrow was the kind young womanâs day to be the guide again. Or he could try to get out of this place in the middle of the night.
But what about the street kids? Would they have given up on him? Would they be moving on to some other evil plan to get money? Or were they the sort to cling to something, to see it through to the end if it gave them a small chance to earn big money like ten dollar bills?
Ten dollar bills!
Suddenly Leonard realised that he still had one.
Heâd left the collecting plate on a stone seat in the fort entrance-way, but he still had the money. It would get him a taxi home if he managed to get out of here! He felt it crinkle in his top pocket. As for the cedies in his shorts, they wouldnât even get him a bag of plantain chips â which made him realise how hungry he was. His stomach rolled emptily and he was startled by its loudness. He was thirsty, too, but like a mouse he was going to have to lie low until later.
The fort was dark. There were offices here, and a museum, but not a chink of light was to be seen. If there was a caretaker, he or she probably lived down in the town. Leonard had the feeling that he was all alone..
He had to be patient, though. As the heat of the day went out of the timbers, the woodwork started to creak; and every creak sounded like a stealthy footstepâ¦The street kids? Could one of them have wormed into the fort and right nowbe prowling the place looking for âAngel Boyâ? Leonardâs eyes were as big as a civet catâs, his ears as sensitive as a radio telescope as he held his breath to listen and moved the curtain to look around. Who else was in this place?
He stayed where he was â and sitting there, hunched and hiding in the church recess, another scary thought seeped into Leonardâs mind.
Slaves. Ghosts. The spirits of the people who had been locked up in the fort to die in the condemned cell
. In his head he saw the sculpted skull above the cellâs entrance, and he imagined its hollow sockets staring through the dark of the night, even through the wallsâ¦
He believed in Jesus, and the badge on his school shirt said he believed in the Holy Ghost. But what about
people
ghosts? What about those forebears who had died metres away from where he sat? Were their spirits free at night to escape from that locked dungeon of death?
He had to get out of here!
Carefully, he pushed the recess curtain aside.It squeaked on its rail, made enough noise to wake a million spirits â but he pushed himself through, and out he came into the vaulted air of the nave. He could see better here â there was a moon. It filtered in through the glass, and let
So the church was a good place to be right now, for a small soul hiding in a dark cornerâ¦
Chapter Seven
L eonard curled himself up into a ball at the back of the church, behind a curtain where it looked as if they kept the sort of stuff that wasnât wanted every day: broken chairs, a bent and tarnished altar rail, and a dusty picture of the crucified Jesus.
He didnât know what time it was. Groups had come in, and groups had gone. Some had lingered a bit longer than others, but no one had stayed long enough to wander around.
It was getting dark now, and after a long spell with no one coming in, Leonard reckoned thatthe visitors must have gone for the day. But he wasnât coming out. He had found a good place here, and although he imagined he could hear voices hissing,
We kill you! Get that, Angel Boy!
he realised that it was the sound of the wind in the battlements; and the distant shouting in his ears wasnât the street kids, but the boat-builders and footballers down below on the beach.
Night falls fast in Ghana, and it was dark within minutes. Now what? He could stay here until morning and try and get help from some fresh visitors who hadnât seen him begging. He could hang about in the hope that tomorrow was the kind young womanâs day to be the guide again. Or he could try to get out of this place in the middle of the night.
But what about the street kids? Would they have given up on him? Would they be moving on to some other evil plan to get money? Or were they the sort to cling to something, to see it through to the end if it gave them a small chance to earn big money like ten dollar bills?
Ten dollar bills!
Suddenly Leonard realised that he still had one.
Heâd left the collecting plate on a stone seat in the fort entrance-way, but he still had the money. It would get him a taxi home if he managed to get out of here! He felt it crinkle in his top pocket. As for the cedies in his shorts, they wouldnât even get him a bag of plantain chips â which made him realise how hungry he was. His stomach rolled emptily and he was startled by its loudness. He was thirsty, too, but like a mouse he was going to have to lie low until later.
The fort was dark. There were offices here, and a museum, but not a chink of light was to be seen. If there was a caretaker, he or she probably lived down in the town. Leonard had the feeling that he was all alone..
He had to be patient, though. As the heat of the day went out of the timbers, the woodwork started to creak; and every creak sounded like a stealthy footstepâ¦The street kids? Could one of them have wormed into the fort and right nowbe prowling the place looking for âAngel Boyâ? Leonardâs eyes were as big as a civet catâs, his ears as sensitive as a radio telescope as he held his breath to listen and moved the curtain to look around. Who else was in this place?
He stayed where he was â and sitting there, hunched and hiding in the church recess, another scary thought seeped into Leonardâs mind.
Slaves. Ghosts. The spirits of the people who had been locked up in the fort to die in the condemned cell
. In his head he saw the sculpted skull above the cellâs entrance, and he imagined its hollow sockets staring through the dark of the night, even through the wallsâ¦
He believed in Jesus, and the badge on his school shirt said he believed in the Holy Ghost. But what about
people
ghosts? What about those forebears who had died metres away from where he sat? Were their spirits free at night to escape from that locked dungeon of death?
He had to get out of here!
Carefully, he pushed the recess curtain aside.It squeaked on its rail, made enough noise to wake a million spirits â but he pushed himself through, and out he came into the vaulted air of the nave. He could see better here â there was a moon. It filtered in through the glass, and let
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