Eleven Times

The film night in the market square in Peckham was free, which was why Adaeze went. By eight o’clock about sixty people were sitting on blankets, and somebody had put a big white sheet up on the wall of the old bank.

Then it started to rain. Nobody moved. The clouds were low and grey and there were no stars at all, but the film was still on the wall, so people put their hoods up and stayed.

Then the projector died. The sheet went white, and then black.

A man knelt down by the machine with a light in his teeth. Everyone hoped he could fix it. After ten minutes he stood up and shook his head.

Adaeze had seen this film eleven times. She knew every line, and she wasn’t going home.

So she stood up on the front step of the bank and started to tell it.

“Okay, so the boy opens the box,” she said, “and the box is empty, and he doesn’t tell anyone.”

Some children came and sat by her feet. A man near the front laughed at the part with the bicycle. Adaeze did all the voices, even the dog.

Somebody carried a chair over to the step for her.

“Sit down,” he said. “You’ve got twenty minutes left.”

“I can’t do the voices sitting down,” Adaeze said, and went on.