The White Fox (3 page)

The textbook, a particularly tenacious volume called
The Darwinian Guide to Biochemistry and Essential Physics
, had probably originated from some time around the birth of its namesake. The amount of times it had clubbed the unfortunate desks of this chemistry laboratory were uncountable, and the chance of students being hit was only measured by their reaction speed. Luckily for Jack, he had been made to sit on the end of a bench next to the window, so when something blocked the sun, it was time to move.

“What have I said about sleeping in class?”

“I wasn’t sleeping, sir,” Jack replied automatically. He watched Dr. Orpheus for the possible aftershock. His bloodshot, piglike eyes narrowed even more, and the crimson flush in his face, brought on by decades of heavy drinking, intensified. His stomach, already barely contained in his tweed jacket, expanded further.

“No backchat. See me after the lesson.” He turned and marched off back to his desk. The light returned.

Jack slouched in his chair, trying not to doze off. Shafts of golden sunlight fell through the first floor wall of windows, scorching the students within its range. The burnt-out atmosphere of August had extended well into October, gilting the world in rusted amber. With a pang of annoyance, Jack noticed that almost every other person in the room was slumped over their desks, most likely sleeping. The inevitable drone from next to the blackboard resumed.

It had been discovered by every student early on in the year that this particular chemistry lab was not subject to the usual laws of time and space. Rather, it was a black hole that drained energy and elongated seconds into hours. In keeping with this, the remaining hour passed like days. Outside, wispy clouds lazed across the sapphire sky, seeming to brush the tops of the trees on a hill in the distance. The unattractive, factory-like block that was opposite this one leered like a portly toad over the yard below. The few withered trees that
hadn’t
been pulled up to make way for tarmac blew gently in the wind, almost audibly gasping for rain.

A pigeon fluttered into the gutter above this window. A moment later something slimy and white trickled down the pane. As always, Jack didn’t even bother trying to pay attention. He’d learnt long ago that whatever crucial life skills he might glean from the industrial uses of limestone he could teach to himself, probably at a better standard, at the end of the year.

Finally, the clock hands deigned to stretch around to the twelve and four. With almost acrobatic precision, every single person in the room sat up, stretched, and started packing everything away. Jack stood and hoisted his bag onto his shoulder, waiting for everyone to pass him. Then he made his way up to the desk.

“Exercise 18B and the summary questions on page 164,” Dr. Orpheus called to the students disappearing out the door. He bent down and began packing away his books and papers.

Jack waited, the room stifling him. The flush of cool air from the door was beckoning him outside. He scratched his neck uncomfortably. “Sir?” he prompted when the teacher completely ignored him.

Dr. Orpheus strapped his satchel and stood up straight to face him. This had very little effect, Jack being several inches taller than him. “Why were you sleeping in my lesson?”

“I wasn’t, sir. I promise.”

“Don’t give me that tripe,” he snapped. “Whatever were you doing, draped across my desks like a throw rug, then?”

Several answers immediately jumped into his head. Quick-fire comebacks had never come easily to him, but the use of the same simile by the same person for several months tends to prepare you. He chose the safest option. “I wasn’t the only one.”

“Just because everyone else was doing it doesn’t mean you have to. If all your friends jumped off cliffs, would you?”

Of course, Jack thought, if all the people who considered him a friend did in fact jump off a cliff, he doubted the peer pressure of two-to-one would be enough. But he wasn’t about to let that on.

“I didn’t mean to cause any insult, sir,” he said, employing the obedient, sincere voice used when dealing with patronizing teachers. It was infuriating watching the look of satisfaction cross the man’s face.

“I know you didn’t, but just to make sure it doesn’t happen again, I’m giving you a detention.”

“But—”

“No buts. Wednesday night, my office. Be there, or it won’t be just a few lines you’ll be worrying about.” Muttering something about how he’d never have these problems with nice, rich private-school children, Dr. Orpheus picked up his satchel and stalked out of the classroom.

Jack followed sullenly. In the doorway, he jammed the door open with a rubbish bin. Maybe with three days’ air the room would return to the atmospheric state expected of a southern English building.

He turned and walked straight into someone. She moved back. “Again?”

He looked up. In front of him was a very pretty girl, slightly taller than him, with reddish-brown hair and bright, hazel eyes. He loosened his collar and pulled his tie down. “Yeah, again,” he said, exaggerating his annoyance slightly for effect. He checked to see whether Dr. Orpheus was in range before continuing. “And he was happy about it as well. Everyone else was asleep—everyone always is—but he picks on me. I haven’t done anything out of the ordinary, but—”

“I hate to interrupt your ranting, but I need to get home. We’ve got the Camerons over tonight, and Mum needs some help in the kitchen. Can we walk and talk?”

“I thought you hated Megan Cameron,” Jack said, momentarily distracted from his predicament as they reached the bottom of the stairwell.

“I do.” Lucy opened the door, and they both walked through. “But our mums went to school together. We still have to see each other every so often.”

“What’s actually wrong with her?”

Lucy took a moment to answer. “She’s just … she’s just a bitch. A massive snob. She’s at that fancy boarding school in Darlington, and I’m not sure she owns anything that isn’t Jack Wills. She takes after her mum.”

“But if your mum and hers are best friends, doesn’t that mean she’s a bitch too?”

“I’m not denying anything,” Lucy replied, without catching his eye.

“I should tell her that.”

Both smirking, they continued out of the open door into the Upper Yard. The sun burnt brightly above them, a slight heat haze rising from the few cars left in the car park. The trees, dyed all hues of red and gold, whispered in the light breeze, some shining, some cast into long shadows by the buildings. Across the road, a small green was intersected by the main road and a smaller path. They followed the main road, turning left at the gate and continuing down the hill.

“So what are you doing this weekend?” Lucy asked as an ancient car rumbled by, spouting smoke. She was walking on the pavement and he on the road so he got a faceful of it.

“Not much
this
weekend, no,” spluttered Jack, trying not to sound too bitter. He glanced at her sidelong for her reaction. Her hair shone in the intense sunlight, contrasted strongly with her pale, unblemished skin. She was wearing the usual girl’s school uniform: a white shirt with a blue tie, navy skirt, dark tights, and black shoes. Still, she could customize anything, and this was no exception. The tie was undone at just the right angle to be stylish but not scruffy, the skirt a touch higher than it should have been, and the sleeves of the shirt were rolled up to reveal several bracelets and a Topshop watch.

“You really need to get out more,” she commented a little too seriously.

Jack shrugged. It was alright for Lucy; she was confident and almost universally liked in their year
and
the ones above and below. She was always being invited to parties, and she was famously popular with the football team. He was much less welcome to other people.

“What about you?”

“Nothing much, really. Greg’s house party was cancelled because his parents postponed their weekend away. Want to do something tomorrow?”

The words were barely out of her mouth before a Lady Gaga ringtone sounded from somewhere in the depths of her massive bag. After several seconds pulling out books, lipstick, and a diary, she retrieved a luridly pink mobile phone and clicked the green button. She laughed as the person on the other end said something Jack couldn’t interpret.

He rolled his eyes. This was typical Lucy.

A few minutes later they turned the corner and the path opened up. They were now walking along the edge of the orchard—the rolling green descending into a cloud-shadowed valley and then rising into a thickly wooded hill. As explained by a worn tourist signpost outside the Apple Grove pub, the town, Birchford, had grown up in Roman times around this hill, Sirona Beacon, because of its supposed sacred significance to the invading soldiers. On the other side of the road, flowery lawns lined the pavement in front of cottages, with various cul-de-sacs spreading off.

As they passed under a pair of outlying trees, a glint of white, like something caught in bright sunlight, drew Jack’s eye. There on the opposite side of the valley was a small fox. Jack stopped and turned his head slightly in contemplation. The fox
was
bright ivory white, the color of a water lily, but that wasn’t the oddest part. It was sitting in a shadow on the edge of the line of trees, yet each individual hair seemed to catch the sun brilliantly, as though it were illuminated from within. And it was looking right at him.

He nudged Lucy, not wanting to make too sudden a movement.

She appeared not to have noticed and continued striding down the pavement.

“Lucy,” Jack hissed quietly, snatching another glance at the fox. It hadn’t moved.

“… but yeah, that’s true. Ollie’s been seeing Kat—”

“Lucy.”

“… and Rob is with Sophie … Yeah, uh-huh … Ooh, I didn’t know that—”

“Lucy!”

“What, Jack?” she finally responded, holding the phone away from her ear.

“Look!” He pointed to the trees, searching for the fox. For a moment he’d thought he’d lost it, but then there it was, scurrying into the undergrowth.

“What?”

“There. Just there. Did you see that glowing fox?”

“No,” she said slowly, then looked at the phone screen. “Damn, out of battery.” She dropped it into her bag lightly. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”

At the end of the road, a cluster of birches split the route. One path continued along the edge of the orchard, over the stream, and down the road into the richer residential area. The other swerved off the left and was picked up by a line of semidetached houses, heading into the center of town.

“Bye, then. I’ll text you tomorrow morning if I’m not doing anything, and we can maybe go out somewhere?”

“Okay,” said Jack, nodding.

Lucy smiled at him and set off over the small bridge.

A few minutes later, Jack arrived at home, just as the blue dome above began to fade into orange. His route had become steadily less lined with green until trees were replaced by lampposts and patches of grass by uneven concrete slabs. This building wasn’t particularly pleasant, framed as it was by an austerely spiked wrought-iron fence. Old, faded yellowish bricks made up the walls, with moss clinging in the gaps and ivy snaking up from the bottom. Rows of blackened and perpetually grubby windows showed that there were four floors, but its real nature was suggested by the complete lack of parking space or greenery. A worn sign just behind the fence proclaimed it to be a former overflow debtor’s prison from the nineteenth century. The people who worked there had petitioned for the lettering to be covered up, but it was now apparently some site of historical interest, so it had to stay.

Jack headed round the side to the gate. He passed through the sun-baked garden, more rock-hard earth than grass and almost completely filled up by a rusting metal slide and a single tire swing.

The utility room was lined with shoes of the inhabitants, piles of washing, and a small, grubby sink. He continued through the door into the kitchen, something that had not changed since its prison days. It was a cavernous, neo-Gothic, redbrick chamber, in which everything was made of black metal. A massive gas stove seemed to leer out of the middle of the largest wall, the bricks above it charred black. Modern instruments such as a microwave, a sink, a fridge, and budget lightbulbs shone bright white in comparison. A huge slab of ancient oak—allegedly a table—dominated the center of the room but was no longer in use. Only the need to exhibit the kitchen as a local site of historical interest to help balance the orphanage budget kept it there. Jack thought it was hideous.

From the next room came the loud clangs, shouts, and cries that clearly meant dinner was in progress. Jack searched the cupboards and eventually found a can of baked beans, a couple of slices of bread, and a plate. After opening the can, he emptied the contents on to the plate and shoved it inside the microwave. In two minutes, it pinged.

He climbed the stairs quietly. Several misfit paintings covered the grotesque wallpaper. These were the kind which are slightly too precise for a child but terrible for an adult. Jack had no idea why they were still on the walls. Most people weren’t around at the moment, as dinner was likely to be the only time they got a good meal. However, on the first-floor landing a girl, only about five, poked her head around the door and blew a raspberry at him. Ignoring her, he continued up the stairs.

Jack reached the top floor and shunted his swollen door inwards, staggering into his room. It was not at all large, with only space for a cabinet, a wardrobe, and a bed, and it had an awkward slanted ceiling to compensate for the roof. Still, it was better than sharing. Everyone had to sleep in a dormitory until they were eleven when they got their own room on the fourth floor. The thinking behind that was most of the children had been adopted by then. Some were. Some weren’t.

He tasted his beans on toast and cringed. It wasn’t supposed to be hard to make, but somehow he’d burnt the beans and picked two stale pieces of bread.

He put the plate down and leaned on the windowsill. Outside, the street was darkening, and only a couple of cars passed every few minutes. Beyond the row of town houses opposite, Sirona Beacon rose, a trunk-embellished mound set against the purple-streaked sky. The tin roof of his school, glinting artificially in the last rays of the sun, was just visible on the skyline.