The White Fox Read Online Free

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.
    Sighing, Jack slumped onto his bed. It sagged under his weight. It wasn’t even evening, but there was nothing else to do here.

    Wind twisted down the street as the light faded. A gang with matching tracksuits and haircuts skulked down the concrete in a pack. There was no one else around. No cars passed. A few loose bits of litter and fallen leaves swirled aimlessly around, scraping along the tarmac before being caught in the updraft once more.
    The boys moved to the corner, where a lamppost was pasted with barely legible adverts for a few different clubs and parties. Across the road, they saw a figure gazing up and down the street. He was clothed in a black cloak and boots, and a hood extended over his head so that his features were completely obscured. Deciding they could get some fun out of this, one of the boys crossed the road, and his companions followed.
    The man did not heed their arrival. The boys began jeering at