The Blue Fox – by Michael Burrows

“We create our own London; build our own streets and design our own St Pauls, but always, on the fringes, something lurks: crying in the night, knocking over dustbins, tearing out our hearts.”

… some nights there’d be screaming on Regent Street, or back-alley fights about stupid things, my jealousy or your pride, and London would drop away into inky darkness. What Estable would call ‘Piccadilly’s gaping maw’ would open and swallow us whole, and, dumb rabbits that we were, we’d skip hand-in-hand into the darkness, scoffing the breadcrumbs that would have guided us home …