Old Foxes and City Spring

I set the burner on the counter beside my forgotten groceries. Two hours. The old Fox doesn’t waste time.

I strip off my coat, catch my reflection in the hall mirror—hair still wild from travel, shadows under my eyes that haven’t lifted since Romania. My body carries the toll: months of mountains, gods, impossible births. The kind of exhaustion a hot shower won’t fix, but I’ll take what I can get.

The bathroom mirror shows more truth than I want: I’ve lost weight, gained lines. My hands are steady, though, and that’s what matters when Roger Boswell summons you to a pub with “three dozen favours” hanging in the air between joke and threat.

I turn the shower hot enough to sting, steam clouds the mirrors. As the water beats down, I close my eyes and let them come: Tarmo first—guilt and want braided tight, voice rough with apologies I never asked for. Then Karim, all elegant menace, making even threats feel like invitations. And the wolf, silent as mountains, younger and wilder, his memory still humming under my skin.

I touch myself with practised ease: heat pooling low, three men’s hands merging into my own. The release comes hard and sudden, shaking a laugh from my throat that turns half into a sigh.

The world rights itself, sharp and clear.

I stay another minute under the stream, rinsing away myth and longing, then wrap myself in towels and rifle through the closet for London armour: black sweater, favourite scarf, boots broken in on ten countries’ roads.

As I dress, I think about the Boswell boys: Bartley’s puppy devotion, Darrell’s simmering resentment every time Roger called me “luv.” And Roger himself, twenty years back, delirious with fever in a Suffolk blizzard while I drove us through the ice with two crates of mystery cargo in the boot. That was the night he first proposed: half gratitude, half jest. “You belong in the family ledger, luv.”

I check the time. Enough dawdling.

I grab my keys, pull the door shut behind me, and step into London spring.

Whatever Roger wants, I’m ready.

---

The green Land Rover idles at the curb, engine rattling. Bartley leans out the window, grinning.

“Oi, Dr D! Get in before Da thinks you’ve scarpered.”

I slide into the passenger seat. The interior smells like diesel and old cigarettes. Bartley pulls into traffic with the confidence of someone who’s never met a speed limit worth respecting.

“You’re looking well,” he says, stealing glances. “Mountains suit you, yeah?”

“Something like that.”

“Da’s been pacing for two days. Won’t say why, but he’s got that look—the one where he’s working three angles and needs someone to check his maths.”

We roll through Brixton toward Clapham, estate blocks giving way to terraced houses, kebab shops bleeding neon into puddles. The city settles into my bones, scrappy, hungry, real. London in spring, and I’m remembering why I love it.

The King’s Gold announces itself before we see it: a painted fox in a battered crown swinging above an oak door. Yellow light spills onto wet cobbles. Bartley parks half on the pavement.

Inside, the air is thick: decades of smoke that no ban could erase, the sweet, murky promise of cheap ale. The bar is scratched mahogany, brass footrails worn smooth. A dog as old as the pub snores by the hearth. Locals play dominoes near the window, their laughter rough as sandpaper.

Roger stands behind the bar in his flat cap, all rings and river-worn hands, blue eyes twinkling. His sons are scattered: Harry stoic at the register, Darrell guarding the snug with legs splayed wide, Duke too pretty for his own good polishing glasses, Bartley dancing around them all.

“Evenin’, luv,” Roger calls. “You want the usual, or are we goin’ full tourist now you’ve come back from the land of wolves?”

I slide onto a barstool. “Careful, Fox. Flattery gets you audited.”

He laughs, chest-deep. “Never—unless you bring the ledger yourself. Bartley, woman needs a drink!”

Bartley nearly trips over the dog, thrusting a pint into my hands. “No one keeps Da this perky. Look—even Harry put on a clean shirt. That’s how you know it’s a proper occasion.”

Duke grins, glancing at Harry. “Careful, brother. Next, she’ll have you wearing cologne and everything.”

Harry’s jaw tightens slightly, but there’s almost a smile. “Shut it, Duke.”

Darrell leans back in the snug. “At least Harry makes an effort. Duke just polishes the same glass for twenty minutes, hoping someone notices his cheekbones.”

Duke laughs. “Jealousy’s ugly on you, Darrell.” He turns to me. “You settin’ up shop down here or just slummin’ it for morale?”

Before I can answer, Darrell throws a sideways glance. “Da’s got you in for a reason. He’s been pacy for days. Even Harry put on a clean shirt: a real occasion.”

Harry, face half in shadow, manages a nod. “Glad you’re back, Dr D. You make things sharper round here.”

The warmth is real, uncomplicated in a way most of my life isn’t. Roger leans on the bar, eyes locked on mine, and the noise dims slightly.

“Need to borrow that beautiful brain of yours,” he says, voice lower now. “Got a situation. Come have a proper chat in the back.”

I raise my glass. “To naughty men and the stories we don’t tell on Instagram.”

A chorus rises—rough, warm, dangerous. Roger catches my eye and smiles that crooked, conspiratorial smile.

For a moment, London feels like home—more honest in its crookedness than any boardroom with gilded lies.

Roger nods toward the back room. Time for business.

---

The pub noise fades as Roger nods me toward the back room—cigars and velvet mildew, frosted window overlooking the alley. He closes the door, and his posture shifts. Shoulders heavy, voice quiet.

“You know, darlin’, most days I don’t mind the city changin’. Even we get tired of the same old song.” He sits, thumb drumming on the scarred table. “But this one:Two Postcode Boris. No code, no kin. Eyes goin’ in two different directions, which’d be funny, ‘cept he sees every angle at once.”

He leans forward. “He’s sniffin’ round a painting: proper job, lifted from Dower Street. Half the big firms won’t touch it, too hot. But Boris wants me to fence it. Says he’ll ‘modernise the game.’ Extropia types, all contracts and cyber, but the muscle’s old school—knives out, no brains, no rules.”

His jaw works. “This is miles out of my patch. Lads in the East’ll want their slice, never mind what the Yard sniffs. I’m not runnin’ blood in my bar. But if I say no, he comes at the family. If I say yes, could start a war with people even I’ve never met.”

He meets my eyes—uncertain in a way Roger Boswell never is. “I need a plan. Not muscle: a mind. How d’you deal with a man who won’t play by old rules and picks fights just to see who bleeds?”

A bearish laugh. “I can’t have Bartley killed over a bloody Sunday painter job. But I can’t be seen backin’ down, neither. You’ve got the eye for art, schemes, soft landings—think you can talk a weasel out the henhouse without feathers flyin’?”

He waits. The kind of trust hardened legends offer once in a lifetime.

I tap my glass, let the pub’s muffled noise settle around us.

“No point warning off a man who craves a fight, especially one who can’t think or see straight. You want Boris off your turf, you don’t push him, you let him push himself right into a wall.”

Roger grunts.

“He wants that painting because it’s hot, dangerous, and he wants to prove he can handle what the old guard won’t touch. He’s banking on you playing by the same rules—pick a side, muscle up, crack heads. That’s the old game.”

I lean back.

“What if the painting suddenly got hotter? Not just fence-hot or coppers-hot, but international-news-hot. Suppose someone leaks a tip to the right art journalist, throws a bone to Scotland Yard’s stolen art squad. Suddenly, every eye from Interpol to the art police is watching, and no one wants to touch it. Especially not someone building ‘Extropia’ credibility.”

Roger’s eyes narrow, following.

“Boris drops it—not out of fear, but ego. He can’t afford to look like an amateur caught holding poison. Meanwhile, you quietly find a backchannel route to return the painting. Insurance company, bored Zurich collector. Take a finder’s fee, let Boris believe he scared you off. He’ll crow for months, to later realise he got played by a woman and a fox. No blood. No cracked heads. When the truth is, you fed him his own story and kept your hands clean.”

Roger grins: gleam back in his eyes. “All smoke, no mirrors. Let the boy chase his own tail.” He raises his glass. “Christ, I missed workin’ a room with you.”

“Just make sure Bartley changes burner phones. And for God’s sake, don’t let Duke do the talking.”

We drink. Outside, London hums—crooked and alive, the only city that ever felt like home.

I.Ph.