“Once upon a time, when I was a young boy, still so full of hope and wonder, I had a collection of dragons. All different breeds and types, sizes and shapes. I took them anywhere that I could, and we often played out in the woods behind the estate. I ‘fed’ them, bathed them, and tucked them into bed each night. Granted, Mum wouldn’t let me take them everywhere, as the number in my dragon army grew upwards of thirty, but I always did take one with me: Penrose.”

"Oh, she was glorious. Black dragon; sleek and dangerous and wild as they come. Penrose was the queen of the army, and all of the dragons obeyed her every whim. She came with me on the plane, even, when we’d travel abroad. I’d have slept with her on my pillow, too, were she not a polyresin statue with sharp horns and claws. Even so, I spoke to her every night and she watched over me while I slept.”

“At times I wonder if she would have protected me back in the days of Whitechapel, but I struggle to suspend my disbelief for long enough. All too soon, the memory of smashing her into pieces replays in my mind, and I know that part of my life is long since over.”