Hannibal Lecter is the property of Thomas Harris. No copyright infringement contemplated or intended

This was written before "Coda" as an experiment. I tried it as a first person and third person narrative. Many thanks to R w D (at typhoid and swans and visionary) for applying sharp blue pencil and voting for the first person version.

ANY comments, rude or otherwise gratefully received - I am a novice at all this fan fic stuff and really don't have a clue what people want to read / enjoy / hate / find boring

A real connoisseur is required to spend many hours studying and practicing his art. I view pain, in its various guises, as a worthy creative pursuit.

As a child, I simply become habituated, as one would expect, to life's unique depravities, but then, as the years passed, I found that I had a true appetite for it.

I characterise this taste as much sharper and in many ways, infinitely more nuanced than say my appetite for wine. Human beings, after all, are much more complex and variable than even, a fine claret.

Sometimes, savouring the pain of my patients, I perceived that I could touch some sort of physical reality.

My predations I simply view as natural selection in action. Random effects guided by fundamental forces over which I have no control. It confirmed what I had learned and experienced when I was very young – nature culls irrespective of any external system. Nature is pure in its supreme and even handed indifference.

I had just returned from 2 weeks in Madrid. The shopping was diverting. There had been plenty to interest me, intellectually and the smooth beauty a discreet agency had provided was expert and professional. However, these amusements did not really have the desired effect.

In the aperture of my mind's eye I see the tilt of a head, the gleam of hair in disarray with copper lights, lit by the flickers of a silent TV screen.

This is something new for me – meditating on what has passed. I never found any use for this sort of activity before, but now ...

I see the same head across the other side of the café. Then the woman turns towards her companion and I note that her sternomastoid muscle isn't well enough defined to be hers.

Boredom, routine, a steady beat allows the subconscious to become visible and active.

I need a divertissement

I survey the tables around me. Nothing of immediate interest

A chair scrapes to my left.

"Pardon me. I couldn't help but notice that you have a copy of Gino Capponi's "Storia della Republica di Firenze"

I shift ever so slightly to get a better view of the originator of this comment. A pleasant enough voice. A little wheezy. A Milanese accent but cultured.

I decide to open the conversation with a measured smile. "You have an interest in local history?"

"Among many others. I have the good fortune to be the curator of the Capponi library. Antonio Maggiore – my pleasure – may I ?" and he carefully placed a slightly smudged card by my elbow.

I lift the card by its edges – no way of knowing what it had nestled against in this individual's pocket. The edges are scuffed. Cheap, thin card and a very ordinary font.

I study my interlocutor. About 65, a little bent, mild eyes with some desperation in their depths. A crumpled linen suit with slightly fraying cuffs. Nicotine stains covering the first and second fingers of his left hand. Alone and lonely. A curator of a library difficult to access in normal circumstances. I am conscious of a small spark of interest. In the absence of anything more diverting ....

Leisurely conversations follow and a tour of the Capponi residence, after which I know precisely what I want.

A nomadic existence can become fatiguing, although I enjoyed the first year – re acquainting myself with places and experiences that I had savoured in the years prior to my incarceration.

In the past I felt the need to embellish my activities, partly out of an aesthetic sensibility and partly out of vanity. I had no desire this time. This was strictly business and yes, I have to admit, I am more prudent now. I have no intention of being caught again.

The deed was done on a wet Monday afternoon while we were listening to the Collegium Vocale recording of Bach's Messe en si – during the Benedictus seemed an appropriate moment. Very clean, silent and swift. The neck snapped like a fresh carrot. I pride myself on my precision, and the economy of effort that went into this particular dispatch. Like all master craftsmen I consider that details and style are essential if one is going to derive maximum satisfaction from the work. So, for instance, I had fashioned a neat wooden box with mortise and tenon joints at the corners, ahead of time, in which to contain the cement and I was accurate to the gram in measuring out the sand, the water and the fine grey powder on the kitchen scales.

In the past, I admit, I have been more flamboyant. It was part of my cultural landscape but now .... I am conscious of the hours passing, I am impatient to arrive at this temporary sanctuary, at the Capponi library

The high space, the quality of the light, the smell of old vellum and polished wood, sharpening my own quills, sipping my own wine. All this and the leisurely pace of my life confirms that some of the earlier coruscating fire has dissipated , in the last 8 years. I miss its cleansing quality.

There are other compensations. I enjoy most, the food and the freedom to play an instrument once more and ...... using a cold razor. Barney, cognisant of my high standards when it comes to personal hygiene, had tried his best with the Remington but the results simply weren't the same.

I carefully apply the moisturiser to my hands and face, brush my hair back with one silver backed boars hair brush, turn to right and left in the mirror to check that all is in its place and then proceed to the main library. I pick up the copy of the National Tattler and stare at it for a moment. I allow my pupils to dilate.

I have a letter to compose.