Disclaimer: Not mine, the BBC's.


What do you see when you look at me?

I cannot remember what I look like. My mothers had a mirror, a small, distorted thing. I looked in in last before I ran away, and that was over 500 years ago. I barely remember that young man; I could not tell you if my eyes are brown or blue, whether my nose is small or large, the shape of my chin. If you asked me to pick myself out from an identity parade, I would choose someone else.

So, what do you see? I've been a soldier, a beggar, a lord; I've wielded sword and shield, broom and dustpan. I have negotiated treaties and asked builders for a pound for their tea. I have scrubbed floors, dug graves, and set sails in the teeth of a North Sea gale. Which man am I, in your eyes? The hotel manager, the housemate, the failed date?

Or maybe it is that you see past all the masks, all the costumes. Maybe you look at me and see the killer. The thing that chooses victims the way Tom picks through the apples in the fruit bowl, looking for the juiciest, the ripest, the most delectable fruit there is. The thing that would have ripped out your throat if Cutler hadn't got there first. Do you see the thousands I have left strewn across Europe, the hundreds more here, now, waiting for me to drop the disguise and be what I really am?

But no. I know that you look at me, and you see a friend. You see someone happy to spend time putting spices into alphabetical order, and you think it is endearing. You see someone you think is worthy of your respect.

Look harder, Alex.

Look harder.