We walked through the London’s heart, its dark streets and arches. At South Bank, we both saw the homeless girl. “She looks awful,” you said, her eyes no longer looking at the world, but still flaming youth from behind blanched sooty skin. From Millennium Bridge, St Paul’s glistened like a nighttime revelation. It’s fascinated me ever since one 3am walk, noticing one light on in its dome. I’d recently finished Hannibal, and easily saw the good doctor crouched over his parchment, quill in hand, Bach’s Aria da Capo snaking round the gothic rafters like smoke from a cheap tape deck.