I really haven’t done a terribly good job with keeping this up, and I apologise. Since I last posted, almost eighteen months have passed, and I feel suitably ashamed of myself. I wish I could say that the lull has been the result of excessive idleness, but I’m not sure any of you would believe me. In reality, I’ve been busy pulling together a project for work – including a book of my very own – but I can’t talk to you about that just yet. More very soon though, I promise. And, just to keep you amused in the meantime, I thought I’d share something else that’s occupied my time during the last three months: Black Wings at Midnight, my first attempt at fanfiction for over twenty years…

In a way, you’ve all escaped scot-free, because if I had been writing the blog over the last nine months or so, you’d have been subjected to an embarrassing amount of enthusiasm for the TV series Hannibal. It’s rich, decadent, gothic, romantic, twisted, pretentious, and entirely irresistible. Yes, I’ve come to it extremely late (the last of three series aired in 2015). I should have watched it years ago. But I always had a weird sense of loyalty to the Anthony Hopkins films I watched when I was young, and I thought the series would just be a pale imitation. Because who else could possibly play Hannibal Lecter, right?

How. Wrong. I. Was.

Back in 2012, I wrote about Mads Mikkelsen’s performance as the doctor Johann Struensee in A Royal Affair, noting that he was brilliant at playing a character who inhabited the grey area of the moral spectrum. If I judged him ‘strangely compelling’ in that, then with Hannibal he absolutely knocked it out of the park. I’m not sure I can ever go back to the films. I won’t rant at length about all the glories of the series (and its few shortcomings), because this isn’t the place, but the point is that I’ve had Hannibal rattling around in my mind for a few months. Which is probably why, back in November, I suddenly decided to write a story based on the series, but translating the action and the characters back into 1940s England, at the height of the Second World War.

I know. Why do I do these things? At the time, I was consumed by the challenges of writing a book for work. Only I would have decided to unwind by writing a piece of fanfiction which, at almost 150,000 words, is longer than many novels and considerably longer than said book for work. Nevertheless, it was enormous fun and it gave me a way to pay tribute to the marvellous imaginations of the people behind the TV series. And, since I’ve written about fandom before – in reviews of the intriguing Austentatious and Sherlock’s World – it finally gave me the chance to actually get involved in it myself. Hence, my first fanfiction since, as an awkward schoolgirl, I wrote fanfiction based on Amadeus and the Iliad to share with my friends. Because, yes, I was that kind of child.

I thought it would be fun to share a link to the story here – after all, you’ve all suffered my Artaserse graphic novel, so you’re familiar with my over-enthusiastic responses to things I find enjoyable. I suppose, if I’m going to get caught up in something, I might as well aim to get something creative out of it…

Here’s the blurb:

When former detective Will Graham is pulled away from his intelligence work at Bletchley Park in 1942, to consult on a hauntingly familiar crime scene, he feels alive for the first time in years. But when his life begins falling apart, he finds himself thrown into a complex dance of trust and suspicion with the man assigned to help him: an aristocratic Lithuanian flying ace and peacetime psychiatrist, whose intentions are anything but clear…

There’s also an extract below, at the very bottom of this post, which will give you a flavour.

You don’t have to have seen the Hannibal TV show, although you’ll pick up a fair few in-jokes if you have. The story comes complete with vintage black-and-white illustrations, and recommended listening – a blend of 1940s gems by Harry James and the Squadronaires, and classics such as the overture to The Thieving Magpie – along with extensive author’s notes (because, as you would expect, I did my research). It might, if nothing else, be an amusing diversion from the everyday grind. In short, you have a crime procedural, crossed with a psychological drama, crossed with a frankly toxic friendship, with added Spitfires. What’s not to like?

I’m hoping to resume normal service (or at least better service) relatively soon, and I’ll be back next week to share some very exciting work news with you.

For now, forgive me for going silent for so long and, if you’re still out there listening, thank you.

Read Black Wings at Midnight

Butter wouldn’t melt. Mads Mikkelsen as psychiatrist, gourmand and all-round Renaissance man Hannibal Lecter

From Black Wings at Midnight: Chapter 3

‘May I come in?’ 

The voice is deep, with a warm lilt of an Eastern European accent. Crawford’s eyes brighten and he rises from the desk with what Will considers unseemly haste.

‘Aha! Now here’s a familiar face. Come in, come in, old chap. Pull up a chair. This is Will Graham, who I mentioned on the phone. Brilliant mind. Brilliant.’

Will scowls at the praise and turns in his chair, prepared to be combative. He has no great love for the airmen of the RAF. They are nothing more than overgrown public schoolboys, with their chummy nicknames and their maverick flair. In their presence, Will feels his carapace stripped away, exposed as an awkward provincial with a clumsy accent, a different breed from these sauntering gods of the sky. 

The newcomer does little to dispel his prejudices. The flattering RAF uniform makes most men look good, but this fellow seems to have stepped straight out of an advertisement. J.C. Leyendecker in the flesh, Will thinks bitterly, feeling short, and dark, and rustic.

Nothing about this man is rustic: dark blond hair parted with almost surgical precision; a broad chest and shoulders beneath the blazon of the RAF wings; trousers ironed to crisp perfection; tie perfectly centred. Everything about him screams money, from the scent of his cologne to the small gold signet ring just visible on his little finger.

After spending long hours digging into the minds of the Nazi commanders, Will can’t resist a snort. Good God, how they would love you!

Light brown eyes linger on Will for a moment, already looking amused. 

‘Good afternoon, Mr Graham. I apologise for interrupting your colloquy, but Jack is an old friend. I was delighted to hear he was visiting us. May I?’ He gestures to the unused chair before the desk and Will raises a shoulder minutely, neither inviting nor repelling. He settles for glaring across at Jack. He doesn’t wish to spend any longer here than necessary, and he certainly doesn’t want to play third wheel to some back-slapping reunion.

‘Will,’ says Jack, ‘this is Flight Lieutenant Hannibal Lecter – or should I say Dr Lecter?’ The two men exchange a twinkle of camaraderie and Will stifles a desire to stab the table with his pencil. ‘We met before the war,’ Jack continues. ‘Dr Lecter has a private psychiatry practice on Harley Street, and helped us with a profile for the Bethnal Green Killer in ’38.’

Will remembers the case. It wasn’t long after he’d been signed off, still gathering together the shreds of himself in the nursing home. He allows himself a glance sideways.

‘Strange to swap the comforts of Harley Street for a wet field in Hampshire, Dr Lecter. Get tired of listening to rich old ladies?’

‘I “got” patriotic,’ Lecter says gently. ‘My country was invaded last year. Lithuania,’ he adds, for Will’s benefit. ‘I have not lived there for many years, but old affections still linger: a sense of duty, if you will. I learned to fly when I was younger’ – Of course you did, thinks Will bitterly – ‘so why not put my skills in the service of my adopted country?’

‘And he’s become quite the terror,’ Jack says cheerfully. ‘Give him a Spitfire and he’s absolutely fearless. They say Göring’s offered a bounty to anyone who brings him down.’ He dismisses Lecter’s gesture of modest denial and turns back to Will. ‘When I heard he was stationed here, I thought it’d be helpful to have his thoughts – and his support too, of course.’

‘Convenient,’ Will says under his breath, studying his fingers. He feels Lecter’s eyes lingering on him with something that’s uncomfortably close to satisfaction. For a moment he entertains himself, wondering whether he loathes fighter aces more or less than psychiatrists. It comes out as a balance. The airmen are more irritating, but he has bitter personal experience of his own with psychiatry.

‘Come now, Jack,’ Lecter says, ‘you are not being completely honest with Mr Graham.’ He leans a little closer, offering Will a lungful of his expensive cologne, and his voice drops, as though this is a secret to be shared between them. ‘Jack has asked me to have a few conversations with you before you start on this case. Just to help prepare your armour for the field of battle, as it were.’

Will’s eyes snap up to Jack Crawford, who has the grace to look embarrassed.

‘Will, I’ve read your files. It’s my job to make sure you’re fit for duty. I want to help you in any way I can.’

‘I don’t find it helpful to be covertly psychoanalysed!’

‘This is not psychoanalysis,’ Lecter says placidly into the awkward silence, ‘merely a common interest. You have nothing to fear, Mr Graham. Besides,’ he adds, straightening his cuffs, ‘I am not a psychoanalyst. Freud may have some interesting principles, and Jung has made many valuable insights into my field, but I do not ride under their banner. Biological psychiatry is very different from asking you to tell me your dreams.’ Dark eyes dart up and catch Will’s just as he makes the mistake of looking up. Something coils in the pit of his stomach. ‘Though I have no doubt your dreams must be a fascinating place.’ …

‘Just a conversation,’ Will hears himself say.

‘But of course.’ Lecter shrugs in a Gallic fashion. ‘And we can give dear Jack a good night’s sleep. Just a conversation or two among friends.’

‘Associates,’ Will snaps back. Lecter laughs as if he has said something delightful.

‘God forbid we should become friendly. Come with me to the mess, Mr Graham. Let’s get some tea.’

Will feels wrong-footed. He wants to prod; to offend; to get under Lecter’s skin and force him to feel even the faintest echo of Will’s crippling discomfort. He feels like a parcel passed from Jack to Lecter, a fragile curiosity to be wrapped in cotton wool and discussed in lowered voices. He feels lonely and patronised, and because, to his deep-seated disgust, he finds himself wanting Lecter to like him, Will lashes out.

‘I doubt we’ll be friends, Dr Lecter. I don’t find you that interesting.’

A hand falls on his shoulder. To Jack, frowning in his chair, it’ll look comradely, a way to show that no offence has been taken. To Will, the touch is unsettling: part warning, conveyed through the grip of fingers far stronger than he’d anticipated; and part protective caress. I don’t, Will repeats doggedly in his head, find you interesting.

‘Ah,’ Lecter says softly in his ear, ‘but you will.’