I first met him in a squat near Hampstead Heath. He was wearing two pairs of sunglasses, one on top of the other. He sat at the end of the dinner table staring at me.  His head was shaved and his face pink and scaly, almost as if it had been scrubbed dry. Small fragments of skin fell like snowflakes whenever he moved and settled on the shoulders of his jacket. He had long, almost translucent fingers with the nails nibbled to the core. He kept them interlocked and would twiddle his thumbs continuously, squeezing his palms together, almost as if he was in a permanent state of prayer. He never spoke nor smiled but devoured the food as if it was his last,…