Looking back at the events of that year, I still find them difficult to believe. I know newspapers try to be impartial but I feel the whole truth is yet to be told. His confession is so poorly transcribed that it is almost impossible to gain a true picture of what actually happened that day in Monoprix. I feel it is my duty to present the facts as clearly as possible, so you, the general populace, can decide, once and for all, whether he was guilty of a heinous crime or whether, as has been claimed in some of our more radical left-wing journals, the judicial system has, once again, chosen to make an example of a citizen who falls outside the stereotypical definition of Frenchness.

Alphonse Lubuaque was French but because he was black his nationality had to be earned rather than given. There is a racism peculiar to France which is neither pleasant nor logical. He insisted on living in the Arab quarter of Montmartre in Paris which is certainly not the done thing, even more so for Alphonse as he was not a natural citizen of Paris but from a small village near Perpignan. Social etiquette demanded he comply with the cultural and racial rules within central Paris. He was not poor, far from it. Despite his obvious breeding, he seemed to like living with the French Arabs. The food suited him, as did a nearby Lebanese barber who performed an extremely fine coiffure for the princely sum of twenty francs.

Alphonse adored his food. In fact, it is fair to say he lived, and some would say, died, for it. He particularly liked the numerous African restaurants near his apartment. I think this is why he lived where he did. He confided to me he had not cooked in over eight years of living in Rue Pleutrier and for all I know, he may not have owned a cooker as I, like most people, had never visited his apartment. I don't think he knew how to cook. He saw it as an unnecessary complication and was fond of stating that a gourmet should never stoop to the level of a manual worker. His entree was always a salad. Normally, a simple combination of web, endive and rocket lettuce, not chopped too finely, left to linger in a vinaigrette of olive oil, vinegar, Dijon mustard, garlic (only one clove) and a sprinkling of fresh basil. Or occasionally a Greek salad, tomato, black olives, onion, copious chunks of feta and a touch of oregano. Sometimes, he even ate a salad his father had been particularly fond of (and his mother extremely good at preparing), a Carib speciality, which varied depending on the fruits in season. Salad was his idiosyncrasy. His plat principal was chosen according to mood, but he always commenced proceedings with a salad. I swear there was not any dish Alphonse was not partial to provided it met his standard of cuisine par excellence. He always knew. I have eaten many times at his side and can vouch for his selection. From the cheapest Liberian eaterie to the finest Egon Ronay establishment, all his choices were beyond reproach. When dining with Alphonse, there was one golden rule. He always chose the venue. This was an unspoken rule which was never commented on or broken since who argues with the goose that lays golden eggs when its eggs are always golden?

Alphonse was unusual. This was what Parisians said, and for the most part they spoke the truth. Nobody complained; he had earned his strangeness. Everybody knew him and thought him a little avant-garde but nobody mocked him. Nobody ever mocked Alphonse. At the time of his troubles he must have been approximately thirty-seven or thirty eight, maybe even older. He was a distinguished looking gentleman, one of those men whose appearance improves with age and will always have a certain nobility. I knew little of his history and as far as I can recollect, and I didn't know all his acquaintances, neither did anyone else. There was a persistent rumour he had been involved, in an advisory capacity, in the motor industry and it is certainly true, a wistful look did attach itself to his mien when once, en route to a favoured restaurant, a tiny Moroccan establishment whose menu bore little relation to the select number of delicious dishes that were actually available, we meandered past - one never hurried with Alphonse - a local garage where a mechanic's overalled legs protruded from under a vintage Mercedes. I think it was just rumour. If Alphonse had knowledge, he imparted it. He must have heard me grumble about my dilapidated Citroen on numerous occasions without offering to help. This is not behaviour in keeping with his general graciousness.

Alphonse lived independently of monetary matters. This did not concern me but generally people like to understand how a man obtains his financial security. Not that he lived luxuriously, in fact, the very opposite. He was not extravagant in any area of life, which in my experience is an accurate indicator of a man's financial standing. The very rich may not necessarily part with their money in an ostentatious manner, but they always maintain some extravagance which marks them, be it collecting vintage wines, contributing excessive sums to charity or sponsoring a Formula One Grand Prix team. Immoderation does not reside comfortably with a gold credit card.

Alphonse had a quirk. He spent most of the daylight hours, how can I delicately put this, going up and down in the main elevator of prestigious Parisian stores. People were wary of questioning him on this subject. An unexplained quirk is amusing; an explained one quickly becomes embarrassing. If any person had the audacity to question him, he would freeze his guest with an icy, slightly disbelieving stare, and immediately depart, leaving the unfortunate personage - Alphonse never dines with more than one person - to squirm nervously before the curious gaze of fellow diners. Or, if full of joire de vivre, he would simply state: "to reach the top one must go up and to reach the bottom one must go down." If pressed further on his rather enigmatic statement, he would resort to the former action. Every man has his limits.

One look from Alphonse could freeze people. Unsolicited comment elicited extreme reaction. He was never violent, just a master of the verbal response. He could not tolerate waste and never craved human companionship. No man is an island? Alphonse was the nearest I ever encountered. His behaviour was beyond mere posture; he hated pointless gestures and, with Alphonse, the unspoken remained unspoken. His desire to experience the elevators of some of the largest freestanding structures in Paris was just that: a desire, an action unfathomable to humanity, and so it should have remained. He did not need to do what he did; he just desired it. Alphonse used to say, a thing needed cancels the pleasure of its obtention. He talked quietly at great length about need. When the need to exist was confused with existing to fulfil need he became very agitated. Admittedly, the crassness of the affluent bourgeoisie annoyed him; in fact their obvious attempts to assuage guilt via futile acts of worthiness irritated him immensely. Alphonse is an articulate man, and I have heard him state that anything necessary is inherently trivial due to our base desire for immediate gratification. I have often wondered if it was this belief that was the seed for the events in Monoprix. Once, in a beautiful creperie, run by two gay men, Daniel and Francois, who loved their restaurant so much they cooked for their friends on their day off, Alphonse expounded his theory on the pernicious nature of need. I don't remember the exact words but the main details were as follows. He claimed that need obscures and rejects contemplation. Take food. How can bread and water be an essential part of life? Who, in our enlightened age, endures poverty by choice? It is need. And can those elevated above the proletariat afford to care? Stout, Parisian liberals, their waistcoats bursting at expensive silk seams, mocked him, but Alphonse was aware that our expectations of life have soared beyond such minimalism to more radiant plateaux. Bread must be succulent, tender as fresh-cooked lamb, and water sparkle forever on the silver palate of life. Their original form must be transcended. Bread must live in heaven and become the divine food of angels. Need cannot do this. To be essential an object must not be needed for its base form. It must be desired primarily for the pleasure it gives. Otherwise we fall, like all societies which, paradoxically, while attempting to elevate the individual to a state of grace also insist on burdening him with a sense of duty which only serves to patronise those individuals who exist in a lower state of grace than the liberal spirit believes permissible. To satisfy the multitudinous needs of society is an impossibility, which, if attempted, destroys the sanity of progress. What madness lurks in developing existence, in fulfilling potential, if we insist on castrating life? To witness Alphonse animated over this subject, accompanied by a choice cut of venison and a 1956 Bordeaux, was a rare treat in itself.

During his trial, Alphonse was a giant. I still do not fully comprehend what happened that autumn afternoon. Certain statements conflict and although there were a number of eyewitnesses, their character is uncertain. I refuse to believe he is guilty. If I recount the bare facts maybe I and, God willing, the majority of civilised Parisian society, will reach a sympathetic verdict on what, on the surface, appear to be the misguided, admittedly barbaric actions of a man sorely troubled by the nature of life in his country.

Alphonse had been riding the elevator, as was his habit. I am unsure of every detail, but apparently, and there is still some doubt, in Monoprix, a nineteen-storey department store in Rue Rochechouart, Alphonse became engaged in an extremely heated argument about the preparation of rump steak. The gist of the argument revolved around trimming the fat from the lean. Alphonse objected to their culinary extremism and in a display of rare violence, produced a long meat cleaver and proceeded to demonstrate to the couple the folly of their viewpoint, leaving them dying, blood pumping from severed arteries as Alphonse calmly wiped his instrument - I remember him being particularly fastidious about cleanliness in many of the establishments we frequented - with a spotless handkerchief. He hacked them to death in an elevator full of respectable Parisian citizens. They screamed of course but nobody acted until it was too late. Alphonse smiled, cleaned his cleaver and waited for the gendarmes. Three score and twenty arrived, leapt from their armoured vehicles, and beat Alphonse to pulp. They were not to know. His blood mingled with that of the victims. In fact, one witness swore that one dismembered limb (he could not be more specific) flapped valiantly at the captain of the gendarmes as he beat Alphonse with his baton. They did not kill him, policemen seldom do. He was taken into custody pending the trial of the "Unknown Elevator Beast from the Deepest South." Despite concerted effort by Voici, extensive enquiries produced no hard facts. Alphonse's origins remained as elusive as his motives.

His internment was fair, as much as a black man's held in white custody ever is. I visited him twice and while he was not talkative, such a traumatic happening must upset even the most regal individual, he was coherent and explained he would reveal all at his forthcoming trial. For a brief moment, I entertained the notion of selling my story to Voici but, while I have great respect for Alphonse, being a known friend of a suspected murderer was not something I wished to be common knowledge.

The middle-aged couple had been of unimpeachable standing in the community. The male had been one of the leading lawyers in the whole of France, a man renowned for his sympathy for the cause celebre and his willingness to waive his normally substantial fee. His wife was not so well known, but equally highly regarded. A pleasant woman who hosted dinner parties for her more brilliant husband.

The following extract may surprise you, and will certainly shock you, but is as near to the truth as we shall ever get. It is taken verbatim from the notoriously inaccurate archives of the Court d'Assise in Paris. For reasons which may become clear, Alphonse chose to represent himself. He presented no witnesses for the Defence - many were willing to step forward - but chose to rely solely on his own testimony in the case of the State against Alphonse Lubuaque.

Ladies and gentlemen. Judge, jury, citizens of Paris, I speak to you from the remains of my soul. You may have heard so-called friends of mine giving interviews in merde like Voici and, no doubt, wondered how I sleep when my hands are steeped so deeply in blood. You have read wild descriptions of farcical dismembering, blood and gore, the full gamut of 20th century perversion, but the truth is, ladies and gentlemen, I do stand before you as a murderer in a legal sense but not in a moral sense. It is for you to decide the validity of the accusation but members of the jury, I do beseech you to not let bare facts deceive you. I am not insane. These are outrageous times and, consequently, a man must act outrageously.

I speak to you as a member of your race, living in an age which disgusts me. Look around you and what do you see? Nihilism, sycophancy and despair. Heroism is dead and the man who defends the noble way of life is condemned as a charlatan, a pontificator, a fake. Nobody need tell me I acted alone. I understand honour is a difficult concept and do not seek to gain your pity, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but I had to act as I did. I realised early in life that I had the correct moral code and whilst most men are content to live with their eyes averted, I had the chance, the duty, to correct the excesses of our society. Nobody need tell me about the loneliness of honour.

Heroes are born, not made. Forgive me, fellow Parisians, I am a man of action not words. Speech is cheap and easy. I am a noble man and would like to refrain from stooping to sordid explication but if I am soon to die then I must attempt to explain to you why I am a hero. And make no mistake, good citizens of Paris, I am a hero. Our life is short. Existence demands transcendence and where I perceive injustice, I consider it my moral duty to act. To prevent the bloodshed which inevitably follows the tyranny of mediocrity, I must shed blood. This is a heroic contradiction in an age where the hero is dead. The man who suffers for his country, who dies for a cause, far from his honourable resting place, has been rejected, devoured by the jackals of triviality, ridiculed as an anachronism, a pawn, a relic of days when honour and virtue, now ironic catechisms, actually existed. But what has replaced our previous values? How can we stand tall if blood is no longer spilt? People are no longer prepared to die for a belief. I am. I defend an ideal; that vulgarity and apathy will not be allowed to flourish in our fair land.

Ladies and gentlemen of the Court d'Assise, let me expand upon my theory. Do weak people deserve to die? Do poor people deserve to die? No ... but they do. Today, bullies, despots, Jesuits, vultures, all hoard their spoils without regard for the people. People exist. They are weak, they are poor, they are primitive. It is not for you or I to judge them. Protect them, yes, inspire by example, perhaps, but judge them? No. They do this themselves, day after day, humiliation after humiliation. For us to judge is obscene, a disgrace, a peeping tomfoolery of overweening pretension. The people should turn and spit on you for your strutting gait. They never will. They are weak, they are poor, they are primitive. The tragedy of our age is they desire heroes and yet do not realise it. You know. This is why you do it. Why you kill, maim, and destroy any hero who dares rage against the impoverished nature of our existence. You, who stand outside looking in, you are the people I wage war against.

Life is heroic, hence people must have heroes. It is easy to accept the opposite. Death is inviting, apathy an insistent force. Give in. Float away. Don't worry; accept. Accept mediocrity, accept the death of consciousness, abdicate responsibility. Float in an infinite universe of nothingness. This philosophy is decadent, obscene; life is to be lived and death must remain a distant desire. But now, my time has come. I will make my stance. My work will be done. Future generations will learn to live as heroes. Now, I must die. This is as inevitable as night follows day. All heroes must perish, it is their destiny. But others will rise from my ashes and continue my fight. I leave a society wracked by hatred, despair and mockery. Hatred of people who strive to travel beyond the baseness of life. Despair at the failure of love. And mockery of every system of thought which states it is noble to be bold, noble to strive, noble to live by the sword, to battle to reach life's pinnacle. Mockery of truth, of beauty, of honesty. I stand alone. I do not require your pity. I will die alone. Life and death, love and hate, sin and virtue. It is the nature of the hero to comprehend paradox. My desire to reach the heights was but an echo of my desire to plunder the depths. All the fundamental paradoxes are true for one simple reason: they are truths. Only the innocent ask questions to which they know there is no answer. Seek truth, citizens of Paris. Stand proud as The Cenotaph; seek truth, not answers. There is no meaning of life, just truth. The search for truth is all. There is no definite answer, only an infinite question. I had the answer in my grasp but lost it. I failed in my quest and must consequently pay the ultimate price. I understand this. I must die for my actions. The cause is never enough to excuse mistaken heroism. What I did is perceived as an atrocity and heroes do not commit atrocities.

Citizens of France, soon I must die. The transgressor must be transgressed. Those who know me and refuse to believe in my actions are fools. Those who believe without understanding are fools. Those who believe and look for meaning, these people are my heroes. Heroes are those who will look for answers beyond the obvious. If I did wrong to these people, then I offer my humble apologies.

Ladies and gentleman, it is courteous of you to bear with me, to allow me this final freedom to present the facts of my life. For this, I am eternally grateful. I have no desire to pontificate or wash my hands free of sin, so I will be brief. Jurors of the Court, after telling my story, I leave my destiny in your capable hands.

My story is simple. During daylight I rode elevators. I knew one thing for certain in this world: one must do something with one's life. To get through life is an acquired discipline. Over time, as I observed society around me and studied the history of ancient civilisations, I came to an understanding of the need for movement. I realised stagnation is death and to be a part of life, one must move. However, to fulfil one's potential, movement must be controlled, minimal. One must learn to maximise experience within the narrowest of parameters. Paradoxically, to reach fulfilment man must be chained to a rigid structure, yet to avoid introspection, and ultimately despair, variety is necessary. However, too much variety creates an overload of sensory pleasure which destroys the analytical capabilities of even the most heroic individual. You can see the problem. An elevator is the ideal solution. Each journey is different, yet with sufficient similarity to supply the necessary routine for contemplation. The ultimate journey.

I survived. I flourished. My soul bloomed as I breathed life in such intense doses. I truly believed I was close to establishing absolute truth. I was wrong. I erred and thought answers lay only in the direction of the abyss. I swam in the abyss and I waited. After five months, near closing time, I struck. The day itself felt propitious and all day I felt uneasy, as if I was waiting for a sign to tell me what form my heroism must take. I waited for obesity to manifest itself. This was my weakness. I believed all answers were to be found in food. Eating is heroism made flesh. The perfect meal, in the perfect environment, with the perfect companion, is truth.

I waited for signs. I waited for flesh, wobbling mounds of pullulating fat. I waited for junk food; the burger is an abomination forced upon us by a puerile culture which would eat its own faeces if garnished with dollops of synthetic ketchup. I waited for haste; food must be honoured, worshipped, not treated as cursory masturbation for the undiscerning palate. I did not have long to wait before my victims presented themselves. A large man and large woman, a bourgeois couple judging by their tone and attire, entered the elevator to the left of the Printemps main entrance, near St. Lazarre Metro. Only five minutes remained before closing on a cold October evening. They were devouring two nauseatingly synthetic cream constructions. I know the difference between synthetic and real cream. I followed them into the cage, introduced myself, "Alphonse Lubuaque", and informed them of what I was about to do. Their look of incredulity assured me of their fluency in French. I had to explain, as people must understand the error of their ways. Now, I realise the presumptuousness of my thought and understand why they did not fear me. What I described, despite the clarity of my explication, was incomprehensible to my victims. To fear something, a man must understand its nature.

I chloroformed them without difficulty. This reassured me. I believed it was a sign. If one medium sized man could so easily disarm two large overweight people then surely, I thought, I must be on the road to heroism. I cut off the man's testicles and the woman's breasts. The man regained consciousness so I severed his penis. I had been unsure of the chloroform's strength and sincerely regret this inconvenience. I had already stalled the elevator, a task my mechanical knowledge was perfectly able to encompass, and now proceeded to create my own kitchen. I did not hurry. Haste is the enemy of the gourmet. I had brought my own herbs. I marinated the meat in red wine and then slowly grilled and ate it, accompanied by a light green salad and a half bottle of Country Beaujolais. The meal was slightly undercooked but delicious. Ladies and gentlemen of Paris, this is my so-called crime. I deliver myself into your hands.

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