‘I really don’t think this is the right place for me to talk about it,’ the Librarian said in a soft, quiet voice.
He folded one leg over his thigh and hunched forwards with his arms crossed, scratching his upper arms with his nails. The top button on his skinny shirt collar was fastened so tightly that Sam could see it flicking up and down against his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. His face was gaunt, eyes hollowed, his complexion greasy.
‘I know this can be difficult,’ Sam coaxed. ‘But research has shown that voicing your fears can really help. It’s also useful to get other people’s perspectives.’
The Librarian didn’t answer, choosing to shake his head rigorously instead. His lank hair danced around his forehead, revealing a cluster of pimples.
‘Why don’t you try? I think you’ll feel much better once you’ve shared.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, barely loud enough for Sam to hear. ‘I’m just not sure I’m comfortable doing that.’
‘Oh, come on, pal.’ The Boxer clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together, as if he were a weightlifter applying chalk before attempting a mighty clean and jerk. ‘I’ve told you my thing. Yours can’t be any more pathetic than that, can it?’
The Librarian scowled at him from his hunched position, something unpleasant slipping into his face.
Sam sensed it then. A shift in the air. A drop in the temperature in the room. The fine hairs on the backs of his hands rising upwards.
‘I could go first?’ the Artist cut in, apparently sensing something, too. ‘I don’t mind.’ She was leaning forwards on the edge of her chair, smiling bravely at Sam. ‘Is that OK?’