The Librarian let go of several fast breaths, as if he was psyching himself up to talk.
‘So, the thing is, I’m scared I’m going to attack someone,’ he said quickly, then wrapped his arms tightly around himself, rocking on his chair.
Silence in the room.
The Librarian probably weighed no more than nine stone when he was dripping wet. It would be hard to think of someone who could be less physically threatening.
And yet . . .
There was that intensity about him. A sense that he was wound so tight he really might snap.
‘Have you ever attacked anyone?’ Sam asked carefully.
He kept his tone level and calm. It wasn’t an uncommon phobia, but if he betrayed any concerns now he knew they would spread in the room like a contagion. These were people who were wired to be scared, after all.
‘N-no,’ the Librarian stammered.
‘Ever tried?’
He shook his head.
‘Ever verbally or physically abused anyone?’
The Librarian shook his head a second time. He seemed to be growing smaller, coiling tighter. His clothes were so fitted he could have been shrink-wrapped.
‘So to clarify, these are thoughts that you’re having,’ Sam suggested.
‘But I’m having them all the time!’
‘Like, how?’ the Lost Girl asked. ‘I mean, are you thinking about hurting one of us?’
Sam watched as the Librarian gripped hold of the sides of his chair, curling his fists around the moulded plastic as if he was having to hold himself back from vaulting forwards.
‘Shit,’ the Lost Girl murmured.
The Athlete and the Boxer stiffened, adjusting their poses.
‘Most of the time it happens where I work,’ the Librarian babbled. ‘I work in—’
‘A public space?’ Sam volunteered.
‘Y-yes. A public space.’ He was tipping forwards and backwards on his chair so fast it was as if he was sitting on a rocking horse. ‘Sometimes I start thinking about, I don’t know, picking up a pair of scissors and stabbing someone with them. And then once I start thinking about it, I can’t stop thinking about it, and that makes me think I’m definitely going to do it, because why else would I be thinking about it and—’
‘But it’s just thoughts?’ the Artist asked, in a tone that made it sound as if she was seeking reassurance as much as trying to soothe his pain. ‘I suppose what we’re all saying is that we’re tormented by bad thoughts.’
‘I . . . don’t know?’
‘Then let’s try something,’ Sam suggested. ‘All of you, take just a moment and think about it. Then raise your hand in the air if you’ve ever given some thought, however fleeting, to actually hurting someone.’