Sam extended his hand towards the Librarian in slow increments. He still felt calm and in control but, even so, he had his doubts. How could he not? It was as if his mind was playing tricks on him.
He understood why, of course. He was familiar with the emotional and logical processing that was going on.
For instance, in one part of his brain some of his thoughts were already jumping ahead to possible future scenarios.
Bad scenarios.
Like the Librarian stabbing him in the hand, or lashing out and thrusting the scissor blades deep into his neck.
‘I’m sorry,’ the Librarian spluttered again.
‘It’s OK,’ Sam said, focusing all his concentration on the Librarian, trying to quieten his doubts. ‘You don’t have anything to be sorry for. You haven’t done anything wrong.’
Yet.
Sam took a breath and stretched his arm out further.
And in another part of his brain, an old childhood memory stirred. It was from when he was eight, visiting a zoo on a school trip. He could remember how he’d put his hand out slowly, so slowly, towards a glass tank where a Central African rock python was nestled.
The python had been coiled up, unmoving, but although the snake seemed thoroughly uninterested in Sam and his classmates, and even though the inch-thick glass had been between them, a part of Sam had still believed that somehow the snake might uncoil, strike, sink its fangs into his wrist.
The power of thoughts.
The irrationality of fear.
Very slowly, Sam rested his tongue on his bottom lip and began to rotate his wrist, turning his palm upwards.
‘It’s OK,’ Sam told the Librarian. ‘Just look at me and listen to my voice. I’m going to count to three and then you’re going to pass the scissors to me. Understand?’
The Librarian whined at the back of his throat with a sound like a dentist’s drill.
‘One,’ Sam said.
‘I don’t think I can do this,’ the Librarian told him.
‘Two.’
Very carefully, Sam turned his head and glanced quickly at the Artist. She was watching him with her face scrunched up as if she was bracing herself for something terrible to happen.
Trust me.
‘Ready?’ he asked the Librarian.
‘No, no, I’m just—’
Sam exhaled again, holding his palm steady, thinking of that big snake behind the glass cage, wondering if he was about to feel its fangs piercing his skin all these years later.
‘Three.’