‘Thank you, all,’ Sam said, clapping his hands once, then rubbing them together. ‘Unless anyone has anything to add, I think we’re done for today.’
Everyone released the hands they were holding, meanwhile also exchanging fleeting, abashed smiles, glancing down to gather up their bags or rucksacks, standing, patting their pockets as if they might have somehow left something behind, none of them quite looking at Sam or acknowledging him, but all of them clearly uncomfortable and awkward and unsure about the session and how it had concluded.
Perhaps he should have ditched the mantra.
Or maybe he was just having a bad day.
Was he losing his touch?
And then another, more seismic worry.
Would one of them report what had happened with the Librarian to the university?
It was the last thing Sam needed right now because he was convinced there was a whispering campaign against him in the department. He knew for a fact that several colleagues had voiced concerns about his support groups and some of his research subjects. The incident with the Librarian and the scissors could give his detractors just the ammunition they needed to make his life difficult.
Murmurs in the room. A hesitant cough.
The Librarian was mumbling something next to him, another watery apology for his behaviour, his body hunched, shifting his weight between his feet as if he needed to pee, but Sam’s attention was drawn to the Athlete and the Artist, the way they were chatting with their heads close together as they lifted their bags onto their shoulders and moved towards the door.
‘Um, Professor?’
A tug from behind.
‘Do you have a few minutes? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.’