Murder, no less.

On hearing of the unlikely demise of Michael, the hypnotist, my first reaction was one of mild irritation. The idea of Gareth, Neil, Helen and myself bonding over the death of our hapless colleague filled me with dread. Gareth would become the ringmaster of gossip and hold forth in the kitchen for weeks on end and then, come Christmas, just as it slows down and we move on, he creates a clever, even ingenious case against me. Me, murderer. This is the familiar pattern to our politics, albeit mainly concerning unwashed cups and mislaid crockery. So it was, tapping ash into my glorious wastebasket, I went from mild irritation to fascination. It occurred to me that Gareth could make a convincing case against me, and perhaps a lot sooner than Christmas. After all, I distinctly remember my first meeting with the hypnotist and even wrote, at the time, of my initial instinct towards him as murderous. And what alibi's have I? The reputable word of a disreputable fetish club, mainly. And Thom, of course. But all this would only prove I have a keen understanding of my own impulses. It may also suggest a pathology in the hypnotist himself. Far from a random attack, he would have incited his own demise. And so as I led the Tuesday Group today, my mind even further away than usual, I overcompensated with a show of geniality and warmth. This was a shame for me, yet beneficent for my members, as I was dimly aware that it was an absolutely fascinating session.