Dan receives an important text message and embarks on a London walkabout.

To access previous chapters, visit Jane Read’s Author Page.

 

Chapter 6.                                                                                                   

Dan                         

“My dear Sir, take any road, you can’t go amiss. The whole state is one vast insane asylum.’

James L. Petigru

             

We are dropped off near the bus stop, close to our flat. Carl goes across to the corner shop to buy some milk. I had been planning to go to church with Mark, but I’m too wired somehow so, I unlock our door, climb the stairs and sit down on my bed to think. I am staring at my laptop. Suddenly, I know what I have to do. It is all making sense. The signs I’ve been given.

‘God is angry. He’s letting me know that He is completely against Facebook!’

Obediently, I close and delete my account. Now I need to contact everyone I know and instruct them all to get rid of their Facebook accounts, right away. I phone Mark first. He’s just arrived at Church, but I quickly announce,

‘I get it. I know what’s going on now! God wants everyone to delete their Facebook. He hates all social media, WhatsApp, Twitter, Snapchat, all of it, but especially Facebook!’

‘What about phones?’ Mark asks just before the signal goes dead and his mobile cuts out. Of course! God is against phones as well. This is not the way he wants us to communicate at all.  I am so excited now. I start racing around the flat.  Carl comes back in and watches me for a minute or two. He clears his throat,

‘Um, you might like to put some clothes on.’

But I am focussed on the important work I must do. I phone my ex-girlfriend, Lizzy, who’s known me since school days. I’m talking fast, saying,

‘When we were together, I don’t think I told you enough times that I loved you. I’m really sorry. But it’s not too late to tell you now, is it?’

She hesitates …, ‘This is a bit of a weird conversation. Are you ok?’

I tell her to delete her Facebook, abruptly end the call and continue pacing around the flat, raising one hand, while whispering urgently to God. I’m working out His secret messaging system which is like Holy texting. We don’t need phones for that. All I have to do with my new powers is to say someone’s name, followed by the words: ‘Your will be done!’ and their life and the lives of many others will be instantly transformed by God’s power!

I decide it’s best to start with world leaders and the most influential figures first of all;

‘Barack Obama, Your will be done !’ I shout out and I know that through my words, the whole of the United States of America will be transformed. Carl doesn’t get what’s happening at all.  He stares at me for a few minutes then promptly leaves the flat again. At that moment I glance at my phone, and my heart starts to race.  I see that I have just received a text message from God himself!  This proves how important I am to him. It appears to be some sort of warning.

 

‘Just remember Dan, you do not need to be striving all the time. ‘Be still and know that I am God,’ is important instruction too. Choose carefully who you confide in about what has happened, because people might misunderstand and draw the wrong conclusions about you. Not everyone will be able to accept that the things you are talking about could be from God!’

 

I read it through again, more than once, staring at the words ‘from God.’

I’m breathless with excitement as it dawns on me that this is a modern-day miracle! I have never felt so elated. I know I must try out my new God-given powers right away, so I pull on a pair of jeans, grab my jacket and walk straight out of the flat, leaving the door wide open.  I feel completely safe. I am God’s anointed Son after all. Nothing bad can happen to me. There is no need to worry about anything. I walk purposefully onto the streets of London, to meet with my people.

I am feeling sensationally happy. It is as if some great force is controlling what I do and nothing can stop me or hold me back. It is a Sunday night and very quiet, so I stroll down to the local sports centre. A pizza delivery guy is just arriving on his bike, then another bloke emerges from the side door to pay for the order. I greet him with these words,

‘Keep talking to God, won’t you? He just loves it!’

‘If you say so,’ he mutters, quickly shutting the door. I turn to the pizza guy on the bike. Taking a firm hold of his handlebars, I stand astride his front wheel, facing towards him.

‘Do you use Facebook? I ask.

‘Yeah,’

‘Well just delete it. It’s a total waste of time.’

He pauses, staring at me ‘Actually I don’t look at it that much any more.’ Then he gets back on his bike and starts pedalling quickly away.

I set off, heading back towards the flat but something tells me to turn right down the Barons’ Court Road. I come across a couple of girls. I am convinced I know their names, even though I’ve never met either of them before.

I point at the dark one, grinning, ‘Your name is Lisa, isn’t it!’  She nods hesitantly. But I know exactly where this new prophetic power is from. I get the other girl’s name wrong, but I’m guessing that this could be because she doesn’t know God yet. So, I do the holy texting code over them both and walk on. They smile and glance briefly at each other as they turn to go, slightly ‘weirded out’ expressions on their faces.  I continue my forward march down the street towards a busy pub, where I come across two more people loading stuff into the boot of their parked car. I call out to them, ‘Hi there! Are your names Richard and Sarah by any chance?’ They say no, but suggest that I try inside the pub.  I don’t find any Richard or a Sarah there, but I do come across a massive, tattooed guy at one of the tables, so I introduce myself and shake his hand very vigorously. We quickly get into a debate about Christians and Muslims. He seems genuinely interested in me. Perhaps he senses my true identity. Next, I spot a younger guy and make my way over to him.

‘You play guitar, don’t you?’

He nods. I’m right of course. I feel pretty, damned elated about my new divine powers of prophetic deduction,

‘There’s going to be a really big band forming, so keep playing the guitar, keep practising, and soon you’ll be involved in the greatest party ever!’

He replies, ‘Oh right. Ok, um…. Thanks’

I go back outside. It’s raining. Someone is ringing my mobile. I think it’s probably Mark because church will have finished by now. But I hear Louise’s voice. I start rattling away non-stop to her, but she is sounding stressed about me being outside. I’ve no idea why. She yells upstairs to Rob. Two big guys are coming towards me along the street.

‘I sense you guys are about to steal my phone.’ I smile warmly at them. ‘You don’t need to because I can just give it to you. I won’t be needing it any more after today. God loves you both by the way!’

They are both quite a bit bigger than me and seem taken aback by my words. They simply ask, ‘What do you do for a living?’

‘I’m an actor. But that’s all about to change’

‘Oh yes,’ they laugh, ‘You look like an actor. You’ve got an expressive face!’  I realise that my holiness and divine authority have prevented them from carrying out a mugging. They don’t take my phone but leave me instead and walk on.  I think I should make just one more call before I dispense with my mobile altogether.

Chapter 7.

JANE

                    

‘The greatest proof of madness is the disproportion of one’s designs, to one’s means.’

Napoleon Bonaparte

 

It’s Sunday evening. Time for supper and time for the final episode of Downton Abbey. Em packs her books away from the kitchen table after a long afternoon of science revision. We hurry into the lounge with trays of snacks ready to turn on the TV. With little idea how difficult it might be to spot Dan in a crowded dance scene, I’ve already prompted friends and relatives to watch it and help us keep a look-out. (For most, this isn’t a chore as they are already avid Downton fans with no intention of missing the last episode). Fortunately, Dan’s is one of the first faces to come into shot. Em is a lot quicker than we are at spotting him. We catch sight of him two or three more times in the remainder of the scene. We are leaping out of our seats pointing and cheering.

‘There he is!  Did you see him?’

‘Where? where?’

‘There, look!’

We are so engrossed, waiting at home for Dan to appear on our TV screens, ignorant of the fact that he is simultaneously taking dangerous steps away from us, out of the real world and into a place from which it will not be easy to return.

We are deciding to go upstairs to get ready for bed, when the phone rings. It’s Dan’s voice. I immediately launch into telling him that we have watched Downton Abbey and that we spotted him in the dance scene. I am hoping to ask him as well about the date his term will finish and his plans for Christmas, but he doesn’t even seem to hear me.

‘God told me to phone you,’ are his first words, ‘And He told me that you would be the one to answer the phone Mum.’ His voice is urgent, gathering momentum. ‘It all makes sense to me now. The prophecies, what they were all about. The many signs of who I really am. I’m Him! The Holy One! The Saviour of the world!’

‘What?’ I’m struggling to breathe as I listen.

He goes on at great speed, ‘The prophecy is about to be fulfilled, Mum. God wants ME to lead His revolution. I know this sounds unlikely, but he has chosen me. This is it, Mum. It is the beginning of something big. Welcome to the party!’

He sounds so happy, so ecstatic, but things he is saying and the frantic rush of words flowing from him are terrifying. Every time I try to say something, he won’t let me speak, but keeps repeating, over and over again,

‘Listen, listen, listen. You must listen to me!’ I try to ask him questions, but Dan interrupts me immediately, making crazy burbling sounds down the phone, moving his tongue rapidly from side to side across his lips to stop me speaking. I let out an inadvertent laugh, though the situation is far from funny.

“I love to hear you laugh mum!” He makes his wiggle-tongue burbling sound again to provoke another reaction.

‘Dan I’m worried about you. I’m thinking you might need to see a doctor. Stay near the phone. I’ll ring you back in just a second.’ I turn to Graham, who has come into the room, sensing my rising panic.

 ‘I am really scared now. He’s not ok. He is talking so fast and sounding, really confused or….crazy or ..schizophrenic or something. We have to help him!’

Graham needs no more convincing. ‘Let me just think about what to do.’

He paces the hall for a few seconds, his head bowed.

I watch and wait for my dependable, problem-solving, decision-making husband, the one we all rely upon so much, the one who always knows what to do in all situations. I wait in silence.

‘I’ve an idea.’ He stands up. ‘I’ll ring Steve and ask him to drive to Dan’s flat. It should only take about thirty minutes for him to get there on a Sunday night. We will throw a few things into a bag and get ourselves to London right away.’ He is on the phone to his brother in seconds. I hear him saying,

‘Steve, Steve, I need your help!’ His mouth is dry. It’s hard for him to get his words out clearly. There is a tremor in his voice.

The next second, my mobile rings. It is Carl, Dan’s flat mate.

‘I’m ringing because I’m worried about Dan.  He’s saying weird things and has been behaving strangely all weekend. He hasn’t slept. He’s not eating’

‘He’s just been on the phone to us and we are worried too. We’re coming to London right away, tonight. Dan’s uncle is already on his way to the flat and he will stay with him until we arrive. Where are you now Carl?’

‘Well… I’ve left the flat…. because…I don’t feel safe around Dan.’

I understand his fear, none of us have ever met anything like this before, but I am also panicking at the thought of what might happen if Dan is left alone for very long in this state.

‘Please will you go back to stay with him Carl, but maybe take someone with you? He needs help.  He’s already been out on the street talking to random strangers.’

Carl says he’s at Mark’s but they will go back to search for Dan together. I speak to Mark too, but only briefly because we need to get on the road. They promise they will stay with him until help arrives.

Immediately I end the call, my mobile rings again. It’s Rob frantic and distressed. He’s just spoken to his brother too and is desperate to go and rescue him. He is apologising again and again, because he had been convinced (as were we all) that the energy and happiness in Dan’s voice were to do with his excitement at finding God. But now, no one was in doubt that something was seriously wrong.

‘Rob, I need you to be here, not in London. Can you come to York to stay with Em?’

‘Yes, yes I can. Of course.

Em is sitting up in bed crying softly as she listens to the frantic phone calls and rising panic in the house. She is in the middle of her GCSEs, about to take one of her most difficult science papers in a day or two.

Graham stuffs a rucksack with a few things. I grab coats, snacks and bottles of water, then race upstairs to give Em a hug, trying to keep my voice steady as I tell her that we have to get to Dan urgently but that Rob is on his way over to be with her, and we will keep in touch by phone. I ring Dan one more time to tell him that Carl and Mark are coming and that he must wait in the flat for them and not go out before they arrive, and that Steve and Sue are coming over to visit in a little while.

‘Would you like to see Uncle Steve again?’

‘Yes, I’d love to see Uncle Steve and Auntie Sue. I haven’t seen them for ages.’

‘Well, just listen out for the doorbell and when they arrive, let them in and, and, and…remember to make them a nice cup of tea.’ (What a very ‘Mum’ instruction that was!)

‘Stay inside until we get there. Dad and I are on our way to see you too.’

It is some comfort to know that he trusts me at the moment. He seems to be listening to my instructions. But I realise things might change. Graham grabs my arm, pulling me out towards the car.

‘That’s great, this is just what God wants, for the whole family to be together.’  Dan’s voice is full of emotion. We drive away into the darkness, and I glance down at my phone one more time to see that I have received a text from Dan.

‘I love you, Mum,’ it says. ‘I am the WAY the TRUTH and the LIFE!’

 

Chapter 8.                                                                   

JANE

               

               “Much madness is Divinest sense to the discerning eye. Much sense the starkest madness.”

                                                      Emily Dickinson

Dan talks enthusiastically with Carl and Mark about false prophets, the book of Revelation, the twelve horses of the apocalypse and other important matters before standing up to conduct them as they sing songs from ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’. During the chorus he drops to his knees, arms outstretched, head back, eyes closed as he hits the crescendo of the lament in the garden of Gethsemane,

‘Why— should—- I— die !!’

He beams at his two companions stating again,

‘I am the way, the TRUTH and the life!’

This time, Mark’s response is more direct,

‘No Dan.  You’re not!  You’re just …… tired!’

There are several more calls on our way to London. Sue’s first, checking if Dan will be expecting them. She sounds nervous. I put her onto speaker phone.

‘Yes, I’ve told him you’re coming. He sounds very positive about seeing you again and two friends have agreed to stay with him until you arrive. He might be saying some strange things and not making much sense’.

‘If you could just try to keep him safe in the flat until we get there or maybe even persuade him to go back to your house’. Graham suggests. ‘But if you can’t manage him, or the situation starts getting dangerous, please, don’t hesitate to phone for an ambulance,’ he adds, putting his foot down and accelerating onto the dual carriageway.

It is rare, if ever, that I’m invited to drive when we travel together. It’s even less likely that Graham will invite me to take the wheel in the middle of an emergency. He prefers to be the one in control. Besides, I am constantly on the phone to different people, monitoring the situation as we go along. I hand him extra strong mints and sips of water as he drives through the night. I just keep checking that he is ok, every few miles.

Once we have confirmation that Steve and Sue have arrived, we relax a little but keep in close touch. Steve phones periodically to offer updates on what is happening. His voice is calm and reassuring. He says things like,

‘Yes, we are fine. Just having some interesting conversations about God and Shakespeare and evolution.’ (Probably the last thing they imagined they would be doing in the early hours of a Monday morning, at the start of a working week!)

I am thankful for their help, unsure about what we would have done had they not been around that night. From time-to-time Steve steps outside the door of the flat and onto the street, to talk to us more privately. He describes Dan’s behaviour.

‘He is breathing strangely and keeps blowing on us both then putting his hands on top of our heads. Sue is a bit nervous of him. He is pacing around and we can’t persuade him to eat or drink or even sit down. He refuses to get into our car or come home with us and seems convinced that God wants the whole family to be together in his flat.’ (I’m guessing this might be because of my earlier instruction.)

I want Graham to drive a bit faster but dare not suggest it. He always takes care, even mid-crisis, approaching any journey with what seems to me, exaggerated slowness and cautious consideration. Even the morning of my father’s death was like that. I’d been told he was nearing the end and wanted to get there as quickly as possible. But I’ve never been able to rush my cautious husband, who opted to eat breakfast, pack methodically and prepare thoroughly for the two-hour drive ahead. I was relieved that he was escorting me and I didn’t have to do the driving by myself that particular day but in the end, I missed my dad’s passing by about twenty minutes, resolving this unfortunate timing with the knowledge that he would have preferred me to be looked after and kept safe, rather than rushing recklessly to his deathbed.

As urgent as my need is to get to my son tonight, I must remain patient. It is wiser to trust Graham with the planning of an operation of this magnitude. It feels as thugh we are jointly facing a steep and terrifying mountain face, ill- equipped, with scant supplies, our energy reserves running low. Even standing as far back as possible, tilting our heads and straining our necks, we will not be able to catch sight of the summit from here. We are woefully ill-prepared we are for what is to come. We haven’t the slightest idea that our arrival in London is only the equivalent of reaching base camp.

The first sight of my boy is one of relief. He is here, standing before me, beautiful to see, wide-eyed, wild looking, handsome, full of the strangest energy and more elated than I’ve ever seen him. Clearly not in his right mind. Not the Dan we know, but as though someone else is inhabiting his body. He is pacing around, with tousled hair, shirt unbuttoned, sweaty armpits, and clammy hands, bare, dirty feet, grinning broadly at us with the strangest and most disturbing smile on his face. He is so changed, but clearly unaware of the extreme changes we are all seeing. But at least he is here and he is alive, so extraordinarily alive!’ These are my thoughts on our arrival at Dan’s flat in Baron’s Court at three am that November morning.

Steve and Sue have somehow worked out what to do with this new version of Dan, how to humour him when he refuses to answer to his name, how to keep him calm and contained.  But it is our turn now. He is in our care for however long it might take to restore him to sanity.

Sue makes us all a cup of tea. She has been busy cleaning the surfaces and washing up in the kitchen before our arrival. We sit and listen to Dan’s ‘preaching’ for a while, as he paces backwards and forwards, his leather folder tucked underneath one arm which contains his Shakespeare script as well as the brown foolscap envelope of professional headshots. He tells us that he knows that,

‘Shakespeare was a Christian,’ smiling constantly and putting strong emphasis on individual words in a peculiarly compelling and charismatic way. He uses his playscript as an evangelist would a Bible, opening it and delivering ‘prophecies’ to each of us in turn. He picks out lines from Shakespeare’s ‘Much Ado about Nothing.’ which he directs at someone in the room, pointing authoritatively and reading aloud to each of us in turn,

“Pause a while and let my counsel sway you” …….

“Will your Grace command me any service to the world’s end?”

 

Many of the lines he chooses are thought-provoking and surreal. After our journey it feels as though we are being swept up into some extraordinary, outlandish piece of theatre. At times Dan’s ramblings seem to make some ironic sense and hold a disturbing shadow of meaning for those listening. He is both convincing and compelling in the way that he speaks. It crosses my mind that in another time or in another culture, he may well have been hailed as a prophet, or a shaman, gathering a faithful band of disciples around him.

The next step is to decide what action to take to have Dan assessed and treated. Should we bring him back to York to help him back to his senses, or will he have to be hospitalised here, in London?  Graham is collecting Dan’s laptop and wallet and a few items of clothing from the flat. I start trying to persuade Dan to come home with us,

‘The family is waiting to see you back in York, Em and Rob are there already, and Tom will be coming to our house too, once he’s finished his hospital shift.’

But when we step outside things seem to escalate. Dan tries to force Steve and Sue into the back of our car, wanting to take them home with us as well.

Tension builds when I ask Graham to run back inside to grab my coat (which in the confusion, I’ve left inside the flat). Dan is impatient to embark on his new mission and doesn’t think we should bother with trivialities such as coats. When Graham comes back with it in his hand, he snatches it away and flings it down on the pavement, yelling loudly. My mouth is dry. I am trembling, feeling guilty for being the cause of this scene and forgetting my stupid coat in the first place. It would have been better to have just left it behind. Maybe we’d have had chance to get away sooner. Thankfully there are no passers-by at four thirty in the morning at Barons Court. It is so dark and uncannily quiet, apart from the distant sounds of traffic and the occasional rumble of an underground train.

Dan then tries to prevent Graham from closing or locking the door of the flat,

‘But we can’t leave it open.’ Graham argues. ‘Your keyboard is inside and Carl’s stuff is in there too. It might get stolen’

Dan is getting angry and agitated, pacing up and down, pounding the wet paving stones, shouting aggressively. Graham and Steve put their heads together and decide it is too dangerous to attempt the drive back to York like this. It is time to call for back up.

 

Chapter 9.  

DAN

 

                    ‘There is pleasure sure, in being mad which none but madmen know.’

Graham Dryden

 

Paramedics and police suddenly arrive. I am a bit surprised to see them, but I realise that I am an important part of the great mission plan and assume that they must be my escort to wherever God is taking me next. I walk willingly towards the ambulance linking arms with one of the guys. He struggles with the rear doors, creating a rattling and a banging sound which echoes through the empty London streets and prompts the young police officer to sprint quickly across the road to check everything is ok. But I am certainly not going to be any trouble, and I am more than happy to step up into my transport. Like a lamb, I show no resistance at all.

‘This is a vitally important sign for the future,’ I say to each of the people in uniform who surround me in the ambulance. I am producing my drama headshots from their envelope. I hand them out to each person in turn, taking the opportunity to chat up the female paramedic on the way.

‘So, what do you enjoy doing apart from this job?’ I enquire politely, as we set off. She replies that she loves dancing.

‘You should definitely keep up your dancing because God takes pleasure in that.’ I tell her.

We are shown into a cell-like area called the ‘psych room’. It smells strange, has a few scattered, broken chairs, no windows, some graffiti on the walls, and spilt coffee on the floor. I spot a CCTV monitor in the corner and realise that I must be being filmed so I had better focus on making my performance a good one.

After that, we wait a very long time before anything happens.  It’s my opportunity to talk a bit to my parents to try and convince them of who I really am (They still seem in some doubt) Very nice and very pretty nurses come and go from the room. They take my blood pressure and temperature and decide there is nothing much wrong with me, which is true. I pace round and around emphasising the significance of the pending revolution. I let my parents know that God is about to bless their sex life beyond their wildest dreams. Mum smiles and says, ‘that’s nice.’ Dad grunts, tips his head back, and closes his eyes.

Every so often the waiting exasperates me. Tucking my Shakespeare folder under my arm, I bid my parents farewell and stride purposefully through the main doors which magically slide open in front of me, luring me to step out into the night. Dad gets a bit frantic and starts shouting for help. I march straight across the ambulance bay and stand on the edge of the kerb watching the traffic pass by on the Charing Cross Road. I am in no danger. I feel completely confident, fully protected, totally indestructible.

I am just about to step off the kerb when a huge security guy appears and coaxes me to come back inside. I am told that he is from Nigeria, so I give him a big bear hug. He persuades me to,

‘Sit down with mammy.’  I am quite liking this game, so I exit through the doors a few more times, confident that he will chase after me, catch me, and then I can hug him all over again. Mum and Dad don’t look as though they are enjoying this game very much. I tell them to relax. Dad is distressed and starts pleading through his tears,

‘I just want my son back’

I promise him that he will have him back in time, ‘but God’s work needs to be done first.’

Whenever I see an anxious look on my dad’s face, I know it is a sign of his lack of faith. Placing my hands on top of his head, I start to pray, vigorously massaging his scalp with my fingers at the same time. Sometimes I battle away at him for long periods of time, arguing forcefully, knowing that I will never let up until I have got through with my message.

I am suddenly alerted by the shrill ringing of Mum’s mobile phone. I cannot tolerate this harsh sound so I snatch it from her hand and sling it into the corner of the room where it comes apart with a satisfyingly clatter. My parents don’t move a muscle to retrieve it, which is a satisfactory result.  Dad swiftly switches his to silent and hides it away in his coat pocket. Each time someone comes into the room, I ask their name. Then I place my left hand on top of their head, raising my right arm in the air, calling out to Almighty God, ‘Thy will be done!’ At the same time Dad is begging any visiting staff,

‘Our son has been like this for hours. Can we get some help and a doctor now please?’

I feel angry with him when he gets all negative like this, because he is effectively blocking God’s plans.

I sometimes ask my parents where I am and what we are actually waiting for. I’m told that I am in Charing Cross hospital’s A & E department. I know that everything is happening for a reason, so there must be important work for me to do in here. I raise my hands high in the air as I take it upon myself to make a much louder pronouncement to the people who are waiting,

‘I am The Way, the Truth and the Life!

I am here to bring healing and peace to this world.’

I walk right through the reception area, taking a full circuit around all the patient bays. People are lying quietly on their beds, behind closed curtains but when they hear my voice they start to peep out, ever so cautiously. They are drawn to me. I know that they sense my divine authority and they are probably wondering if they are ready for the judgement day.

A kind Irish nurse with tight brown curls and stout pink legs and a lovely soft accent, ushers me back towards the room,

‘It is of course a good thing to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. It is important to me too. But perhaps it is not a good idea to be shouting about Him to all of these poorly people, waiting to see the doctor!’

 

Chapter 10.                                                                

JANE

                     

                               Insanity is hereditary. You can get it from your children.

          Dan Levenson

As well as the routine pulse, ECG and blood pressure checks, the medics need Dan to produce a urine sample which proves trickier than it sounds. Dan hasn’t been eating or drinking much, and I am starting to worry about the adverse effects of dehydration on his mental state. I step out of the room, returning in a few seconds with a filled plastic beaker, which I announce on impulse is ‘Holy water’ and will definitely be good for him.

I’m a bit ashamed of my blatant pretence as my children have always trusted me to tell them the truth. Even endorsing their belief in Father Christmas made me uncomfortable when they were small. I did encourage the annual letter and list-writing, to generate anticipation, but I also saw it as an opportunity for a bit of spelling practice in the holidays.

My holy water strategy does the trick, but it works a bit too well. Dan wants refill after refill. Eventually he produces a sample and after some agitation about God’s mission, and further thwarted attempts to leave the building, two nurses arrive with some very large, pink tablets, which I assume might be something to sedate him. I am hopeful that we might get a bit of a break now. He takes hold of the beaker of water and the plastic pot of tablets. Then with the broadest of grins on his face, he promptly tips them both upside-down, emptying their contents all over the floor.

We shout in protest, urging Dan to be more sensible. He is cajoled into swallowing some replacement pills which act quickly to make him drowsy. I persuade him to lie down. He stretches out across the line of uncomfortable plastic seats, his head in my lap. I stroke his damp hair and clammy forehead wondering what is happening inside his fevered brain and how on earth we might help him come back to reality and back to us.

Graham closes his eyes for a few minutes as we wait, listening to the sounds of a hospital department gearing up for a daytime shift, clattering, clanging and bleeping sounds mixed with rapid footsteps and voices.  Two psychiatric consultants finally appear, at around nine-thirty in the morning. They ask Dan questions as he sits up unsteadily, much quieter now. Then they tell us that traces of amphetamines were found in his urine, so his psychotic episode might be drug related. We stare in disbelief.

‘What are amphetamines?’ Dan asks. I don’t know what they are.’ The men turn towards us,

‘Your son might possibly have been a victim of spiking. This happens a lot in London.’

Several students on his course had used substances for several years already and appeared to get away with it, completely relaxed about their illegal activities so Dan had assumed it was a normal thing to do and saw it as no big deal when he was invited to sample just a small amount at a student party. His friends might have been experienced and street wise, but Dan was young, and much too trusting.

Could his minor experiment really be the thing causing these massive changes in his brain? Some say psychosis is a direct result of childhood trauma, but I can’t think of any specific examples of trauma in Dan’s past life. Was it a pre-existing part of him, lying in wait for something to trigger it? Or might it have been the direct result of pressures he’d been under at drama school?  Were these changes brought about by his need to achieve perfection in his performances, his desperation to meet the expectations of others? Were they the result of being cast in challenging, demanding roles before his young mind had developed any clarity about who he was?

My mind is flooded with so many questions, to which there seem to be no immediate answers.  I know what I want those answers to be. My instinct is to defend him, exonerate him and most of all to find a way to restore him to his former self. He is my son, my baby, lying here across these seats with his head resting on my lap, while I weep silently. It feels impossible for me to blame him for this catastrophe.

We find out through further discussion with Carl and Mark, that many months earlier (at another student party) Dan was handed a plate of brownies laced with cannabis, ‘hash brownies’ was the joke label they’d adopted for them. Brownies had always been Dan’s favourite cake, so he’d eaten quite a few with no idea what they’d contained. A guy from his year group arrived late to the party, wearing his new, scarlet jacket. Dan became wildly delusional, pointing at him, raving that he must be Satan!  He was out of his mind with terror. The other students found his ‘trip’ quite amusing, so they agreed with his perceptions, reinforcing his fear, in order to prolong their entertainment instead of talking him down. One of them claimed afterwards that Dan’s drug-induced experience would have been good for him, even helping to expand his mind!

Several students from this particular year group, habitually applauded the worst behaviours, congratulating their peers for excessive drinking, taking drugs and boasting sexual conquests, instead of validating genuine talent, which was the thing they were all there to develop.

In my lowest moments, I have found myself wondering whether they were deliberately trying to eliminate the competition at this prestigious drama school, once the desperate scramble for agents had begun in earnest. Maybe these toxic gifts were given with the aim of destroying Dan’s true gifts as an actor. But I realise that this is probably just a protective mother’s paranoia and it was more likely to have been the result of youthful recklessness.

One doctor tells us that it is better news if it is a drug induced episode, because Dan will come down from his manic state quickly, once the substance has worn off. This proves to be far from the case.

We have been so naïve about the dangers. Parents like us can imagine that we have put sufficient safeguards in place as our kids grow older. We think we have taught them right from wrong and how to recognise potential threats in their world. We assume their school PSHE curriculum must have educated them to make intelligent, informed choices. Many of us have recently been forced to wake up to the fact that street drugs are out there, more readily available, cheaper, and easier to obtain than ever before, unregulated substances, their content unknown, fuelling our country’s chronic mental health crisis, one more dangerous hazard for our sons and daughters and our grandchildren to negotiate. I wish it were not so. I really wish it were not so.

The reason we believe everything Dan is telling us is because it quickly becomes apparent that being psychotic is the equivalent of being injected with a truth serum, all normal inhibitions lifted, no censorship or filters in place. The person in the throes of mania sees no reason to hide anything. Dan proceeds to confess all his ‘sins’ to us during these early stages of his illness.

It seems weirdly inappropriate but something of a relief, to allow ourselves to laugh at something, even in the middle of a crisis.  My brother, a Monty Python fan back in the seventies, phones me every few days to offer support,

‘In view of everything, do you ever feel tempted to announce to the world,

“My Son is not the Messiah…. He is a very naughty boy!”?’  (‘Life of Brian’ 1979)

I laugh with him, but at the same time I feel compelled to protect Dan. This bizarre and unexpected situation is a serious one and seems disproportionate to anything he has done. I am already anticipating that it will come as a nasty shock, once he realises that he isn’t the Messiah after all.

‘It’s bound to be something of a come down.’

‘I see what you mean,’ Pete ponders this thought for a minute.

‘But then again, if you think about the job description, who the hell would actually want to be the Messiah?’

No-one, in their right mind, I guess!