'So this is what he did. He travelled to suburbs of the city where he was unlikely to be recognised, usually on weekday evenings when the after-work rush was dwindling. He’d find a quiet street or a small square with only a few people around, and then he would collapse. And he would lie very still, exactly as he had fallen, eyes closed or gazing into near space, entirely unresponsive to the people who came to prod at him. After a while he wasn’t daunted by the ambulance anymore. It became part of the routine. The medics would strap him into the van and rattle along beside him, quietly impatient with his steady breathing, the absence of any immediately treatable crisis. Only when they were wheeling him inside the hospital did he begin to answer their questions. No, he hadn’t taken anything; yes, he might have hit his head; no, he didn’t remember what had happened. He tried not to hear his own voice. He would do nothing unless he was told to. The hospital trips always ended in the same way. After a few basic tests, he’d be told he could go home. That there was nothing else to do but go home.'

Published in full soon on Psychopomp