Gary Day

More students means more people with mental health problems, but can universities offer the appropriate support?

It's 5.20pm on a Thursday. Only another few hours before security unlock the main doors and staff can go home. Lecturer beholds the column of essays rising from the floor and her heart leaps with joy. Of course, it doesn't. This is fiction, not real life.

She braces herself for student musings on Kafka but is distracted by a cry from the corridor. Peering out she sees a student trying to nail himself to the notice board. He's managed to pin one hand against a poster promoting skills, but now can't attach the other one. "I'm sorry, I haven't been to your seminars," he says, "but I've been having a few problems."

She has not encountered this situation before and isn't sure how to deal with it. What's the procedure? Better get him off the wall first. How do people like this get into university?

Back in her office she is tempted to tell him to pull himself together. But a colleague tried that approach and the student killed herself. Jumped in front of a train, apparently. The recorded voice had repeatedly apologised for the inconvenience. So, better try a different tack. She rings student counselling but they're closing. "I don't care if you are," she says, snatching her scarf from the student's neck. "I've got someone here who is in danger of harming himself." She can be very unreasonable at times.

"We'll call you back in a minute." A minute is a long time when confronted by someone whose gaze ransacks your room for the means to end it all. She calls again but gets someone different so has to explain the situation again. The student is humming quietly.

"The counsellor can't help. He's with a client and then he's going home.

Try the university hospice, they have a 24-hour service."

"Do you have the number?" she inquires.

"Afraid not."

No problem for someone who's taken a course in research skills.

A recorded message states that the nurse isn't available, but if she would like to leave her name and number her call will be returned as soon as possible. It isn't. The student's humming grows louder. She rings again.

This time the nurse answers but can't help. She suggests Crisis Resolution.

"Has the client seen a doctor? No? I'm sorry. Unless he's been examined, there's nothing we can do. It's procedure." That word - which blocks communication, shuts down thought and absolves the speaker of all responsibility for whatever happens next. "Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished."

Back to the nurse. "Try NHS Direct." She gets through immediately and experiences a sense of elation. Not a feeling you can trust.

"Name? Address? Telephone number? Employment? Hobbies? Favourite colour?"

"Are all these questions really necessary?"

"It's procedure. We also need to know how the person you're ringing about plans to dispose of himself. We have a number of options he might like to consider, all very reasonably priced."

No, of course they didn't say that. This is fiction. Eventually a doctor appears. He hasn't slept for 72 hours. He asks Lecturer for her opinion of the student's condition. She suggests depression, but they are interrupted by his mobile playing Berlioz' funeral march. He shouts something about having prescribed thrush cream not toothpaste, then turns to her and says:

"You're right. It does sound like paranoid schizophrenia. I'll call the crisis team."

And with that his mobile recommences its lament and he's gone. The team arrives. The student stops humming and tells them he lies awake at night wondering if there's more to life than is dreamt of in the subject benchmark statement. They take a lot of notes. There's no immediate danger but they want a follow-up meeting the next day. The student agrees, but doesn't show. Instead he locks himself in his room. The team thinks it's time to call in social workers. By this time, it's Saturday.

Lecturer gets a message asking her to phone the emergency social work line.

She does. They ask her a lot of questions. She refuses to answer them, insisting that she is merely responding to the social worker's request.

They put the phone down on her.

The social worker manages to contact her himself. Could she give him some details about the student? He needs it within the hour because he's going off duty then.

No, of course he didn't say that. I keep telling you this is fiction. You don't think things like that happen in real life, do you? If such a thing really occurred, there would be procedures for dealing with it. The student would be cared for and given the appropriate treatment. But this is fiction, where you are always taken by surprise and where there is no resolution.

Gary Day is principal lecturer in English at De Montfort University.