And he stank...Firstly, plumping himself on the back seat sent a wave of cannabis over to the front. Thereafter, every gesture sent another wave. I opened the window. Didn't want him having any funny ideas about opening his window. If he was going to escape, it would be at speed. If he doesn't want this conversation then he can smash his head on the A 27 and roll into some hedges. Turning round to look at him I  expected to see a middle aged drug addict. The hooded eyes, the dull and implacable stare. This expectation was so fierce, Thom was just a blur...Cromwell Road...too slow...Wilbury Ave... slow...Sod it, up Dyke Road...I had no idea where to go. Eastbourne...London. There must be somewhere for these conversations to occur...A grey Nissan hut somewhere, off the M25, perhaps next to the Asylum Seeker Unit...I wouldn't mind handing in my weapons to the sentry guard...before being led to G Block, the Father- Son Amnesty...YOU'VE BEEN SMOKING SKUNK...!!! 

It's not skunk, it's just normal..

Oh, just normal... I weighed that, then, gently... So, have you any idea what...just normal cannabis can do...?

There's no schizophrenia in our family.

HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT'S IN THE FAMILY..? 

I slammed the brakes, turned round and, mad as loon, stared into his eyes. Imagining generations of madness wasn't difficult. These mad ancestors were coming mainly from my mother's side, centuries of soft, oval faces from the Kent- Sussex  border, hiding unfathomable lunacy. Breathing deeply, I returned to the wheel, the car, the road. There was a job of work to be done here. And that was driving. Steering this family back into the right direction. I hadn't meant to trap him. Denial would have been easier because, frankly,  I had no idea what to do next. But worse, I wasn't sure he felt trapped. He was stoned, and the passivity could destroy us. It became very clear I should take him back to his, mercifully, sharp jawed  mother. A quick left, back onto Wilbury Avenue. We were making a perfect circle.

Anyway, you used to drink opium...

What?

I said, you used to..

I WHAT...?

I blinked rapidly, trying to peel my mind from the windscreen. Was I in the absurd position of denying my drug use to my stoned, but open and honest son? And then, as if to help me out, the mad ancestors returned. 

THOM! Have you any idea? Have you?

Did he shake his head?...

I'm carrying the weight of...

Of what?

THE WEIGHT OF....

Glaring at him. I was about to say...Europe. At last he flinched, looked away. I didn't say it, or even know why I nearly said it. But I was thankful for the generational madness, the insane drug addled, oval faced ancestors from the Kent- Sussex border, because I knew they would wash away the memory of this moment. As Hamlet knew, when you cannot give a straight answer to a straight question, be mad.