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“I don’t get it, Campbell - I really don’t. You’re such a bright kid. You’ve got potential. You’ve got heaps a’ potential, but you aren’ even trying.” The words hung in the air like a bad smell. Campbell shifted awkwardly in his seat, avoiding the headmaster’s gaze. “Campbell,” he repeated testily, “look at me.”
After a moment of hesitation, he did. “I am trying,” he half-mumbled. When no reply came, his eyes shot back down to the floor. The headmaster’s office was one he’d visited one too many times. It had an ugly, worn red carpet and dark oak furniture. Awards and certificates hung from the walls, whispering and giggling at each of the teenager’s failures. There was a naff-looking fake plant in the corner. “Campbell.” The man had said his name so many times it didn’t even sound like a name anymore, let alone his own.
He sat up a bit, biting his lip. Then, “I’m trying. I am trying. Everyone keeps saying I’m no trying, but I cannae try any ha—”
“—You’ve missed four lessons this week, Campbell.” Campbell. Cam-bell. Camp-bell. Did he think he’d forget it, if he didn’t remind him every two seconds? He continued, “I’ve had multiple reports of disruptive behaviour. Mrs. Gibson had to remove you from her class today. Can you tell me why?”
He shifted again. He could feel him watching each of his uncomfortable movements. He could feel his eyes, his thoughts and his annoyance, all digging into his skull. He was acting patient, but it would be gone in a second. Pulling at the skin on his knuckles, Campbell found himself unable to speak.
Campbell, usually full of things to say, was a sad sight. He almost seemed to shrink in the hard, uncomfortable seat - his knee danced up and down nervously, his eyes flicking around the room. He could still hear the classroom, in the back of his head. He could still feel everyone’s eyes on him, as Mrs Gibson went off on him. He could still hear the low murmur of laughter, of amusement. Everyone was amused, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t amused. He was far from amused.
He tried to explain to her, but it only made her angrier. It only set her off more, “talking back”. The laughter grew louder. He felt his cheeks burning as he tried to explain that he wasn’t “talking back”, he was just explaining. The look on her face only made the laughter ten times louder.
His uniform felt itchy and uncomfortable and the muffled laughter through the door made him want to pull his nails off, as the classroom door slammed behind him. The corridor was refreshingly quiet, but it did not distract him from the hurricane in his head. He leaned against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. He breathed in and out. He hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t done nothing - not to Mrs Gibson, not to anyone. He hadn’t talked back. He hadn’t done shit. Not on purpose, anyway.
His breathing grew shallow, as he closed his eyes and pushed his head back as far as he could. The wall, cold and slightly damp, attempted to soothe his raging headache of irritancy. He could hear Mrs Gibson, scolding the class for their laughter. For indulging in his joke. His funny, funny joke. The joke that only he wasn’t in on. He, the accidental comedian - the class clown who hadn’t yet noticed his painted face.
He ran his hands through his messy, auburn hair, knocking it even more out of place and over his eyes. He took a deep, shaky breath before taking off down the hall. He locked himself in a bathroom stall for the rest of the class, sitting on a closed toilet, trying to soothe himself.
Two hours later, the headmaster was staring daggers into his skin, burning right through it. His patience, predictably, had worn so thin that he could almost hear the SNAP. “You need to apply yourself, Campbell. You’ve got to wise up, now. This daft act won’t get you through your exams—you’re too old for this nonsense.” But it wasn’t nonsense. Why could nobody get that? He felt anger rising in his chest. No - not anger. Frustration.
He suddenly leapt from his chair and silently exited the room. It was so quick that the only proof he hadn’t teleported was the loud SLAM behind him. He raced down the hall, towards the front office, his heart beating at a million miles-per-hour. His hands were frantically clawing at the door handle before his mind could even catch up. He tugged it roughly, then swore under his breath. Fuck, fuck, fuck, what the fuck is wrong with this fucking door? He tugged it harder, frustration painted on his face.
He could hear words - the receptionist, most likely - but he couldn’t make them out. He pulled as hard as he could. Was it locked? Shit, where would he go? He’d just stormed off on the principal, for fuck’s sake—suddenly, with a single push, the door swung open.
He stared at it stupidly for a second, before giving it a final shove and slipping out. He was too annoyed to be embarrassed. He was too annoyed to think, to process. His Ups-And-Downs, as he’d begun to name them, had been becoming far too frequent. Far too quick, far too exhausting. There was almost no in-between. It was up, the uppest up you can go, and then down, the downest down - the most Northern point one second, the Southernmost the next.
Safely away from the school gates, he slowed down and adopted a steady trudge. He kept his head down. It was raining, gently, so there weren’t many walkers out - apart from the occasional dog-owner wrapped in big coats and scarves. He sped up when he met them, determined not to interact with anyone.
“I don’t get it, Campbell - I really don’t.” - How was he meant to get it, when Campbell did not himself? When nobody seemed to at all?
Hours seemed to pass in minutes. Campbell sat up on a hill, overlooking (not the nicest part of) the city. It was a big grassy patch beneath a housing estate - there was a small wall, likely to stop the local children from rolling down. He sat with his legs dangling over the edge, a cigarette propped between two fingers. He had no clue what time it was - it was beginning to get dark, but that wasn’t much help. The days were getting shorter. It could’ve been seven, six or five - he had no idea.
He prepared for the conversation when he got home. He composed a rough script in his head - clear, concise replies that he knew he’d never actually use. It was a bit pointless, but still — It was a way to fight both the time and the anxious dread. He took a long drag, watching as smoke filled the darkening sky. He tilted his head back while taking in the city beneath him. He was in a bit of a rough area, but he could still appreciate its beauty. The beauty of the mundane. The normal.
More smoke escaped his lips.
Then, a tear from his eye.
He swallowed hard, putting the cigarette out on the wall. He blinked, holding more tears back. God, what would people think, if they saw him? Sitting crying alone? He sniffed pathetically, wallowing in his own pity. He rubbed at his face with his sleeve, before hopping off the wall. He grabbed his tie, which was abandoned loosely over the wall, and shoved it in his coat pocket. He crossed his arms as he began the dreadful trudge back home.
The light in the kitchen window brought him no comfort, as he eventually unhooked the gate and let out a final breath before approaching the house. He pushed the door open, the light washing over him. He shut it softly behind him, taking in the familiar smell of home. It wasn’t anything fancy, by any means. A regular housing estate house. A little kitchen leading into a hall, with a living room to the right and a staircase to the left. Upstairs there was a bathroom and three bedrooms - his parents’, his and a spare, which had lay dormant since his sister moved out - which were all decked out in typical, ugly wallpaper. The living room was particularly bad, with ugly, beige and pink floral paper. He let his coat fall down his back, before ditching it on the kitchen table.
“‘M home,” he called croakily. He suddenly became aware that his breath stunk of his habits, and grabbed a pack of chewing gum from the counter. With no response, he stepped wearily into the dark hall. A gentle television light escaped under the living room door. He pushed it open. “Mam? Where’s dad?”
Her eyes did not tear away from the TV. “Out lookin’ for you,” she said flatly. The overwhelming mint in his mouth mixed with guilt. “Oh. Wha’ time’s it?”
“Ten.”
He cringed. “Oh.”
“Were you drinking?” She asked. Her eyes were still glued to the screen, but it was clear she wasn’t watching it.
“No,” he said quickly. Her frown deepened. He chewed as quietly as possible. He felt like a liar - it was completely true, but the truth didn’t bring him any satisfaction. Or his mum, it seemed. “Why couldn’t you be out drinking?” She asked, stunning him a bit. She pushed on, in his silence, “When anyone else’s son goes missing, they worry he’s out drinking with his mates. We worry you’ve topped yourself on some bridge.”
He stared at her. The only sound in the room was stock laughter on the television. The happy voices of game show contestants, the cheering of the fake crowd. She did not look at him. If she did, it might have broken her heart. His lip jumped, obvious tears welling in his eyes. He looked up, as if to stop them leaking. “Go to your room,” she said, quietly. He nodded, hurrying out of the room and up the stairs. It was like he didn’t breathe, the entire journey up the stairs, and then into his bedroom. He closed the door behind him, spat the gum into his bin and flopped down onto his single bed.
His bedroom served as a time capsule of his past hyperfixations. There wasn't a single spot of wall not covered by colourful, juvenile posters and pictures—some posters even had pictures on top of them, where he'd run out of space. His desk was completely covered in paper, rubbish and little knick-knacks. Beneath it, his floor was littered with heaps of clothes, school folders and pens.
The room was a bit of a state, but it was the way he liked it. A bit messy, but familiar and covered in all the things he loved.
He rolled over onto his side, staring at the wall blankly. Freddie Mercury stared back at him. It’d been a long day. His head was swimming with rampant thoughts; the laughter; Mrs. Gibson; the headmaster; the view of the city; the mellow, yellow light of the kitchen window; the gentle buzzing of the TV. His mother’s words, especially, remained stubborn - they played in a constant loop, over and over and over and over again. He rolled back on his back. The roof too was covered in posters; there wasn’t an inch of wall safe from his sticky tape and tack. He rolled onto his other side, and then back again.
Six restless rolls later, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose to his feet. He circled the room, a shark hungry for prey. He poked at random things, picked at corners and ran his fingers over dusty surfaces. He dropped down to his knees, glancing under the bed. It was a mess of forgotten school books, pens and random socks. He reached under, pulling out the closest notebook. He scrambled into a comfortable position before flipping it open. It was scratchy, barely legible English work.
It was old. Shit, it must’ve been from primary school—he flipped quicker, barely taking a second to scan each page. He threw it down, unsatisfied, and returned to his circle. He poked at more things, picked at more corners and ran his fingers over dustier surfaces. There must’ve been something. Anything – ANYTHING to occupy his mind. His mind, racing, sprinting, always just out of reach—ANYTHING to silence the constant itching of THOUGHT.
He circled quicker. Quicker, faster, speedier. He circled with rapid haste, things slowly getting scattered around the room. He circled quicker, quicker, quicker, quicker—he grabbed the old notebook from the floor, and suddenly, with great conviction, tore out the first page he saw. Then the second. Then the third. Mrs. Gibson’s words rang in his ears. The headmaster’s words rang in his ears. His mother’s words rang in his ears. He pulled and ripped and pulled and ripped until there was nothing else to destroy. The book in pieces, his eyes fell on the nearest thing. He tore the sheets from his bed, throwing them onto the floor. He climbed onto the naked bed, half-stumbling forward as he reached for the posters.
What felt like seven hours later, he slid down onto the floor, swimming in a pit of thoughts, blankets, paper and debris. He closed his eyes, craning his neck back. His heart pounded in his throat. Eventually, exhausted, he managed to open his eyes. He slowly looked around. “Oh, God,” he whispered shakily, leaning forward. He lifted a shredded fraction of Freddie Mercury’s face. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. The mangled corpse’s eyes didn’t seem to stare anymore. No, now they were dead. Soulless. His fists closed, scrunching it up as he fell back against the side of the bed.
He let out a silent, strained sob. It was too exhausted, too weary to be loud. Too tired to be heavy. He closed his eyes, surrounded by the remains of his room. There was a quiet creak of the door. His eyes shot open. “Da—” He gasped, scrambling to sit up. He faded out, staring at his dad. He seemed too shocked to utter a word. He took in the destruction around him, and then took in his son. His son - hair all over his face, frizzy and pulled. His son - face red and puffy from crying. His son - his loony, loony son. “I’m sorry, Da. I’m sorry—” He managed to get on his feet, and fell forward a few rough steps.
“I didn’t—I don’t—I’m sorry, Da,” he swallowed hard, tears welling in his eyes. He trudged forward, reaching out for his dad. “I—” A slap shocked him out of his dazed state. A cold, sharp slap. His hand reached up to his cheek, automatically. “You will not leave this room until you have cleaned it completely. You will—You will not leave this room until you sort yourself out, Campbell. You will not leave this room until your mother stops crying herself to sleep because of you and your stupid antics. You will not leave this room—” He choked on his own anger. “You will not leave this room,” he decided, finally. He turned and slammed the door behind him.
Campbell stared at the shut door. It was scarier than if his father just shouted. No - this was scarier because this wasn’t anger. This was hatred, Campbell thought. He looked into his father’s eyes and saw nothing but pure, pure hatred. He glanced back at his destroyed room. He glanced at the posters, littered all over the floor and ripped up. He glanced at the stray sheets of English work.
His mother’s words rang in his ears.
He, filled with a strange new determination, breathed in hard. Then, he trudged past the destruction, and towards the window. He unlatched it, pushing it fully open. He pushed his head out. He breathed in the night air. He climbed up onto the window sill and then lowered his foot out. He glanced back. He reached for his desk, grabbing a jacket from it. Then, with it slung over his arm, he slipped down onto the door canopy and slid down into the bushes below. With a few minor scratches, he set off into the night, leaving his bedroom window open behind him.
Once he reached the bottom of the street, he closed himself off in a small, red telephone box. He dialled quickly and then held the phone to his ear. He let out a breath when a voice came from the other side. “Hi. It’s, er, it’s Campbell... Aye, Bain… Aye, I did. Aye, phoned home—da’s raging… Aye, disruptive behaviour, ‘e said… I know… Aye… Look, hold on—You wouldnae wannae go drinking, would you?... Aye… Aye, ten minutes… Oh, thanks. Life saviour, so you are. See you then.” He hung up the phone. He let out a shaky breath.
It was a benefit of his unwanted class clown status. People seemed to eat it all up - they saw a boy, scrawny and energetic, who lacked any respect for discipline and was in detention more than he was the canteen. Teenage boys - they ate that right up. They didn’t think he was a loony - not yet. They thought it was an act. They thought it was a joke, to wind up the teachers—they thought he was funny. People like funny people, Campbell had learnt, and he was just about the greatest comedian in all of Britain.
Soft Cell’s Tainted Love punctuated each of his shaky steps. It seeped through an open window. “Struggling there, Bain?” A boy, shorter yet broader than him, asked as he slung a drunken arm over his shoulder. “Nah. Dying for a fag, though. Got one?” He wasn’t sure exactly how long it’d been. He’d met a few of his classmates, having arranged a secret outing, outside the corner shop down the road. Then, they’d just about visited every pub in Scotland, by the time they were all thrown out.
He didn’t mind alcohol, he’d found. Being drunk didn’t feel much different than his Ups. He imagined the hang-over might be a bit like his Downs, but didn’t want to think about that yet. At least now, under the guise of cheap beer and pints, his lunatic behaviour was perfectly explainable. At least now, his disappearance was normal. Now, he was doing what his mum wanted. He was giving her her normal teenage son.
“Oi, Campbell, have you gone deaf? Mrs Gibson shout your ear off?” The boy he was with, whose name he wasn’t actually sure of, elbowed him. He looked like a Henry. Or a Jacob, actually. “Almost,” he laughed, taking the cigarette from Henry Jacob. “Cheers,” he added quickly.
Their group had been slowly shrinking, since they were put onto the streets. Now it was just him, Henry Jacob, The Short One and Dave, whose name was actually Dave. Campbell knew because they’d been paired up in Technology in first year, and he’d accidentally destroyed all of Dave’s work with a hammer. Dave was less than impressed at the time, but seemed to have forgotten it. Campbell suspected he still secretly held a grudge, though. He could feel his eyes on the back of his head for a bit too long — it might’ve just been the beer, but he was slightly paranoid that Dave was going to hit HIM with a hammer. He glanced back at Dave. No hammer in sight.
“I don’ get it. You just walked out? Is that summink’ you can just do?” The Short One was asking. He had an atrocious, shaggy haircut that would somehow look outdated in every single era. It was a bit of a weird cross between a mullet and a dead rat glued to the back of his head. Oh—he was also quite short. Henry Jacob, The Short One and Dave’s eyes were all on him. He glanced at Dave’s hand. No hammer. He took a long drag of his cigarette. “Aye. Door was open,” he mumbled. He left out the part where he stood pulling the PUSH door like an idiot. “Receptionist not stop you?” Henry Jacob asked.
“Wendy? How ole’s she, eighty? Wha’s she gonnae do? Throw ‘er teeth at me?” Campbell grunted. The Short One grinned. “Aye, fair enough,” he laughed. Campbell latched onto his laughter. “Her hip’d probably give way, while she’s throwing it,” he scrambled to add. The boys laughed. “What’d you do, when you left? Didnae go home, did you?” Dave asked.
Campbell thought for a second too long. He spoke quickly, to make up for his mistake. “Nah. I’ve no got a death wish. I jus’ sorta… walked about.”
“Walked about? Bit boring that, isn’t it?” The Short One asked. The rat on his head moved as he tilted it. Campbell wasn’t sure how to reply. Really, he’d been a bit too busy having a meltdown, to be bored. A group of girls walked past, drunk and loud. Henry Jacob’s eyes followed them. Campbell noticed and felt a bit sick. Not because of Henry Jacob, or the girls—no. No. No, there was a rising feeling in his stomach. An awful, churning, nicotine-flavoured nausea.
“Steady on, mate. Your eyes look like they’re about to pop out,” The Short One snorted, hitting Henry Jacob’s back with his palm. Henry Jacob grinned. “She’s right fit, isn’t she? Think she’s college?”
Their eyes fell on the girls, who had slowed to a stop near a phone box. “Which one?” Dave asked, sniffing a bit. “The blonde one,” Henry Jacob said, as if it was extremely obvious. “Nah, what about the brunette?” The Short One remarked.
“What’d’you think, Bain?” Henry Jacob asked, crossing his arms.
“What?”
“Which one’d you like?” Campbell finally focused on the girls. There were three of them - a blonde, a brunette and a girl with black hair. They giggled loudly and were clearly pished-drunk. “I dunno,” Campbell said. He still felt sick - and, anyway, he wasn’t too bothered about girls. He didn’t think Henry Jacob, The Short One and Dave were either, mind you. He’d never heard them talk about girls before—and not like this. Definitely not. “Oh, come on, Bain. ‘Ave you ever had a girlfriend?” The Short One sneered. Campbell felt his cheeks redden.
“No,” he said.
“Figures. I mean, I know it’s a laugh, Campbell, but no girls gonnae wannae go out with you, when you act all… you know, all the time. I mean—we know it’s just a laugh. We know you’re alright. But they don’ know that.”
“You think I cannae pull girls?” Campbell asked. God, he could feel the alcohol in his veins. It was burning. “Calm down. I didn’ say that,” The Short One snapped. The feeling was rising to his chest. “You didn’ need to. I’m not daft—do you think I’m daft?”
“Calm down, Bain. Come off it,” Henry Jacob warned, putting his hand on Campbell’s shoulder. Campbell pushed him off. “No. You think I’m daft?” His voice was louder than he wanted it to be. Dave watched as the girls vanished further down the street. “Aye. Maybe I do,” The Short One said, shifting his attitude.
Campbell had discovered at a very young age that when he felt angry, he felt angry. The alcohol only seemed to heighten it. The Short One continued, “what are you gonnae do about it?”
Henry Jacob glanced between the two of them. “Stop it, Noah,” he snapped, “the girls aren’ even here anymore.” Noah, The Short One, sighed and stepped back.
“Go home, Bain, you’re off your head,” Henry Jacob ordered. Campbell watched as Noah turned around. He stared at his stupid rat-hat. “Bain, piss off, okay?” Dave clarified, helpfully. Campbell however, was still staring at that stupid rat.
He lunged forward, grabbing the rat in his fist and tugging it hard. Noah made a weird yelp sound, before squirming out of his grip and shoving him back. Campbell was a lot taller than all of them, but especially Noah, née The Short One. He pushed him in return. “Have you got a fucking problem with me?” Campbell demanded, alcohol making his thoughts ten times louder and a hundred times blurrier at the same time. “You’re the one tryna attack me! Fuckin' lunatic!” Noah argued. Had he started it? The potential seemed incomprehensible, in his head. Had he started it…? “Y—” Campbell trailed off before he could even start.
The nauseous feeling had risen to his throat. Suddenly, he keeled over, spilling his guts onto the footpath. The boys around him cried out in disgust, stepping back. “Jesus Christ, Bain,” Henry Jacob said. Campbell wiped his mouth frantically but was interrupted by a second round. “Eugh, seriously?” Noah winced, stepping further back.
“Ugh. Come on, let’s just go, he’s pished,” Dave said, already turned on his heel. Noah wasn’t far behind him. Henry Jacob gave Campbell a vaguely apologetic/disgusted look. “See you at school,” he said bleakly, with the tone of a man who would rather die than see him at school.
And so, one remained. Campbell wiped the corner of his mouth before stumbling backwards a bit. His hand found a streetlight and gripped around the cold metal for support. Jesus—he couldn’t be at the hang-over part already, could he? He wiped his mouth again, this time with much more vigour, before allowing himself to let go of the pole.
He began his reluctant trudge back towards home. He didn't want to go home yet. He didn't want his glorious, normal teenage night to end with him soberly knocking on the door—yet he still found himself automating towards the house.
The housing estate Campbell lived in was primarily brown. Browns, beiges and greys. Walls, roofs, windows and doors. The most daring of residents might have gone for a brave, dull yellow paint, or even, if he dared, a red door - but that was the peak of colour in the neighbourhood. Campbell, dressed still in his school shirt yet with a brightly coloured jacket over the top, stood out like a sore thumb, even in the dark.
He walked with his head down as he passed his neighbours' homes. He was only wee when they moved in; so wee he didn't remember life before living there. He sometimes blamed the housing estate for his lunacy—a wain so deeply deprived of colour his whole life was bound to need to create excitement in other ways, wasn't he?
He cut down into a small slither of alleyway between two houses. His hands deep in his pockets, he saw a bleary, blurred world around him. A blurred bleary smear of simple shades of grey and brown. The darkness in the kitchen window brought him no comfort, no light.
He gingerly knocked on the door—his own door. He could probably try climbing back in, if he really wanted to—his window was still wide open—but he couldn't muster any energy at all.
The light inside flicked on and the door opened a single, tiny crack. His mother's eye, dark brown, peered up at him through the crack. It softened, when it landed on him. She pushed the door fully open.
They said nothing. For an entire eternity, they said nothing. And for the eternity after that, still nothing. She let him in and he awkwardly shuffled into the kitchen, aware that he stank of beer. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the light. She closed the door softly and locked it behind her.
They said nothing. She kept her head down as she dropped the keys onto the counter and made her way back towards the living room.
They said nothing, as he silently followed after her. His fingers lingered on the doorframe, as he watched her stand in front of the TV. She crossed her arms, adopting the blank expression he'd seen so many times.
His voice broke the silence. “Mammy?” He croaked. She watched the TV, although the volume was muted. The pictures cast a blue-white light on her face. It nestled in every detail of her face, every line of stress and every strand of dark, curly hair.
“Mammy, do you think there's something wrong with me?” He asked, his voice still raw, drunk and unsteady. Her eyes broke away from the screen. “No, baby. No,” she whispered. He took one small, hesitant step forward before breaking into a half-sprint. He practically flung himself at the much smaller woman, wrapping his arms around her. She hugged him back. He buried his face on the top of her head, unable to hold back his tears.
“Darling, there's nothing wrong with you,” she whispered. The cruel little voice, nagging in the back of Campbell's head, thought she sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than him. The cruel little voice, nagging in the back of Campbell's head, wished she said there was—Wished she said there was something wrong with him, but that it was OK.
“Where were you, pet?” She asked, also extremely aware of his smell. He didn't answer. The question didn't need an answer. He let it hang in the air, he let it awkwardly fade out as it dispersed and fell apart. He hugged tighter, sobbing grossly into her hair.
“There’s something wrong, Mammy—I’m sick, there’s something wrong, and no-one gets it–”
“You're not sick, baby.”
“You’re no listening to me! I’m sick, I’m sick, there’s something wrong—” Alcohol and tears seemed to blur together in his vision.
“You’re drunk, Campbell,” she whispered pleadingly, taking a step back. Out of his grip, she slid her hands up to her son’s cheeks. “You’re drunk. Go to bed, darling.”
“You’re still no listening,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. She brushed his fringe out of his eyes. His face was puffy and red from crying. “Go to bed, darling, we’ll talk in the morning,” she whispered back.
He put his hands on hers and pulled them away. She wasn’t listening. How hard was it to just listen? His mind, his thoughts and his feelings all rung in his ears, loud and racing and as crashing as a wave.
He, in a second, escaped from the living room and pounded up the stairs. He shut his bedroom door behind him, collapsing into the pile of blankets, posters and paper still covering the floor. His walls were white, under the posters. His walls were white, when he looked up. His walls matched every other boring, unsaturated building in the estate. They were boring, and almost completely blank.
His walls were nearly blank, in the asylum. It was one of the first things he actually noticed, when he was led to his room - other than the hard-looking bed and the ugly curtains.
He spent his first three days in bed. Despite being full of energy and itching to move and explore, he refused to leave his bed. He let the energy, repressed and suppressed, lock in his knees and his joints, leaving him restlessly turning over and hitting his head against the pillow.
On the fourth day, he emerged for the cocoa round. He was pleasantly surprised at how good the cocoa was. He’d had hospital food before—he’d been in once when he was wee—and it was nowhere near as good. He didn't stick around long, and soon returned to his rotten cave of a bed.
On the fifth day, he was tempted by the cocoa once more. He'd gotten one taste, and now he couldn't resist. This time, he stayed out longer. He sat with the other patients and watched whatever rubbish was on TV. It reminded him of home. He started talking to the people around him. He discovered they were just as loony as him, and let his mouth run wild.
On the sixth day, it would be hard to miss Campbell Bain. He was like a rocket, learning every inch of the hospital and every name, face and illness. He bounced off the walls, letting his unending energy all out.
On the seventh day, he met Fergus properly. He met him at the door — Campbell watched as he, covered head-to-toe in mud, knocked on the glass. He watched the nursing staff come and let him in, sighing and tutting and patting him down.
He chased after Fergus, once he’d been left alone, and demanded to know every single thing about him, down to the time he was born. Who he was, where he’d been, how he got out. Fergus was quiet and a bit creepy. He glanced around shiftily, not really reacting to anything Campbell threw at him.
But Campbell didn't mind all too much. It meant he could talk more, and, in the hospital, he was discovering just how good at it he was.
Back at school, he wasn't allowed to talk. Not in class, anyway. And class was most of the day. He couldn't even talk when the teachers spoke to him, without it being labelled as cheeky.
Now he had a new lease of life. A new wave of independence, ironically, considering where he was and under what circumstances. The days of getting sent out of lessons and avoiding the headmaster’s gaze and throwing up on The Short One’s shoes (God, was that really over a year ago?) were gone and now he was new—
—At the beginning of the second week, he crashed again. He refused to get out of bed, not for cocoa, not for TV, not for his new friend. He stayed in bed for four days, his hair frizzy and matted and his shirt painfully foul-smelling. The nurse, Isabel, had to practically shove his medication down his throat.
On day 12, his dad came to visit. That was what got him out of bed. He showered, brushed his hair and put on a new shirt. He sat watching the TV, his knee jumping nervously up and down. What would his father even say, when he got there? Tell him how much of a disappointment he was? Tell him how embarrassed he was? He clearly was embarrassed—he didn't do a good job hiding it.
He’d had Campbell tell his classmates he was going to Malawi for a youth program. Weird time of year for a youth program, Campbell thought. His classmates didn't question it much, though. Ever since his disastrous night with Henry Jacob, The Short One (Noah) and Dave, Campbell's reputation as the class clown had plummeted. He was no longer funny. He was loony, after that.
The laughter stopped being with him and started being at him. He hadn't realised how good he had it. He started exaggerating, trying to be funny. He started trying to win their favour back. Along the way he’d managed to convince himself he was made to be a comedian.
This idea had spiralled out of control, and ended up with the police pulling him out of the BBC Scotland building, after he tried to convince them he was the comedian they needed.
That was how he ended up in St. Judes, officially. One of his "loony ideas". It was a combination of things, though, of course. When his father arrived, it was about as horrible and awkward as he thought it’d be. His dad was going to visit once a month. Not too often, in case people started asking questions. Campbell wondered how long he thought he was going to be in the hospital. He hadn't really considered that it would be multiple months.
After his dad left, Campbell returned to bed and dutifully completed his Down. And then he had an Up. And then another Down. Slowly and gradually, his Ups-And-Downs grew fewer and farther between. His Ups would last three weeks, followed by a one week Down. Then he’d have a one week Up and a three week Down. Then maybe a two week Up, and a two week Down.
Campbell fell into routine eventually. He didn't particularly like St. Judes, but he didn't hate it. He liked the cocoa. He didn't mind Isabel. He didn't miss Mrs. Gibson. He stopped even pretending to be in Malawi. He stopped calling home.
Sometimes he had little wobbles. Usually around when his dad would come. The day before and the day after, sometimes. But his dad, who opted to take the bus up now, so his car would remain at home, sometimes didn't come. Depending on the month, that would either elevate his Up or lower his Down.
His mother never visited. He didn't like to think about it, though.
But sometimes he did.
He'd lost track of how many days it’d been, when Eddie McKenna showed up. He cheerily showed him around and told him funny, charming stories of patients past and present. He smiled and put his hands in his pockets, looking as natural as possible. He was having a good time, showing the new DJ around, before Isabel showed up.
And then there was the first radio show. Nobody was listening - everyone knew that. Nobody other than Campbell, who sat on his bed and closed his eyes and tried to memorise the words of each song. Tried to remember the chords, even though he only really knew two. And then he sat and tried to replicate each song, only managing to get one to sound right. He strummed away at his guitar anyway.
The music, the sound, the potential that rang through the speakers almost sent a shiver down Campbell's spine. Jesus, who cared if it was loony, this was certainly an idea. He could imagine it almost immediately. Campbell Bain: The Best and Only Loony DJ In Scotland. No, scratch that. The Best and Only Loony DJ In The UK.
Scratch that again—The Best and Only Loony DJ In The Whole World!
His head swam with thoughts, with ideas, with tunes and themes and rhythms and words.
“So you listened?” Eddie asked, leaning against the doorframe. Campbell’s head shot up. “Aye! It was brilliant—sort o’ like a Levi’s, Wrigley’s, Pepsi and Irn-Bru advert all rolled into one—” He demonstrated with a brief, energetic and random medley of different snippets of song.
There was the faintest trace of amusement on Eddie’s face, but it faded quickly. He began to take down the poster on Campbell’s door. “Did anyone else listen?” He asked, soberly.
“Well, I don't think so. Unless you count Agnes…” He trailed off, telling the reserved, tired looking DJ about Agnes the catatonic, and how her nurse had sat her next to a speaker. “You picked a bad time, though,” he scrambled to add, sensing Eddie’s disappointment, “Tuesday at seven o'clock is Emmerdale, and the patients are very fond of Emmerdale.” He was quite the expert on Emmerdale. His mum had it on a lot.
“So I should have started at seven thirty?”
“They’d miss Eastenders,” he stated obviously.
“Eight?” His frustration was clear.
“Nae chance. The Bill — Television’s not just a simple diversion here; it’s more a way of life.” He’d learnt that very quickly. At home, the TV was something to stare at to avoid everything else. In St. Judes, the TV sort of was everything. Eddie nodded, half to himself, before beginning to leave.
The beautiful, loony idea Campbell had built in his head threatened to shatter. The fame, the lights, the Best and Only Loony DJ In The Whole World—Campbell practically leapt off his bed, leaving the guitar behind him. “You’re not goin’ae pack it in, are you?”
The older man sighed. “What do you think?” Campbell frowned. “But this station has potential, Eddie! It could be big! It could be very big! I admit, it's a slow start, but the only thing we have to do is find a way of getting that lot away fae the television.”
Eddie crossed his arms. “How?” How? What a question. Campbell dived into several lists of ideas, ranging from giving the entire hospital laxatives (shot down by Eddie immediately) to doing a request show. “We’ll need some jingles,” he added, quickly, scrambling for ideas.
“You need singers to record jingles!” Eddie snapped, his patience with the teenager running impossibly thin. Campbell grinned. “And what exactly is sitting here before you?” He asked, as he threw himself back on the bed and grabbed his guitar.
“A lunatic!” Eddie answered. Campbell’s grin only grew, splitting across his entire face. “Aye! But a singing lunatic! We can record them in the station, aye?”
Eddie looked like he was still struggling to catch up with the laxative idea. “Aye…?” He replied, reluctantly. “To the station, then!” Campbell exclaimed, throwing himself back up again. “Look, I gotta start writing the jingles, rehearsing the singers…”
Eddie cut in. “Campbell, how exactly are you in here?” Campbell paused for a split second. He covered it with a scoff. “Can you not guess? I'm manic,” he grinned. “But don't worry. The drugs I take make me completely stable—”
He dramatically keeled over on the bed. “—Except for the headaches, of course. I get these headaches, it just comes over me and I cannae… the bells… the bells…. ” He trailed off dramatically, ending his performance. He snapped immediately back to normal.
“And I want my own show, by the way,” he said, casually.
“What?”