Chapter 39

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The protest ended, with people beginning to either go home to get changed for the party, or follow Ivy into Kings & Queens , where she had full rein to get the party started.

‘You'll regret that,' Quinn said when he heard. ‘You never give Ivy full control of anything.'

She shouted dance instructions at some local shopkeepers, who looked like they might faint as they tried to keep up with her demonstrated dance moves. When someone stumbled into the wall while trying to attempt a high kick, Ivy seemed to see sense, and realised that having someone with a broken leg wasn't the best idea. Quinn, relieved they didn't need an ambulance, longed to have fun, but he found himself drawn to the castle, not wanting to leave yet.

Today was complicated: he felt like he had ruined a monumental moment for Hay, but they needed to make an impact. Harold had threatened to call the police, but after the sixth time of threatening and then being convinced by Claire that a police presence on opening day wasn't a good thing, he agreed to let the protest fizzle out.

‘Humbug,' Harold hissed, missing the irony.

Their mark had been made. Their message had been received. As Quinn climbed the castle stairs, he left his mother talking to Harold in whispers, wondering what they might be discussing. On the second floor, he saw that Harold's idea for a dedicated small box room for his replacement bookshop had changed. Now, books lined the rebuilt stone walls, where people could browse titles and check out downstairs. It felt like a slap in the face that they didn't offer something of this calibre to him.

He supposed having a gay bookshop in the castle itself wasn't the vibe they were going for. That was okay. He didn't want the castle. He wanted his church.

Quinn followed the corridor of books until he came to a room that had been inaccessible all these years, but was now kitted out as Santa's grotto.

It was like someone had thrown up multicoloured fairy lights. They covered every surface so that Quinn couldn't see what refurbishments they had completed. They shimmered red, green, white and blue, then flashed with anger. Christmas music played here, too, and a Christmas elf stood at the door, a smile on her face.

‘Have you been a good boy?'

Asking a grown adult if they had been a good boy in this context felt sordid.

‘Oh, I'm just having a look around.' Quinn made to back away, thinking the third floor would be very appealing right now, but the elf took his arm and guided him into Santa's grotto.

‘He's just in there.'

‘Great.'

The elf closed the door, leaving Quinn standing in a twinkling room, facing a black curtain. He'd seen videos like this on not-so-innocent websites.

‘Ho! Ho! Ho!'

He looked back to the door, where the elf kept him prisoner, and then to the mysterious curtain. ‘Fuck it.'

He pulled back the curtain and saw a very authentic Santa, large, with a beard that didn't appear to be fake, and a red suit that looked like if he were to touch it, he would brush the softest thing in existence. Maybe stroking the suit would teleport him to the North Pole.

Perhaps that would solve his problems.

Santa held out gloved hands, beaming. If this man was creeped out to see an almost thirty-year-old come to sit on his lap, he didn't show it.

Quinn had seen this type of video before.

Wondering if he was being pranked, he was relieved to see a vacant armchair in front of Santa, and he breathed a sigh of relief that the only seating option was not Santa's knee.

‘Well, well, well, it has been a long time since I last saw you, my boy!'

The voice had a perfect European slant to it. Not that Quinn would know the regional dialect of the North Pole, but he figured this Santa's voice might be it. It seemed to sing yet talk a melody that made Quinn relax his shoulders.

‘Yes. When was the last time? When I was, what, eight?'

He had a horrible realisation that one year he'd sat on Santa's knee for the last time, and never realised it. Now that was depressing.

‘I believe you were ten.'

‘No, that can't be right,' Quinn spluttered. ‘I knew you weren't real when I was seven.'

Santa tapped his crooked nose, where half-moon spectacles glimmered in the twinkling lights. ‘I beg to differ, my boy.'

‘Santa knows best.'

Oh, god, not the flirting. Why was he flirting?

Truthfully, there was something a little sexy about this rugged, authentic Santa Claus.

Oh, God, do I have a Santa fetish?

‘What's on your mind, boy?'

One hundred per cent a Santa fetish.

‘I have a lot on my mind.' Quinn said, adamant that he would not let this man know that he was having a Santa sexual awakening. ‘I don't know if you know, but I am going to lose my shop today.'

Santa rubbed his long beard. ‘Yes, I know all.'

‘Of course,' Quinn said.

‘And what is it you want this year, my boy?'

Stop calling me my boy. I can't contain myself.

‘Well, the truth is, Santa, I need a Christmas miracle. I hear you're good in that department.'

‘That's right!' Santa gave a jolly laugh. ‘You are talking to the right being.'

Quinn couldn't help but smile. There was something magical about all of this. He wondered why it was so frowned upon for adults to still visit Santa, to still receive a gift and feel something again.

‘My wish this year is that we will save my shop.' Quinn said.

Santa seemed to think about this for a while, and then he reached for a leatherbound book under his chair. Quinn hadn't noticed it, but he watched Santa open the heavy pages and trace a gloved hand down them.

‘Ah, here you are,' Santa said. ‘Quinn Oxford. Owner of Kings & Queens . You'll be pleased to know that you are on the good list.'

‘How the hell did you know my name?' Quinn was impressed, wondering if maybe this was some spy operation, and the elf at the door had direct communication to an earpiece hidden under Santa's jolly red hat, as well as being an MI5 secret service agent.

‘I'm Santa, of course!'

That warm, wonderful laugh made Quinn laugh too. ‘Well, Santa, I hope that means that my wish will be considered.'

‘Oh, yes, my boy,' Santa said. ‘Everyone on my good list gets their wish granted!'

And as Quinn saw the twinkle in Santa's eye, the warm smile, and heard the joyful laugh, he couldn't help but get lost in the make-believe.

* * *

Quinn left the castle, happy that it was open again and safe from any future attack, displaying Hay's history with pride and adding that extra magic to Hay's town. But as he descended the steps and approached his shop, where he saw figures in the window congregating together, he sighed.

It may very well be the last time he enjoyed his shop like this. He knew that this was supposed to be a night of celebration, but he couldn't help but see this as a send-off. Opening the door, he heard Britney Spears' ‘My Only Wish This Year' blasting through the speakers that were reserved for meditation music, and saw the drag queens in mid-flow, hyping up the audience. He was so thankful that he'd decorated the night before, and glad to see that Ivy was the perfect host in his absence, offering drinks and nibbles to those in attendance. The party didn't need him, because it wasn't him they were celebrating. They were celebrating the spirit of the shop: a safe place where people could come together to be unapologetically themselves, where drag queens could brush shoulders with burly workers like Gordon. Where people talked about their sexuality, and their gender, and made new friends, without fear of prejudice.

‘So, you're a gay man, but you dress up as a woman? But you're not transgender?' Gordon questioned.

‘I'm not a man. I'm non-binary,' Santa Whores said. ‘Drag is an art form. A staple of queer history…'

Gordon nodded, completely absorbed.

‘And I might be gay,' Daniel, sloshed on wine, said.

As Quinn stood at the door, seeing Blair kiss Ivy under the mistletoe, watching Jenny pick up a book on transgender activism, and his mother clapping along to the performance, he felt the tears that had been with him all day unleash.

Without Kings & Queens, he was soulless. He couldn't help people at a corporate job. There would be no educating people on issues that still faced the community. He couldn't be a modern staple piece on historic Hay. He would just blend into a sea of grey, wishing he could afford to rent a shop somewhere else, knowing that this economy made it nearly impossible.

He felt alone. Despite being in this room, full of friends, old and new. He looked back to the castle, where the orange glow of lights acted as a beacon to Hay. It looked so inviting, so safe. Yet it would always be the reason he had to give everything up.

He found himself in his armchair, behind his desk, still crying but trying to smile. Nobody looked at him. They were all too enthralled with the performance and the people around them. Not that they didn't care, it was just the magic of this place rubbing off on them.

He opened the drawer, looking solemnly at his eviction letters, thinking he'd put up a good fight. The protest was perfect. They did everything they could do.

Wiping tears from his eyes, he reached for a champagne bottle and a flute, and poured himself a drink. He sipped from the glass, leaning back, trying to force himself to be happy, to enjoy this night. There was no proof that tonight was his last night. Somewhere, there was still a hope that all would be well, that the lead up to this moment had been for nothing.

Harold couldn't ignore their voices.

He couldn't disregard their donations.

Harold couldn't push this aside.

Taking his phone out, he filmed a video of the crowd, all of them happy, and posted it to his Instagram. He left the caption blank, knowing that he would make a longer statement when the time came. Now, he knew he should be in the moment.

He was about to get up and join the party, fixing a smile to his exhausted face, when the door opened. The room fell silent, and Mariah Carey's opening tones cut short.

Silhouetted by the setting sun, Hermione Sage looked beautiful. Her hair was combed back, sleek and decorated with holly. She wore a red dress with a green shawl. That was not weather appropriate, but in the name of fashion, it worked. Her lips, painted red, were smiling, though she looked uncertain when the silence set in. On her arm was Jerry, her brother.

Quinn couldn't believe that Hermione Sage, the recluse, the so-called scandal, braved the weather to be here. But it was more than that. It was the fact that she'd left the house and faced the town that had turned her into a myth.

Quinn got to his feet, fearful that the people of the town might turn on her like she was a monster. Her eyes found him, just as people cheered.

‘Hermione Sage!' Penny Farthing called. ‘Welcome home!'