Chapter 6

Chapter Six

When Quinn awoke the next morning, his head ached and his mouth was dry. Memories of the incident at the festival came rushing back to him. He closed his eyes, remembered what Ivy said, and tried to think positive thoughts.

Only there was nothing positive about this hangover.

Or the angry messages from Dougie, who seemed to regret thinking with his dick.

Quinn texted him back.

Sorry about last night. I wasn't in the mood.

Not very nice to ignore me, Quinn.

Sorry.

It's fine, babe.

Quinn grimaced. Babe? No, he was not his babe.

You know we're not together anymore, don't you?

And whose fault is that?

Quinn gripped his phone, trying to decide if he should throw it at the wall or change the subject with Dougie. He knew he shouldn't be texting him. To entertain him was wrong. Keeping the connection open meant it wasn't closed, but blocking him and shouting at him that it was over felt callous and cruel. Instead, he left him on read, the kindest rejection he could think to do.

After popping two paracetamols, drinking what felt like two pints of water, and showering, he wrapped himself up and headed outside, feeling more human.

He looked at his shop, closed for now but opening before the festivalgoers came on by. Oh, how cruel a world it was to be having such a good book season, only for this to all go soon.

‘Hot chocolate, Quinn?' Mr Andrews from the ice cream shop asked.

‘Don't mind if I do!' Quinn smiled, forced to take his mind off the impending doom. ‘How much?'

‘Free, my boy! The snow! We're celebrating.'

‘A white Christmas on the way?'

‘Oh, definitely.'

Quinn sipped his drink as he trundled along the snow, his feet sinking and his socks becoming wet. So many merry faces, familiar faces, and Quinn could lose it all.

‘Morning, Quinn!' Janet from the corner shop waved.

‘How do you do?' Michael from Richard Booth's bookshop asked.

‘Fancy a snowball fight?' one kid asked.

‘Not today,' Quinn said. ‘Tell your mum she has a book waiting for pickup.'

‘Will do!' He threw a snowball straight at Quinn and ran away laughing.

Rude, Quinn thought, but smiled.

He thought about a morning coffee brewed at one of the local cafés. Maybe he'd get a bite of breakfast before joining Daniel on site. In the morning, only the locals were around. It was too early for tourists to venture into town. This was the slice of heaven that Quinn cherished. The community aspect of familiar faces, getting ready to start their days.

Other than the familiar faces heading into their respective businesses, the streets were quiet. As Quinn headed towards the Cosy Café on the corner of Castle Street and High Town, he spotted someone coming out of the shop.

‘Ah.'

Ah? What was he, a child sounding out the alphabet?

Noah nodded, as if he expected to see Quinn here.

‘Morning. Where are the parachute trousers?'

‘Burned in a sacrifice.'

‘Shame,' Noah said. ‘They looked good on you.'

Quinn said nothing, instead looking past Noah into the quiet Cosy Café, which had yet to have the morning rush and the busy afternoon crowds.

‘Busy day of caretaking ahead?'

Was that his idea of a joke? This wasn't how he expected an interaction with Noah to go. Whenever Quinn pictured it, at least the clean version of it, it was a couple of words exchanged and a signed book. Not a cheeky man who wound him up like they had their own inside jokes.

Noah's collar of his coat was turned up, and a scarf was wrapped around him, so thick it almost covered the bottom half of his face. It was cold, but not Antarctic cold.

‘You look like you're hiding.'

‘I am hiding.'

Quinn hadn't expected this response. ‘Hiding from who?'

‘Hay.'

‘What?'

‘What sane person comes to a café at seven something in the morning? I'll tell you who. Psychopaths.'

‘I come here every morning.'

Noah shrugged. ‘Point proven.'

‘Hey. You're here at seven in the morning.'

‘I'm not around for long. Wanted to pay Cosy Café a visit before leaving.'

Leaving? Oh, so he wasn't sticking around. Why would he? He didn't live here. Not anymore.

‘What, got some attachment to Cosy Café, have you?'

‘Actually, yes,' Noah said. ‘Used to come here all the time. It's the setting I used for a café in one of my books.'

‘The Morning Sunshine Café?'

Quinn hated himself for knowing what café Noah meant. So much for even pretending to play it cool.

Before Noah could say anything, Quinn spoke again, as if his next words would erase the confession he'd made about reading Noah's works.

‘Anyway, why are you hiding from Hay?'

‘I don't love coming into the town.'

‘Then why come here?'

‘A person should always face their fears,' Noah said.

‘Well, if you're trying to hide, you could at least…' Quinn didn't finish the sentence, but instead reached for the collar of Noah's coat. Crooked, it allowed a glimpse of the person behind it. Taking the coat collar, he adjusted it so that it stood rigid, but as Quinn drew his hand away, he felt his fingers graze Noah's cheek.

Their eyes met. Noah smirked.

‘Enjoy your coffee, hippie.'

He stepped away from the door onto the street and walked away like he hadn't just made Quinn's legs weak.

‘I am not a hippie,' Quinn whispered, because speaking it loudly was too scary. He could still feel Noah under his fingertips. He wasn't a mirage. He was a physical being.

He ordered his coffee in a daze, then walked back towards his shop with his to-go cup. As he strolled towards his shop, he looked up at the castle. The final eviction notice came to mind, and he felt the fear grip him.

A person should always face their fears.

The castle made him fearful. At least the person behind the castle frightened him. And he was in there right now.

He'd ignored every other eviction notice, but something about this one had changed something inside him. He'd hoped that by ignoring his problems, they would go away. Whenever he faced something uncomfortable, he ran away from it. Quinn, the man who never stepped one inch out of his comfort zone. He had no intention of doing that. Not when it involved the man in the castle.

But Noah's words rang in his ears like tinnitus.

Emboldened, possessed by something he couldn't explain, he entered his shop and picked up the final eviction notice letter. Even looking at it made him shake. He took a deep breath. Could he do this?

Looking around at his shop, the sanctuary, his creation, told him what he needed to do.

He had to at least try.

After stumbling onto the pavement, he went through the castle walls' archway and onto the castle grounds. He paused to admire the bookshelves against the stone wall, which were unspoiled by the weather. He began his slow climb to the castle itself, trying his hardest not to crash to the ground with all the elegance of an ice-skating giraffe.

When he reached the castle doors, he pushed them open and headed into the hallway.

I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.

The castle had always been grand, but for years, it had survived by being propped up with scaffolding. The place needed serious work, and at one point it had seemed like all hope to restore it was lost. Richard Booth, a man who proclaimed himself as the King of Hay, took this castle to live in. It was because of him that the town became known as the town of books after he spotted an opportunity to make Hay stand out from the crowd.

Rest his soul, Quinn thought.

He remembered stories his father had told him about Richard Booth. Like the time he strutted down the high street wearing a crown, or how he once declared his horse the Prime Minister of Hay. His father had even been a member of C.I.Hay, the secret service agency. When Quinn asked his dad what they did, his dad replied, ‘Get pissed a lot.'

Quinn looked at Hay Castle, destroyed in a fire in the seventies, and thought of the many parties Richard Booth had held there when he was alive. Bonkers and raving, according to his mother.

Development work had now almost restored the place to its authentic glory. The roof, once caved in and the place of multiple bird nests and cobwebs, was now rebuilt, towering tall above them. Old stone carvings had been saved, and any shred of historical evidence preserved. The old stairway had been replaced with a reinstated structure and reupholstered with a red carpet. But the work wasn't quite complete yet. From somewhere in the castle came the sound of drills.

‘Look who it is.' Harold Morgan headed towards Quinn, a hard hat and a high-vis jacket on his burly frame. His wild beard was flecked with white paint, as were his arms. ‘Come to see the place?'

‘I've come about this.' Quinn held up the eviction notice letter.

‘Finally acknowledging them, then?'

‘I acknowledged the other ones.' Quinn hoped Harold wouldn't challenge him. He ignored the other ones by dropping them in his desk drawer and pretending they didn't exist. Technically, he registered their existence. It wasn't his fault if he ignored them.

Okay, so maybe it was. But what else was he supposed to do? Eviction notices for a shop he loved were not something he could face. How could he, when someone else was handling his fate like a chess piece? Until now, there had been survival on the board. Maybe Harold would make a wrong move or change his mind. But with this letter that he held in his hand, and the word ‘final', it felt like checkmate.

‘So why the fuss?'

‘It's scaring me.'

Harold waved a dismissive hand, as if nothing happened. ‘It's fine. Don't worry about it.'

‘You're evicting me!'

‘Now, it's not an eviction…'

‘Looks like an eviction to me.'

‘You knew the risks,' Harold said. ‘Come on, come look around.'

‘No.' Quinn shook his head. He wanted to shout, but he knew his voice would carry through this gorgeous echo chamber. ‘This is my livelihood. My entire world. And you want it gone so you can build some crappy information centre?'

‘I've offered you a new shop here.'

Quinn watched his stepdad cross his arms, a grim expression on his face. ‘The shop you've offered me is a box. It's not a shop. There's no way I could sell what I sell now and still make a living. It's a huge downsize.'

His voice wavered, and he was stumbling over his words. Why was it so hard to say what he felt, to stand up for himself? That confidence that gripped him earlier was crumbling around him.

‘You're making things more difficult than they should be,' Harold argued. ‘That church is a development opportunity, and will be a fantastic resource for us. Business is business. You should know that, if that rainbow shop is a business.'

‘I won't have a job.'

‘You have options.'

‘What options?'

‘That job offer in London,' Harold said. ‘Time is running out for a career.'

‘I'm twenty-eight, not sixty-eight.'

‘You can't be thirty and selling books,' Harold said. ‘You've been here your whole life. Don't you think it's time for a change?'

Two men carrying a ladder went by, their eyes averted.

This was Quinn's whole life. He was comfortable here, safe. People born in Hay rarely left Hay. When they did, they changed. Quinn didn't want to change.

‘So have you. You've never left.'

‘Haven't had to.' Harold held out his arms. ‘This is my empire.'

‘The castle?'

‘The development firm.' Harold winked.

‘Quinn!'

Quinn turned around to find his stepcousin.

‘Gordon,' Quinn said, turning away from him as quickly as possible. ‘Please. Reconsider.'

‘What's going on?'

Quinn closed his eyes. Out of all the people to arrive now, Gordon was the last person on his list. ‘This is between us.'

‘He's my business partner.' Harold put an arm around his nephew. ‘He should be involved in all business discussions.'

Quinn forced the letter onto Harold's chest, summoning all the courage in the world. ‘There is no discussion. You're not having my shop.'

He stormed away, gritting his teeth. The drumming in his chest seemed to echo in his ears.

‘The deal is almost done, Quinn,' Gordon shouted. ‘You've had your final notice. It's just business!'

The cold hit him hard, and he shivered. He winced, the day bright, and the street came alive with people slipping and sliding on their way to the festival. The snow remained undisturbed by cars and had only been touched by footprints. Quinn couldn't help but look at his shop, dreading the day ahead and having to pretend everything was alright. Quinn wanted to cry, but he couldn't. Crying wouldn't solve anything.

He could only blame himself for thinking the letters would go away. He'd hoped his stepdad would see sense. To get the final eviction notice was devastating. These weren't strangers from a faceless corporation; these were people that should look out for him. Corporate greed had tangled itself in family ties. This was just business to them.

Well, it wasn't just business to Quinn.

They couldn't have it.

If Quinn lost his shop, he would lose himself. He looked at his apartment, peeking above the castle walls, where his income kept a roof above his head. The locals, who all waved hello, who had known him since he was a kid, would become memories. Quinn would lose his community.

As the snow fell, and Quinn made the steep descent down to the castle walls, he thought of telling someone. What would his mum say? Maybe she already knew.

After Harold had entered her life, he couldn't deal with the fact that his mother had moved on. Then he'd ignored it so much that he had refused to tell anyone, even his mother.

Quinn took out his phone, and after failed attempts with a gloved hand, he called his mum.

‘Quinn? How're you?'

‘Not good,' Quinn said. ‘He wants the shop.'

‘I know.' His mother sighed. ‘I've told him to leave it.'

‘Is that all you've said?' Quinn's heart sank at the realisation that she'd known and said nothing.

He couldn't work out how they'd got to this point. Wasn't his mother supposed to know he was upset about this? Had she thought he'd be okay with the prospect of losing the one place that gave him something to get up for in the morning? If he held the phone any tighter, it would shatter into a million pieces.

Quinn's father had once owned a bookshop himself on the same street. It had been a success, endorsed by Richard Booth, and decreed the ‘Hayses of Parliament'. His mother always resented the fact that his dad left behind a career as a pilot, dragging them away from their nice and rather large home in London to Hay-On-Wye to sell second-hand books. His father established himself over the years, gaining a solid reputation, and was adored by the locals who still lived here today. Quinn had been too young to remember London. To him, his life had always been Hay.

And then he'd died. The shop was sold, and that was that.

Not a day went by where Quinn didn't miss his father. Now he had Harold, a man who made Henry the Eighth look good. Except he didn't have six wives, and had never been married before, let alone beheaded anyone. So, maybe Henry was worse.

Anyway, Quinn knew his father would have defended him, and this would never have happened had he … well, not died.

‘What can I say?' his mother asked. ‘Harold doesn't listen. He does what he thinks is right. He's said it's?—'

‘Just business, yeah, I know,' Quinn said. ‘But this isn't just business, is it? This is my life. I'm going to lose everything.'

‘He's not kicking you out of the flat?—'

‘Oh, the flat that I own?' Quinn forced a laugh. ‘No, he's not. Just forcing me out of the shop I've built and nurtured. Mum, it's not just a bookshop. It's a community. A safe place. Without it, Hay loses some of its character. You can't let him do this.'

His mother sighed, one of defeat. ‘I can only say what I've already told him.'

‘You think I should give up, don't you?'

‘He's offered you an alternative.' Quinn could almost hear her choosing her words with careful precision. ‘The shop in the castle. You seemed okay before this. And the job in London, Quinn. Why would you say no?'

Quinn leaned against the stone wall, feeling it dig into his back. An icy breeze made him shiver, but he was thankful to be sheltered from the snow. It seemed if his mother couldn't return to London, she wanted to live vicariously through her son.

‘The shop in the castle is a box, Mum,' Quinn said. ‘It would only fit a shelf. Nothing more. It's a huge downgrade. No author signings. No evenings with those who need someone to speak to. We sell more than just books, Mum. We help people know they're valued.'

There was a pause.

‘I wish you could keep it,' his mother said.

‘So, you won't help me?'

‘I'll see what I can do.' She said nothing else. ‘Quinn, I've missed you. Have I done something wrong?'

‘It's fine, Mum.'

‘I haven't seen you in a while.'

‘The shop is right there. For now.'

This was why Quinn never called his mother. These conversations. When the silence stretched between them a little too long, Quinn said goodbye and stared up at the new refurbished castle. The jewel of Hay, adored by the locals and the tourists alike, but the crux of Quinn's turmoil. When news broke that the castle was being restored to its former glory, Quinn joined the community in celebrating. He celebrated when Harold got the contract, helping him out of a business slump. Another property firm had been absorbing Harold's work left, right and centre. To get the Hay contract was one big FU to the rival firm.

Never in his life did he expect family to screw him over so badly.

Quinn stood tall, snapping out of the wallowing pit of pity.

If it's just business, then they won't mind what I do next.