Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Quinn woke up to his mobile phone ringing, blasting the voice of Mariah Carey's famous Christmas song. He loved the song, but all he wanted for Christmas was to sleep.

And keep his shop. That was obvious.

‘Hello?' His voice was thick with sleep.

‘Have you been ignoring all the calls?'

Ivy sounded excited on the other end of the line. Quinn sat up, the blanket falling from his body. He felt the chill in his apartment from the outside snow and drew the blanket over him again.

‘What calls?'

‘Quinn, our video, it's gone viral!'

‘What?'

He put Ivy on speaker and listened to her talking about how the video reached almost two million views and was still rising. He found the video and read comments from strangers all around the world, people wishing him luck, asking him questions. The homophobic hate comments he got meant nothing to him. Instead, he dropped his feet over the side of the bed and realised what this all meant.

‘People know about me.'

‘The press has been ringing you.'

‘What?'

Quinn scrolled down the comments and saw the verified accounts.

Hi. Sammy from The Guardian…

We're from The Mirror and would love to interview you.

Sorry to hear about this. ITV News here…

‘Oh my god.' Quinn gasped.

‘Right?' Ivy said. ‘Now get up. I've been replying to comments on your behalf.'

Quinn went to his window, almost expecting to see the press gathered outside. There was nothing but snow, undisturbed because of a fresh falling over night. Hay was still and calm.

The stillness didn't reflect his thoughts, though. His mind whirled in different directions. How could one video, capturing his off-the-cuff remarks, be reaching people all over the world? Why would someone care about him and his shop, when they had never even heard of Hay? It made no sense to him.

‘So, I'm acting as your press officer. I've told them to email an address I set up, or they can call your shop. I'm assuming you've diverted the calls to your mobile?'

‘What? No, of course not.'

‘Then you've missed everyone's calls! We need to get them right now. Let me get interviews set up with you.'

‘Interviews? Ivy, I don't know if I can do it.'

Speaking in front of people? Speaking about what mattered to him when he was certain people wouldn't care? He hated attention. Hated people looking at him. There was no way he could do this.

Unless…

His father always told him to do what's right. To fight for what he believed in.

He believed in his shop. Believed that if he couldn't do it for himself, he'd do it for the people who loved his shop. He couldn't let them and the memory of his father down. All he needed was a firm belief in keeping it alive.

‘You can! And you will. I will be by your side through it all.'

‘I don't even know how to get them to listen to me.'

‘They'll listen. They want to know what's going on.'

‘Should I reply?'

‘Leave it all to me. I'll keep you posted. Ciao for now.'

She cut the call, leaving Quinn in his apartment feeling at odds. The world might know, but did Hay?

His phone rang again. This time, Dougie.

He knew he shouldn't, but he answered.

‘Quinn, hi.' Dougie's voice sounded brisk. ‘I saw your Instagram post. You're being evicted?'

‘I … thought you knew.' Quinn gripped the phone. ‘When that first letter arrived…'

Quinn hadn't told a soul about his eviction notice, but Dougie was with him when the first letter came through. He would have shared it, only he left soon after, meaning Quinn had no one to fall back on.

‘Yes, yes,' Dougie said, though he apparently didn't care to remember. ‘Shame that you're losing it. Maybe now you can join me in Cardiff. You would love it here, Quinn.'

‘I've been to Cardiff before, you know.'

‘Living here is very different,' Dougie said.

‘It's just Cardiff.' Quinn was sure Cardiff was a lovely place to live, but it wasn't like it was an undiscovered metropolis.

‘Look, I hear you about this shop,' Dougie said. ‘But I think you should focus on us.'

‘Us? Dougie, there is no us. You made sure of that.'

Silence. Quinn surprised himself, too. Perhaps it was the tanzanite. Would he have said that had Dougie been in front of him? Right now, Quinn couldn't play whatever games Dougie wanted to play. It was exhausting, and he was exhausted.

‘You want us to end?'

This is what Dougie did. Quinn had only realised it three months after their breakup. Whenever there was an issue, it was Quinn's fault. Never Dougie's. Now, clearer than the crystal quartz on his bedside table Ivy gave him last Christmas, Dougie was doing the same thing again.

‘You broke up with me,' Quinn said. ‘Remember?'

‘I had a lot going on,' Dougie said. ‘You know, my mental health. But I'm in a better place now.'

Quinn had always felt for Dougie and his mental health issues until realisation dawned on him that those issues only existed when he didn't get his own way. Such issues only ever cropped up as weapons, guilting Quinn into submission.

Not this time.

‘Look, Cardiff seems like it has been good for you and your…' – Quinn paused – ‘mental health. I love that for you. You've moved on.'

And I've moved on.

Go on, say it.

Saying it would be final.

But he had known for a long time that Dougie couldn't come back. Wouldn't come back. Shouldn't come back.

Quinn stared at the tanzanite ring.

‘And I've moved on.' Quinn closed his eyes. Silence. It stretched out like a yoga pose. ‘And I think…'

Too much silence.

Looking at his phone, Quinn realised the call had cut.

‘Alright then,' Quinn said.

He looked around his apartment, the ghost of Dougie walking around buck naked, his wavy black hair falling to his shoulders. The first man Quinn met hadn't been good for him but he couldn't see it. Now, after the texts, and that phone call, he could.

With a deep breath, he blocked Dougie's number, seeing the ghost of him fade into nothingness. It was over. He was free.

So why did he feel like he'd done something illegal?

He stared at the ceiling, wondering if he'd made the right choice in cutting Dougie off. He had to make changes. For too long, he'd let people decide what he should do. Dictate how he should feel. Dougie always decided, and Quinn followed suit. His father's death left him craving a person who could tell him what was right, what would make him feel safe. But in doing that, he'd compromised everything.

Now, through reckless choices and the suppression of his own desires, he'd hit a wall. Found himself in trouble.

Quinn moved the ring on his hand as he thought of all the things that were wrong in his life. The threatened closure of his shop, an ex that he kept letting back in, cutting off his mother despite her attempts to keep communication alive between them. All because he'd feared what would happen if he did what he wanted to do and said what he wanted to say.

No more. He couldn't do it. Allowing others to decide resulted in him forgetting who he was.

He went to his wardrobe and got dressed in a knitted jumper and some jeans, and then booted up and threw a coat over his hoodie. Dougie would not disturb his thoughts anymore. The shop would always come first.

Seeming to float down the stairs as he thought of the viral comments and attention hitting his social media accounts, he headed out into the snow and almost expected people to swarm to him like he was one of the Kardashians. He expected to be asked his thoughts, how he felt, who he was wearing. Instead, the still silence of snow so close to Christmas welcomed him.

The real world still didn't know what was happening. The bubble of social media struck again, and while it was great to have such recognition, he couldn't help but wish that the community here knew.

If they didn't know, then he should tell them.

But what if they were on the side of Harold and Gordon? What if they agreed that the castle, with all its celebrated restoration, needed such a place to help tell the history of Hay? What if that was more important to them than a bookshop selling queer stories? The people of Hay loved his shop and saw its value – such was their accepting nature. But the castle was sentimental to them all.

They loved his father and by extension, they supported him, but that didn't mean they would fight for him.

The conflicted feeling hit Quinn hard. Was he being selfish? Was he refusing to budge out of his own desire to keep his haven? Maybe now was the time to move on from Hay and let this place go, even though that was the last thing he wanted.

He couldn't do it.

The idea of leaving frightened him more than Dougie's pert bum apparition. Who was he if he didn't have a role in Hay's community?

What else was there out there for him?

The publishing job. The offer given to him all those months ago to become an editor for a publishing house. He applied on a whim after leaving Dougie, thinking he needed to escape Hay. Almost immediately, he regretted the application. The interview request filled him with dread. The job offer paralyzed him.

London. A city job. A life away from Hay where there was so much noise and people barging past and never any time to sit, catch their breath, and smile at one another. That was the perception this small-town boy had of the big city of London.

They say everyone should have a city experience once in their life.

Don't they?

He didn't want that experience, though. He was happy with his small town, thank you very much.

Quinn unlocked the door of his shop and turned the closed sign to open. He went to his window display, where Christmas books lined a Christmas scene he'd made by hand. Crocheted snowmen and reindeer sat on yuletide logs reading A Christmas Carol , and the book itself stacked with gorgeous foiled binding at one end of the window.

Scrooge. He looked at the castle. Scrooge!

This was the Dickens experience. He was living in A Christmas Carol . Except without the starvation and Tiny Tim and the spooky ghosts.

‘If there are any Christmas ghosts willing to show Harold the error of his ways, be my guest.' Quinn spoke out loud, listening for even the faintest sign that one of the ethereal beings had listened to him.

‘I don't know if that will happen.'

Quinn screamed, jumped, and turned around to see his mother standing at his counter.

‘What the hell, Mum?' With shaking hands, Quinn pulled out the chair behind his desk and sat down. ‘How did you get in without making a sound? You bloody dormouse.'

‘Thanks.' Claire caught a strand of ginger hair and curled it behind her ear. Crossing her arms, she looked around at the church, her eyes wide. ‘This is such a relaxing atmosphere when you come in.'

‘I haven't put the music on yet,' Quinn said.

‘I always loved the music. Relaxing.'

‘That's what this place is. To what do I owe this visit?'

‘I thought maybe we could get a coffee. We should talk about this.'

‘I need to run the shop,' Quinn said, but he didn't move from where he sat. He felt lethargic. His mind, racing with the comments on his social media, distracting him. Besides, she didn't need to know that Daniel Craig would be here at any moment.

Claire reached into her handbag, an old leather thing that peeled at the edges, and unfolded a newspaper.

‘What is this?'

She dropped it on the counter and turned to the sixth page where a small column about his shop stared back at him.

Quinn's eyes widened. He snatched the paper up, gripping it so tightly it almost ripped, and read the sentences.

It wasn't much, but it was enough to get the point across. The story of a developer at Christmas evicting a queer bookshop seller was clear to see. A small picture of the shop, old and taken from Google's Street view, accompanied the article.

‘It's in the paper, too?'

‘What do you mean, too?' Claire asked.

Quinn took out his phone, showing his mum the video. She clicked into the comments, her mouth dropping open as the strand of ginger hair fell down again.

‘Oh, no, this isn't good.' Claire shook her head. ‘You can't speak to journalists about this.'

‘Why can't I?'

‘Do you know how hard Harold has worked?' Claire handed Quinn the phone back. ‘He brought us from the brink of bankruptcy with this contract. This makes him look terrible. Your dad left us with a lot of debt, Quinn, and Harold brought us back from that.'

Quinn couldn't believe what he was hearing. ‘You don't think what he's doing is bad?'

Claire crossed her arms again, seeming to withdraw into herself. ‘Look at this place. It's gorgeous. You've had a good run. Harold's been kind to you by letting you pay not nearly as much as what it's worth. But this building is part of Hay. This building is part of the castle. It's part of its history.'

Quinn remained silent.

Claire let the silence stretch out. ‘Sometimes we have to let go,' she whispered. ‘This shop has served you well, but it can't be forever.'

‘This is my job. My career. Of course it can last forever.'

Claire sighed. ‘You're so much better than…' She stopped.

Quinn crossed his arms. ‘Than what?'

‘Than this,' Claire said. ‘Listen, I came here because I saw this article, and there was a quote from you in it. I thought you'd been contacting the press, but I see it comes from this video you posted. Please tell me you didn't do it to spite Harold.'

Quinn shook his head. ‘I didn't think it would go viral. I didn't even know I was being filmed. My friend is helping me get this out there. We're going to fight before we let this get taken away from me.'

‘Fight?'

‘Fight. We have a megaphone and everything.'

Claire placed a hand on her forehead, heaving a vast sigh. ‘You don't fight, Quinn. I didn't raise you like that.'

‘No,' Quinn thought of his conversation with Dougie. ‘No, and it's got me in a couple of not so ideal situations. I've been silent all my life. I'm not being walked on any longer.'

Claire looked as though she might cry, like she was seeing her son for the first time. Despite everything inside him screaming for him to turn back, to say what his mum probably wanted to hear, to overthink and worry about others rather than himself, he stood firm. So firm he crossed his arms, because that proved how firm he was.

‘This could get nasty. Your shop isn't worth losing family over.'

Quinn hated to see his mum so torn. But if Quinn lost this shop now, he would be the one struggling. He would be the one close to bankruptcy. He would be a Cratchit.

He had to risk everything to get what he wanted.

Quinn took his mother's hands and looked her in the eye.

‘In the words of Harold, it's just business.'