‘You arenot.Get up.’
Gordon crossed his arms, looking like an overgrown humorous child. ‘Shan’t.’
‘Shan’t?’Harold said. ‘Shan’t?Who do you think you are?’
‘You, Harold, are a bully,’ Gordon said, and this time, Claire gasped. ‘You bully people. This whole time you’ve bullied us, and you’ve been bullying Quinn. The rest of the boys agree with me. You’re a bully.’
Had the real three ghosts of Christmas visited Gordon? He looked Harold in the eye, his voice stern, not a hint of fear or worry that he was standing up to the man who kept a roof over his head.
‘A bully?’ Harold spat. ‘Say that again.’
‘Bully.’
‘Don’t forget who pays your wages.’
‘Oh, right.’ Gordon stood, looking crestfallen, and Quinn admired that he’d tried. He’d spoken up, at long last, giving Harold a piece of his mind. Despite everything, men like Harold got their way. Gordon, Quinn and Claire were all pawns in his game.
Harold’s angry expression changed to that of a man back in control of at least one half of the situation. Gordon avoided everyone’s eyes as he approached Harold, an expression of grief on his face. ‘Thing is, I’ve found work. Good work. For another firm. Take this as my notice.’
The drag queens erupted into cheers, and Gordon started when those nearest him hugged him, patted him on the back, and congratulated him on the new job. His eyes met Quinn’s, and he put his thumb up, and Quinn beamed.
ChapterThirty-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. ‘Younevergive 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.
