The Sun Goes Down by James Lear

Author:James Lear
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: The Sun Goes Down
ISBN: 9781627781633
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 2016-05-25T04:00:00+00:00

VIII

I THREW MY CLOTHES ON AND RACED DOWN TO THE HARBOR wall. The heat and sunlight hit me hard, and for a moment all I could see was a confused jumble of backs against the hard metallic glare. A hand grabbed my arm.

“Mitch, thank God. I was just coming to get you.” Martin Dear’s handsome face was pale, the eyes bloodshot. “Hey! Make way!” He pushed me through the crowd. “This man is a doctor! Let him pass!” The bodies parted, and I was ushered to the water’s edge. Vella Senior was on his knees, pushing away all offers of help in the fury of his grief. Vella Junior lay in the bottom of the boat, knees drawn up to his chest, elbows tucked in like a sleeping child, the upper side of his head caked with thick drying blood. There was a massive contusion on his temple, the skin so badly torn that bone was visible. There was no doubt whatsoever that he was dead.

“Who found him?”

One of the young men I’d seen hanging around with Vella when I arrived put his hand up. It shook with nerves.

“Where?”

He pointed out towards the headland. “On the rocks. Under the cliff.”

“When?”

“An hour ago.”

“Have the police been informed?”

His eyes sought others, glances exchanged among the bystanders. Nobody spoke.

“Martin,” I said, “go and telephone the police straight away.”

“But surely…an accident.”

That seemed the least likely explanation—Joseph’s sure-footed-ness, his familiarity with the clifftop paths, was remarkable. And the firmness of his beautiful brown body, his hairy ass opening up to me, the ardor of his kisses, all of them finished, destroyed, cold.

“That is for the police to decide.”

People started backing away. Clearly the Maltese police don’t command the same respect as the English. The locals were closing ranks, united in their distrust of the police; I would get very little out of them, I could see. But one thing was clear: Joseph Vella’s death was no accident. Young men like that don’t fall off cliffs— especially not in the same place as Ned Porter had died two years ago. All it would take was some suggestion of suicide and I’d know I was on to something.

And there were other parallels. Ned and Joseph were both queer, both leading secret lives, perhaps prey to blackmail or worse. Someone was targeting men like us. Whose body would be found next? Henry Jessop’s? The Captain’s? Mine?

A commotion among the crowd alerted me to the arrival of the authorities. Not, as I had hoped, the police, but a priest. An elderly man weighed down with robes of purple and gold, an ornate hat on his head. He was supported by a younger man in plain black clericals and a dog collar, broad shoulders, dark hair—and with a start I recognized the priest from the ferry: the nervous, handsome face; the fine body hidden by black wool, so quickly swallowed up by his attendant nuns. A priest-in-training, perhaps, posted to Gozo for the summer, and here he was by the Xlendi shore about to administer the last rites to a beautiful, dead young man.

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