The Sun Goes Down

by James Lear

  IV

  HENRY APPEARED TO BE ASLEEP. HE WAS LYING ON HIS BACK, stretched along the full length of the balcony, one arm thrown over his eyes, one leg bent, one hand resting lightly over his groin. He was not moving. It seemed he was simply taking advantage of the fresh sea air and his parents’ absence for a little al fresco nap. This suited me fine; ever since I caught sight of him on the ferry, I’d been wanting to see him naked. Now I had time and a good vantage point from which to study him. An uninterrupted view from the top of his blond head down his sculpted neck, across the smooth, taut skin of his chest, his flat stomach with a little fuzz of golden hair extending above his hand to his navel, then down his shapely legs to his feet. Needless to say I wanted to lick every inch of it before turning him over and eating his ass—my aesthetic appreciation has its limits and always gives way to baser desires—but for now I had to restrict myself to using my eyes.

  So I gazed my fill for a while, dick painfully hard in my pants and pushing through the balcony railings. It would have been so easy to whip it out and, with a few strokes, wake Henry Jessop up with a hot shower. That, however, would have had the entire village down on me, and I had no desire to end my holiday in a Maltese prison cell. I considered going downstairs to tap on his door. Hi, excuse me, I wonder if you have a spare toothbrush that I might borrow? Oh, look, you appear to be naked. I’ll just close the door behind me, shall I? I was almost ready to put this plan into action when Henry stirred. To be precise, his right hand stirred—the hand that covered his cock. It wasn’t a big movement, just a slight pressing of the heel of the palm down into the groin, but it was enough. Henry wasn’t asleep—at least, not all of him was. He moved enough for me to see the base of his dick stretching down, the skin taut from the pressure of his hand, pale white against the gold of his body. He was still—perhaps it was just the movement of a dream—and then his lips parted, showing ivory between two bands of coral.

  Was he awake? Could he know that I was there?

  His hips raised a fraction of an inch from the floor, and his hand pressed down farther. He turned his head slightly beneath his arm, the tendons in his neck standing out, and I could see his jawline curving up to the base of his ear—just the place where I wanted to kiss him. Looking down again, I saw his hand moving rhythmically now, pressure and release, pressure and release, just as I do sometimes on waking, lazily enjoying myself before the real business of the day begins. His fingers were curled over, containing his cock and balls and concealing them from my hungry eyes, but soon he would let go and expose himself. He was a young man after all, no matter how crazy his parents.

  His chest rose and fell, rose and fell. His stomach hollowed with each breath, his hips shifting against the tiles, his head rolling gently from side to side. If he glanced up now from beneath the sheltering arm he would see me looking directly down at him.

  Come on, boy. Move. Show me. See me.

  And there, the hand was gone and the cock, released from its cage, moved rapidly upwards like the hand of a clock, six o’clock, eight o’clock, ten o’clock, high noon as it finished its trajectory. For a moment he let it lie there pulsating, stretching his legs away and tensing the muscles in his stomach, and then, at last, he grabbed it. One hand starting stroking and tugging, and the other hand moved to the back of his skull, lifting his head slightly. Henry Jessop’s eyes met mine. They widened for a moment, glanced from side to side to make sure there were no witnesses and then, when he knew that I was his only audience, he stared straight at me and wanked.

  To anyone watching from the cliffs or the beach, I was just a guest enjoying a view of the bay from his well-appointed balcony. The more observant might have wondered why I was looking directly down; perhaps I was lost in thought, contemplating the mystery of life. In fact, I was looking into the blue eyes of a slim blond youth as he stroked himself, lips parted, tongue occasionally appearing to moisten them, panting as he moved rapidly towards his climax. It didn’t take long. White jets arced from his cock and fanned out over his stomach, glistening and running down his sides. He never took his eyes from mine. We stayed like that, gazes locked, as his breathing slowed and his cock began to soften. And then, quick as a rabbit, he grabbed the towel that had shielded him from all other eyes and scuttled into the darkness of his room.

  I will fuck you, boy, I said to myself, pressing my cock against the bars. I will ride you again and again until you can feel me inside you all the time, until you don’t feel complete unless my dick is up your ass.

  And with that pleasant thought in mind, I realized that I was hungry again, and I headed down for lunch.

  I enjoyed my omelette and salad along with a glass of cold white wine—but not half as much as I enjoyed watching Henry Jessop, now demurely dressed in navy shorts and a white shirt, making polite conversation with his parents just two tables away from mine.

  Time for a walk and to reflect on the case—as I already considered it. There was a queer mystery on the island, and the military authorities had closed ranks to conceal it. Officially, nothing of the sort ever happened in His Majesty’s Armed Forces. Of course there was as much fucking and sucking as there would be in any predominantly male environment; soldiers and sailors, in my extensive experience, aren’t overly worried by the civilian preoccupation with correct sexual behavior. Let us take it as a given that Ned Porter and Alf Lutterall were lovers, that either or both of them were active with other partners, that someone had found out—perhaps the self-appointed Fury who had also been persecuting Martin and Tilly Dear with her poison-pen letters. Ned’s death may have been suicide, of course, but there was another possibility—that someone wanted him and his compromising affairs to disappear. There were other motives: jealousy is always likely, or money. I struggled to see how a young lance corporal in the British Army could have enough money to make him worth killing, but it was not to be dismissed without investigation.

  The sexual motive seemed the most persuasive, and certainly the most interesting; with that in view I needed more information about the secret life of the islands. Joseph would be a good starting point. Joseph, with his smooth, tight ass and his hard, brown dick, all of it available for a price. He would know all about the networks, the rumors, the anxieties of men in Malta. But Joseph was nowhere to be seen, not in the bar or anywhere around the bay. I strolled out along the promenade, heading towards the inlets and salt pans where, Martin said, the bathing was so good; I had my trunks and a towel, ready for a postprandial dip.

  And there, perched on a rocky promontory that commanded fine views of the eastern coastline, I saw the top of an easel, a familiar blue blazer and the back of a head bent forward in concentration as the right hand dabbed away with a brush. The Captain, of course, the other notable queer on the island and, it appeared, something of an amateur artist.

  I’ve spent enough time in studios around London to know that artists fall into two camps: those who can’t bear to show or discuss their work until it is complete, and those who prefer talking to doing. The Captain, it soon appeared, was of the latter persuasion. I hovered over his shoulder for a while, admiring his pretty, conventional watercolor of the Gozo coastline, rocks in the foreground, the shimmering horizon a white band across the center. Then I coughed discreetly.

  He wheeled round, his face red and sweaty.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Good God!” He mopped his brow with a clean white handkerchief. “What do you mean, creeping up on people like that?”

  “I apologize. I was struck by your wonderful painting. I had to stop and admire it. I will leave you in peace.” Moving closer, I saw two young men bathing in the inlet —islanders, sixteen, maybe seventeen years of age. Their bodies moved like blades through the water, black hair slick as seal fur. Was that why the Captain was so jumpy?

  “Lovely day,” I said.

  “Nature at her finest.” He waved his brush around. “The sweep of the coast, the play of light on water, the wonde
rful palette of these islands, the greens, the yellows…I never tire of it.”

  “Me neither,” I said, watching the young men climbing onto the rocks, water showering off their brown bodies like diamonds. “You’ve certainly found the best view on the island.”

  The Captain frowned for a moment and gazed out to the horizon. “Perhaps.”

  “Do you exhibit your work? It’s very good. I take it you are a professional.” Few artists are immune to flattery.

  “Some visitors have been kind enough to buy my little daubs. But of course I don’t do it for pecuniary return. Simply for the love of beauty.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Some of the paintings I work up more fully in the studio, in oils. Heroic scenes.” He sighed. “These islands are steeped in mythology. Odysseus. Homer. All the wonders of the Greek world.” He glanced at the swimmers as they dove and ducked in the water, flashing their hairy tails, their tight balls. “The human figure, of course, I place in the landscape later, just as the old masters did.”

  “Do you use models?”

  That furtive glance again. “Occasionally, but they are expensive. I always carry my sketchbook and, of course, my trusty camera.” He patted the brown leather case that hung around his neck on a worn strap. “Invaluable for recording those fleeting moments of physical perfection.”

  “Such as this,” I said, nodding at our frolicking water nymphs.

  “Quite so, quite so. A perfect Leander breasting the Hellespont, or the young Achilles, blissfully unaware of his tragic destiny…”

  I’m no classical scholar, but even I know that Leander was the plaything of Poseidon, and that Achilles was fonder of Patroclus than he should have been.

  “And where do you show these paintings? I can’t imagine they’re for the tourist trade.”

  “There are one or two periodicals in London and New York who think them worth reproducing,” he said with a simper. “Although the shipping costs are ruinous. But people appreciate my work, which makes it all worthwhile. Letters reach me, even in this little corner of the world. Commissions, even. I struggle to keep up with demand.”

  “I would love to see your work.”

  “Indeed?”

  “And perhaps some of the photographs.”

  “They are strictly for artistic reference, you understand.”

  “Absolutely.”

  The old man was warming to his theme and looked at me with friendlier eyes. In time, I thought, I could win him over completely.

  “I gather the water is good for bathing just here.”

  “As you see. Very popular with the young men. Less so with families, on account of the rocks.”

  “Do you think I might manage?” I unbuttoned my shirt.

  “You certainly appear to be strong.”

  “I am. Solid New England stock.” My shirt was open now, revealing my hairy chest and stomach.

  “Ah,” said the Captain as I stripped off, “one would paint you as a satyr, perhaps. The spirit of nature. Pan himself.”

  “Half goat.”

  “And the upper half, the human form divine.”

  I unbuttoned my pants and took a few steps down the rocks, concealed now from all eyes but those of the Captain above and swimmers below. “Look away now, if you’re of a nervous disposition.”

  “Dear boy, I was in the Navy for thirty years. Very little shocks me.”

  “Fine.” I dropped my pants and took my time folding them neatly. The Captain devoured me with his eyes. “Forgive me,” I said. “I haven’t introduced myself. Edward Mitchell. My friends call me Mitch.”

  “A doctor, I gather. News travels fast on this island, my boy. And I am George Hathaway, retired Captain of the Royal Navy, at your service.” He saluted and picked up his camera. “Perhaps, if I might be so bold?”

  “I’d be honoured.”

  I stood with my hands behind me, knees slightly bent, hips thrust forward. I was still aroused from Henry Jessop’s balcony show, and the experience of being naked in front of the smartly dressed Captain was adding fuel to the fire.

  “Splendid, splendid.” He fired off a few exposures. “My goodness, yes. Excellent.” I was almost fully erect now. “Perhaps you had better jump in, my lad, before you get us both into trouble.”

  “Sorry. It’s the sunshine. Always has that effect on me.” I clambered down the rocks and, for the first time since I arrived, immersed myself in the sea. The cold salt water was enough to tame my cock, and for a moment my brain was clear of all thought but the wonderful buoyancy, the taste and smell of minerals, the utter blueness beneath me. The water was deep in the inlet, and when my eyes adjusted I could see fish shimmering and flickering around me. I remembered what Martin Dear said about jellyfish and had a moment of panic—but if the local boys were swimming here, it must be safe. I let myself float, gazing at the sky, toes, knees and dick breaking the surface. The other swimmers were now perched just above me, sharing the contents of a bottle, brown thighs touching, toes gripping the sharp igneous rock. The Captain had a point; stripped of twentieth-century trappings, they could be the shepherds of legend, and I the satyr, ready to prey on them.

  They saw me watching, pointed, exchanged a few words in Maltese, laughed and punched each other. The Captain was busily sketching with a stub of pencil, too nervous to photograph them. For a few moments, this strange triangular game of watching and showing seemed about to be played out as something quite different. My cock was stirring again, and if either of the boys had given me the slightest encouragement—hell, even if the Captain had made a move—I was more than ready to give someone the big load I’d built up watching Henry Jessop’s slim, young body writhing around on the balcony. But at the crucial moment a small motorboat puttered around the headland, bringing a party of trippers to the village, and in a split second we adjusted our behavior to look perfectly innocent. I submerged my hips, the Captain turned the page of his sketchbook and stared at the horizon and the boys grinned and waved at the passengers, taking good care to keep themselves decently covered. That told me a lot about life on Gozo: there was opportunity, but there was also danger and the need for concealment.

  And in that climate, the death of Ned Porter took on a new dimension of interest. Frank Southern was right to call on me. There were things here that only an initiate could discover. Secrets that were cunningly concealed, and a whole range of people—locals, visitors, even the British Army—extremely practiced at dissembling.

  The sun was getting unpleasantly hot and the Captain was packing up, taking a last lingering look at the view before returning to his house, I imagined, for siesta. I wasn’t ready to let him go without a few questions, so I scrambled up the rocks and took my time drying, allowing him a flash and a peek before I got dressed. It worked; he put his easel down and perched on his canvas stool.

  I made a few remarks about the landscape, the village and so on, before getting to the point. “And I heard that there was a tragedy a couple of years ago, up there on the cliffs.” I gestured across the bay to the highest point. “A soldier, was it?”

  “Yes,” said the Captain, betraying nothing more than conventional regret. “A sad business.”

  “They say it was suicide.”

  “Apparently so.”

  “Did you know him?”

  Obviously the question was too direct. The Captain fiddled with his paint box and pretended not to have heard.

  “I wondered if you knew the dead man. Edward Porter, I believe?”

  “Yes, that was his name.”

  “Sad that he was taken so young. By all accounts he was a fine person.”

  “Yes.”

  “And a very happy person, I’ve heard. Not the type to take his own life.”

  The Captain was about to say something, but a couple was walking past us on the path, and he clammed up again.

  “I said…”

  “I really must be going,” the Captain said, shouldering his traps. “Do enjoy your stay.”
>
  This would not do. “I would love to come and see some of your paintings.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “Perhaps I could model for you.”

  He’d seen enough, surely, to know what was on offer. “Perhaps.”

  “I’ve always taken care of my body.”

  “So I see.”

  “I’m not inhibited.”

  “Indeed not.”

  “Sketches… Photography, even, if that would help.”

  “Yes, that would be…” But he didn’t complete the sentence. His mouth hung open and his cheeks, usually florid, became pale. I looked over my shoulder and there, like a living shadow, was an old woman swathed in a black shawl, covering her from head to foot, her skull face and gnarled hands the only things visible. She stood above us on the rocky path, swaying slightly as if she might at any moment dissolve into smoke. A low, sinister hissing came from between her thin lips.

  The Captain fled, moving faster along the path than I would have believed possible. This, I guessed, was the local Fury, the writer of letters, the scourge of all that was not strict and pious and joyless. She stared at me with red-rimmed eyes and apparently expected me to gibber and quake in her presence. Instead I smiled and, in my most ingratiating Boston accent, said “Good afternoon, madam. What a beautiful day.” I was still shirtless.

  She glared.

  “Going for a swim, baby? The water’s lovely.”

  Her jaws worked as if she was chewing a wad of tobacco, and her claws reached towards me in malediction.

  “Hey, hitch up that skirt, grandma. It’s 1932.” And I sauntered back to the village, whistling a merry tune. If looks could kill I’d have dropped like a stone into the water.