by James Lear
“Is it possible that something was stolen? Fell into the wrong hands?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Nothing suspicious? No strange letters or visitors?”
“I’ve been over and over this in my mind, night after night, never sleeping, wondering if there was some clue that I’ve overlooked. But there’s nothing. One day he was there, alive, happy and smiling and looking forward to the future. The next day.”
Alf was crying again. You’re probably expecting me to go and comfort him, and for those innocent caresses to turn into something more lecherous, but for once in my life I controlled myself. We have Sergeant Major Conrad to thank for that. Without his ministrations, I would have been tempted.
“Alf, listen to me. I know you’re grieving, but you have to think clearly. You are in danger. If Captain Haymon and Major Telford think you are mad, you will be committed to an asylum. They would like to do that, to shut you up and make this whole thing blow over. You’re an embarrassment to them. And you know that the army does not like to be embarrassed.”
He blew his nose again and sat up. “Go on.”
“There are three possible explanations for Ned’s death. Murder, suicide or an accident. Whatever you think, it’s possible that Ned took his life for reasons we don’t know. Or, someone had a reason to kill him—a motive that would drive them to the most desperate of all crimes. If it wasn’t money or jealousy, then perhaps Ned knew something incriminating about someone.”
“He never mentioned it.”
“He may not have been aware of it. He may have seen something, thought nothing of it, but in doing so he may have been a witness to something. And someone on the island was taking no chances. They killed him before he realized what he had seen.”
“But what?”
“That’s what we have to find out.”
“There’s another explanation,” said Alf. “And this is the one that really frightens me.”
“Go on,” I said, thinking that we were getting somewhere at last.
“They don’t want people like us to be happy. They couldn’t stand the idea that Ned and I loved each other, and so they destroyed us.”
“They?”
“The army. Captain Haymon. Major Telford. The generals who control them.”
“But you’ve said yourself, they’d have to knock off half the garrison if that was the case.”
“Ned and I were different. We were in love.”
Oh, the sadness I felt when he said that. Don’t we all believe, at some time in our lives, that we are different because we are in love? We are the only ones who feel that way, so pure, so righteous, so elevated above the common herd who lie and cheat and fuck their way through life. But the truth is we’re all down here in the mud together. We’re none of us as perfect as love leads us to believe. Ned Porter may have been beautiful, the smile in that photograph as dazzling as the sun in his eyes, and yet he was just a man. A horny young man in need of money, hoping to start a new life, surrounded by temptation, confused and without guidance.
“I know,” I said, unwilling to burst Alf’s bubble. It was all that was keeping him alive. “I’m going to tell Dr. Southern that you are suffering from neuraesthenia as a result of acute fatigue of the nervous system. I will tell him that you need a couple of weeks of absolute rest, and that any attempt to move you from the island would be extremely prejudicial to your recovery. I will suggest a course of further consultations with me, in which we will attempt the talking cure. Between you and me, I think the only cure you need is to find out what happened to Ned. Right?”
“Right.”
“But it won’t do you any harm to have a friendly chat with an understanding doctor, will it?”
“No. I’d like that.” He blushed.
“Has there been anyone since Ned?”
“Of course not.”
“Then unofficially, I would suggest you get yourself laid as soon as possible. You’re young, Alf, and you’re very beautiful. You can’t spend the rest of your life walled up like a nun. It’s time to move on. That’s what Ned would have told you, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But Ned’s not here.”
“And you can’t bring him back. Now come on. Dry your eyes, blow your nose and at least try to look better. We don’t want them to think that Dr. Mitchell is some kind of fraud, do we?”
He smiled—the sweetest, saddest smile—and stood up. “I really do feel better. I know you’re right. I just miss him so much.” He closed his eyes, remembering who knows what—the touch of Ned’s hands, perhaps, the taste of his lips.
“Good man. Now, are you ready to face the world?”
“Almost.”
“Come here.” He stepped into my arms, and I hugged him close. It seemed like the best medicine I could give.
I made my official report to Frank Southern, who was delighted and relieved, and I promised to return for further sessions with my patient over the coming weeks. To be honest there was only one kind of session with Alf Lutterall I had in mind, an unorthodox but extremely effective treatment for the blues that involved inserting my penis in his anus, but that would have to wait.
My transport back to Gozo wouldn’t be ready for another hour, and after a quick coffee I set off to explore the Grand Harbour. My interest in shipping and architecture is pretty limited, but there were other attractions not mentioned in the guide. Men were coming and going all around me, most of them attractive, many of them in uniform. They had the refreshing—if slightly unnerving— habit of looking you up and down quite shamelessly, whether out of curiosity or lust I was not quite sure. One young sailor in a blue uniform, sporting a handsome beard, walked past me once, twice, three times, taking a good look, smiling, his eyes alive with invitation. Well, I thought, it will do no harm to follow him, see where the action is, perhaps have a little fun before my boat is ready…
We played that familiar game of cat and mouse around the harbor until we reached a quieter area of piers and warehouses, where cargo was loaded and unloaded. My quarry was always a few steps ahead of me, stopping for a while, looking back, checking I was following him. And unless I was much mistaken, someone was following me: a couple of times I’d seen a young man in civilian clothes and a cap sauntering along with his hands in his pockets, trying to look nonchalant. The more the merrier, I thought, wondering where this little adventure would lead me.
I’m familiar enough with docks and harbors in Boston, London and elsewhere to know that there is usually some place, honored by time and tradition, where men go for their liaisons. They seem random, but there are always sound topographical reasons for the choice: secluded from general view, of course; easy to get in and out of in a hurry should the need arise (police raids and so on); something to lean against, bend over or lie on; and in more northern climates, some shelter from the rain. The latter was unnecessary in Malta, but in other respects the disused yard between warehouses into which my bearded friend disappeared was well appointed. Wooden fences separated us from passersby. The other end of the yard opened to an area of waste ground, and there were piles of crates and pallets around that made very good makeshift beds. There was even a freestanding faucet in one corner of the yard. What luxury, I thought, to be able to wash!
Beardy was leaning against the wall, one leg crooked, lighting a cigarette, the perfect pose that so often precedes a quick, passionate fuck. He smiled as I approached, looking up at me through the curling smoke from his cigarette. I took a step towards him, faintly aware of the scuff of a footfall behind me, then there was a sharp, sudden crack and I felt a shooting pain in the back of my head, stars bursting against an enveloping darkness as my knees gave way and I sank to the ground. I saw a bright flash, which I dimly recognized as a blade, I heard a shout, and that was all.
VII
I WAS OUT COLD FOR A FEW MINUTES. I WOKE WITH AN INTENSE pain in my skull, sat up and promptly vomited on myself. Then I remembered the blade and was almost sick again, this time from fe
ar. But there was no blood, no obvious sensation of stab wounds— I’ve seen enough of those in London hospitals on a Friday night after the pubs close—and it seemed that, by some miracle, I was unharmed. There was nobody else around. Whoever had attacked me, and whoever had saved me, had fled the scene.
I got slowly to my feet and brushed the worst of the sick off my jacket and pants. I looked like a drunk as I staggered back to the harbor. Fortunately, I made it to Frank’s office unmolested. He put ice on my head, cleaned me up and told me in no uncertain terms not to take such risks around Valetta, which was notorious for footpads and pickpockets.
I had not been robbed: my wallet—and Aunt Dinah’s dollars— were intact. I didn’t mention this to Frank, nor did I mention the knife. I didn’t want any police involvement; they’d just want to know what I was doing around the back of the harbor in the first place.
It was possible, as Frank concluded, that I had been attacked by an opportunistic robber who preyed on queers cruising the docks. I wasn’t the specific target; I just wandered into the wrong place, and my assailant knew very well that I was not going to make an official complaint. But what if I, Mitch Mitchell, was the intended victim? Had I been lured to that incriminating crime scene in order to make it look like a routine attack? Was the man with the beard the bait in the trap? Or had he been my rescuer? I was fast coming to the conclusion that my presence on the island, investigating the death of Ned Porter, was known to someone who wished to silence me.
I pondered this as I made my way back over to Gozo. My ferryman this time was not the charming Sergeant Major Conrad who, much to my disappointment, was nowhere to be seen. This time I had a taciturn young soldier who ignored all my attempts at small talk.
It was late afternoon, siesta time, but the Xlendi promenade was unusually busy. A crowd was gathered at the end of the Victoria Road, where three large black police cars were parked up against the wall. The crowd was at its thickest outside Vella’s bar at the foot of the cliffs.
Tilly stood slightly apart, at the foot of the steps that led up to the Continental. She looked as fresh as ever in a clean cotton dress that emphasized her generous bosom, her makeup immaculate and hair neatly dressed—but her face betrayed concern.
I tapped her on the shoulder. “What’s up?”
She jumped at the sight of me. “Mitch! You gave me quite a shock.” She took a couple of deep breaths to recover her poise. “Sorry. I’m very upset. Vella’s son’s gone missing.”
“Joseph?”
“He didn’t show up for work this morning, and they’ve been searching for him all day. His poor father is absolutely frantic.”
“He strikes me as the sort of guy who might easily wander off.”
“I know what you mean. But apparently not. The poor old man is going on as if Joseph was some kind of saint.”
“I’m not sure that’s strictly true,” I said, thinking of Joseph’s silky cheeks parting as I slid my cock into him.
“Oh Christ,” said Tilly, “here comes trouble.”
I heard her before I saw her, a high, cracked voice like one of the seabirds that swoop around the bay at sunset. She was saying something in Maltese, jabbing her bony fingers towards Vella’s bar, raising rheumy eyes towards heaven, flapping funereal shawls like tatty wings. The Black Crow herself, harbinger of grief.
“What’s she saying?”
“Search me,” said Tilly. “I don’t speak the lingo. Ralph!” She collared the old man as he slipped past us to gawk at the spectacle. “Translate, please.”
Ralph cowered as if in the presence of authority—whether Tilly’s or the old woman’s I wasn’t sure. “She says heaven has brought vengeance to the evildoers,” said Ralph. “She says that all who defy the Lord will perish.”
“What on earth is the old bitch on about?” said Tilly, her mouth turned down in disgust.
“She says God has smitten the sinners again, and that he will not rest until…”
“Oh, that’s enough. Go away, you silly man. Honestly,” said Tilly, long before Ralph was out of earshot, “it’s like dealing with savages. They actually believe this nonsense.” Suddenly she put her hand to her mouth. “Oh! God, Mitch, I’m so sorry. What must you think of me? I was unforgivably rude this morning.”
“Yes. You were.”
“Please accept my apologies. Those awful Jessops have been on and on at me about what they like to call immorality. I’m afraid what with one thing and another, my temper just snapped. I do hope you won’t leave us.”
“I’m prepared to overlook it on this occasion,” I said, “but let’s not have any more of that nonsense.”
“I promise. I’ve been so worried about money and everything. Well, you don’t need to know my problems.”
“Martin back yet?”
She looked at her watch. “Should be here soon.”
“Hope his meeting went well.”
Tilly frowned.
“With the bank manager, wasn’t it?”
“Of course. Honestly, that awful man. You’d think we were doing him a favor letting him look after our money.” Her voice was vague.
“Martin seemed very worried.”
She frowned. “We’re both worried, of course, but one keeps up a brave face. Goodness me, where are my manners? How was your trip?”
“Great,” I said, despite the throbbing pain in my head. No need for her to know about the attack. “Very successful.”
But Tilly wasn’t listening, wrapped as she was in her own concerns. “Good, good. Well, I suppose I’d better get on. We’ve got a big party in for dinner tonight and I still don’t know what we’re going to give them. Tell me if you hear anything about the Vellas.”
She clip-clopped through the marble hallway on her high heels, her ass swinging from side to side, and disappeared into the office.
The bump on my head was growing nicely, and I was starting to feel sick with fatigue. The quayside drama would have to take care of itself; privately I was convinced that Joseph was holed up somewhere with his legs in the air and a cock up his ass and would return, sore and satisfied, by nightfall. I labored up the stairs to my room, closed the shutters, took a couple of aspirin and lay down on the bed. The pains and pleasures of the last twenty-four hours were overwhelming me. I fell asleep quickly, like a man falling off a cliff into the dark below.
I woke with a start in gloom and silence. Something had roused me—some sense penetrating the depth of my sleep. I lay still and listened. Nothing, save voices from far below on the harbor, the hissing of the breeze through the shutters… And then—what? A creak? The scuff of a foot? The door was ajar, and from the corner of my eye I saw it move. I jumped out of bed despite the throbbing pain in my head, yanked the door open and there, cringing and ashen faced on the stone steps beyond, was Henry Jessop. I grabbed his wrist and pulled him up the steps. He stumbled and cried out as his arm got wrenched.
“What the fuck is your game, prowling around my room?”
“Nothing…”
I closed the door behind him. He looked so scared I thought he might wet his pants.
“Are you in the habit of going into other people’s rooms while they’re asleep?”
He hung his head. “I’m sorry. I thought you were out.”
“So you just came in to see what you could find? Is that it? Cash? A watch, maybe? Is that it?”
“No.”
“Then what? You’d better come up with a good explanation, boy, or I’ll go straight downstairs and tell the managers.” Henry was practically in tears now, wringing his hands, and I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the spectacle. I’d already watched him pump a load over his tight stomach; this was a pleasure of a different kind. I like vulnerability. It can be so useful.
“I was just…I wanted to…”
“What?” I stepped towards him; there was less than six inches between our faces.
“I wanted to see your room. To see where you sleep.” He looked down. His eyelashes were
long, his cheeks now flushed with color.
“And you thought I was out?”
“Yes.”
“No you didn’t. You knew I was here, didn’t you?”
He said nothing, but looked up into my eyes. I could read a clear answer there, and it wasn’t quite in keeping with his clean-cut, English public schoolboy image.
“You came up here hoping to find me.”
“I was just going to ask you…” He paused, obviously thinking up some plausible lie. “Er, if you wanted to come for a swim across the bay later.”
“I see.”
“But when I got here you were asleep.”
“You didn’t knock.”
“I didn’t want to wake you up.”
“You snuck into my room hoping to find me—what? In the bath? In bed? Well, you got what you wanted. How long were you watching me for?”
“A while. Then I thought I’d better go away. I’m sorry.”
Neither of us moved.
“How sorry?”
“What?”
“How sorry are you, Henry? Sorry enough to make it up to me?”
“I’d better go. My parents—”
“Go on then. Run along.”
Of course he stayed put. I placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed lightly down.
“On your knees, boy.”
He did as he was told, eyes and lips shining in the half light. My dick was hard, straining against my pants. My head still hurt, but thanks to the aspirin it no longer felt as if it was going to explode. Henry’s hands rested on his thighs, bare below his shorts.
“Come on, then. Get it out and suck the fucking thing. It’s what you’ve wanted ever since you saw me on the ferry, isn’t it? I’ve seen you looking at me, jerking off when I’m watching you. You want my cock inside you, don’t you?”
Sometimes you have to spell it out. Henry just about managed his side of the script, which consisted of nods and the occasional “uh-huh” or “mmm” of assent. It still took him a while to translate thought into action. I put my hands on my hips, pushed forward and waited. Finally a hand fluttered up to touch the bulge in my pants, lightly at first, then pushing, testing the solidity and size. Another hand came up, this one open to cup my balls. He stared at his hands, scarcely able to believe what they were doing. Seasoned pervert as I am, I still recall the feeling of incredulity the first time I got my hands on another man’s dick. What I had dreamed about for so long was finally happening. Here on his knees in my warm, dark hotel room, the sounds of the harbor and the smell of the sea just penetrating the blinds, was a beautiful blond Englishman who was about to cross his own personal Rubicon. Either that or he was a very accomplished actor.
