About THE SUN GOES DOWN
Mitch Mitchell needs a vacation, and he is determined to make the most of his trip to the Mediterranean island of Gozo. Death never takes a break however, and at the behest of fellow doctor Bob Southern, Mitch soon finds himself investigating the demise of a young, gay lance corporal. The police have ruled it a suicide, but the young man’s boyfriend claims it was murder. Suspecting an official cover-up of a queer scandal, Mitch gets to work on an investigation that leads him into a labyrinth of lies, false identities and secret sex.
With tension, humor and plenty of Mitch Mitchell’s exuberant sexual encounters, The Sun Goes Down cranks up the Mediterranean heat for one of his most baffling and dangerous cases.
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A little farther along the deck, huddled in chairs and surrounded by excessive amounts of luggage, was an English family with thin, pinched faces, gray hair and ill-fitting clothes that were quite unsuited for the weather. That is how the parents looked, at least: could have been a schoolteacher and his do-gooding wife. The son was a different matter. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Young, perfectly
blond, rosy cheeked. Dressed as if he’d just come off the cricket pitch: a white wool sweater knotted around his shoulders; white shirt; cream trousers. He shaded his eyes with one hand, squinting towards the horizon where the land mass of our destination was now clearly visible, getting larger. Gozo, smaller sister of Malta, separated from the main island by three or four miles of deep-blue sea, half an hour on the ancient vessels that ply the route day in, day out, steaming past the brightly painted fishing boats that bob along the waves, nets cast, waiting.
“Look,” he shouted, turning a bright, eager face to his parents. “We’re nearly there!”
They glanced up from their reading matter (religious tracts?), frowned in perfect unison and looked down. The boy’s face fell, his pink lips hanging open, blue eyes bright and wet, perhaps just from the stiff sea breeze. This wouldn’t do. I strolled over.
“There she blows,” I said, standing next to him. “Journey’s end.”
The boy smiled and jumped to his feet, grateful for any attention. “At last! I thought we’d never get here!”
The parents turned stony, disapproving faces towards me. If I’d been wearing a hat I’d have raised it. Instead I said in my best Beacon Hill tone, “Dr. Mitchell. Pleased to meet you.” The “doctor” part always works wonders. They looked away, content to let me babysit their son.
“You travel over from England?”
“Yes. We come here every summer.”
“Lucky you.”
The boy sighed and looked to the island. “I suppose so.” The side of his face was smooth, soft, his ears red from the sun. “It’s very beautiful.”
“Sure is,” I said, not meaning the island. His neck was like a column of marble disappearing into the cool whiteness of his shirt. For someone who’d been traveling for so long, he was remarkably unruffled. “I’ve never been before. Perhaps you could show me around.”
“I’d be delighted.” He smiled, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. I hoped he knew how to shield them with his lips because he was going to need to before long.
A little farther along the deck, huddled in chairs and surrounded by excessive amounts of luggage, was an English family with thin, pinched faces, gray hair and ill-fitting clothes that were quite unsuited for the weather. That is how the parents looked, at least: could have been a schoolteacher and his do-gooding wife. The son was a different matter. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Young, perfectly
blond, rosy cheeked. Dressed as if he’d just come off the cricket pitch: a white wool sweater knotted around his shoulders; white shirt; cream trousers. He shaded his eyes with one hand, squinting towards the horizon where the land mass of our destination was now clearly visible, getting larger. Gozo, smaller sister of Malta, separated from the main island by three or four miles of deep-blue sea, half an hour on the ancient vessels that ply the route day in, day out, steaming past the brightly painted fishing boats that bob along the waves, nets cast, waiting.
“Look,” he shouted, turning a bright, eager face to his parents. “We’re nearly there!”
They glanced up from their reading matter (religious tracts?), frowned in perfect unison and looked down. The boy’s face fell, his pink lips hanging open, blue eyes bright and wet, perhaps just from the stiff sea breeze. This wouldn’t do. I strolled over.
“There she blows,” I said, standing next to him. “Journey’s end.”
The boy smiled and jumped to his feet, grateful for any attention. “At last! I thought we’d never get here!”
The parents turned stony, disapproving faces towards me. If I’d been wearing a hat I’d have raised it. Instead I said in my best Beacon Hill tone, “Dr. Mitchell. Pleased to meet you.” The “doctor” part always works wonders. They looked away, content to let me babysit their son.
“You travel over from England?”
“Yes. We come here every summer.”
“Lucky you.”
The boy sighed and looked to the island. “I suppose so.” The side of his face was smooth, soft, his ears red from the sun. “It’s very beautiful.”
“Sure is,” I said, not meaning the island. His neck was like a column of marble disappearing into the cool whiteness of his shirt. For someone who’d been traveling for so long, he was remarkably unruffled. “I’ve never been before. Perhaps you could show me around.”
“I’d be delighted.” He smiled, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. I hoped he knew how to shield them with his lips because he was going to need to before long.
About James Lear
James Lear is the nom de plume of prolific and acclaimed novelist, Rupert Smith. He lives in London and is the 2008 Winner of Erotic Awards “Best Writer”.
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