Caravaggio's Angel

By Chris Quinton

Paul Calleja is estranged from all but one of his family, his artist Great-uncle Lawrenz in far-off Malta. When he learns that his beloved Great-uncle has died, he flies immediately to pay his respects and to mourn the man who was more of a father to him than the one who had kicked him out for being gay. There, he discovers that Lawrenz had been protecting an incredible secret that centered on a collection of paintings featuring the mysterious and fascinating Angelo. Then there’s the Caravaggio artwork that may or may not be a fake, which has been left to Paul in Lawrenz’s will.

Angelo and Paul find an unexpected love forming between them, and Paul begins to dream of making a new life on Malta. Then Paul’s brother turns up to claim a stake in what he thinks is the fortune left in Lawrenz’s will, and another player steps into the game. Nico has an agenda of his own that endangers Paul’s life and Angelo’s immortal soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Quinton
• Release date: Jan 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005651855

Chris Quinton

Chris Quinton  Chris started creating stories not long after she mastered joined-up writing, somewhat to the bemusement of her parents and her English teachers. But she received plenty of encouragement. Her dad gave her an already old Everest typewriter when she was ten, and it was probably the best gift she'd ever received – until the inventions of the home-computer and the worldwide web. Chris's reading and writing interests range from historical, mystery, and paranormal, to science-fiction and fantasy, writing mostly in the male/male genre. She also writes the occasional male/female novel in the name of Chris Power. She refuses to be pigeon-holed and intends to uphold the long and honourable tradition of the Eccentric Brit to the best of her ability. In her spare time [hah!] she reads, or listens to audio books while quilting or knitting. Over the years she has been a stable lad [briefly] in a local racing stable and stud, a part-time and unpaid amateur archaeologist, a civilian clerk at her local police station and a 15th century re-enactor. She lives in a small and ancient city not far from Stonehenge in the south-west of the United Kingdom, and shares her usually chaotic home with an extended family, three dogs, a Frilled Dragon [lizard], sundry goldfish and tropicals

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Caravaggio’s Angel

by

Chris Quinton

Copyright © Chris Quinton

First Publication: 2014

Second Publication: 2016

Third Publication: 2021

Cover Photo: Depositphotos

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced

or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the Author, Chris Quinton.

Piracy is Theft

The royalties from the sale of my books helps to support my family and pay

essential bills. If you like this story, please spread the word and tell others about it,

but please don't share it.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead,

is coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination

and used fictitiously.

Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

About the Author

Bibliography

Dedication

To the Usual Suspects - thank you for your support, nags, kicks in the arse,

copious amounts of tea, beer, wine, and encouragement.

You make writing even more of a pleasure.

Chapter One

I found this among Dad’s stuff, Calvin had written. It arrived the day he died. The funeral is at Saint Joseph’s, Hempstead. That was it. Abrupt as the e-mail Paul had received from his brother four days ago, informing him of their father’s unexpected death from a stress-induced heart attack, and that Paul and his lifestyle choice were the underlying causes of that stress. No time and date, no invite, certainly no sense of the family reaching out to the black sheep now its autocratic patriarch had shuffled off this mortal coil.

Paul felt no grief, not even regret. The controlling bastard had managed to alienate most of his offspring and relatives, a contentious bunch at best. In fact, the only thing on which his brother and three sisters stood united was disapproval of their gay youngest sibling.

Biting words and often painful pranks had been a feature of Paul’s life from the moment he came out to them at fifteen, to the day he left for a university on the other side of the continent three years later.

Calvin, the first born son after Amanda, Beverly and Josephine, had been the butt of their father’s ire for years. All his life his rounded face had been labeled as pretty—unmanly, by their father’s reckoning. Calvin had developed a belligerent attitude from puberty onwards in an attempt to counteract both his appearance and his father’s disapproval, as Paul knew to his cost.

It hadn’t helped that Paul was the better academically. Better, too, at baseball and basketball, despite being younger. When he came out as gay, the venom was turned on him as well, along with the added threats of Hell and eternal damnation. Their father was a devout Catholic of the old school.

Paul had escaped to UCLA without a backward glance, but when he graduated from the university, he returned to the family home in the hope that things would have improved. They hadn’t. How he stuck it out for another three years, Paul never knew. After another major row with his father and brother two years ago, he’d walked out for good and moved in with his long-time friend, Rogier Marais, in nearby Westbury.

He should be grateful to Calvin, Paul decided.

After a hard day dealing with difficult customers whose ideas for their websites were completely unworkable, the last thing he needed was to come home to aggravation from his brother. So apart from the one dig, this cold businesslike approach to their father’s passing was a blessing. He was tempted to show up at the funeral anyway, if only to outrage the whole judgmental pack of them. For a few moments Paul indulged in the fantasy of arriving in a lavender suit with a rainbow tie, complete with guy-liner and tinted lip salve. He’d give his relatives his best imitation of Rogier’s flamboyant flouncing, the one Rogier produced when he chose to act the part of the stereotypical flaming queen just to irritate.

A letter in a letter, Rogier observed, peering over Paul’s shoulder. Rogier had restyled his blond hair from the office-friendly gelled-back sleekness to his partying dandelion-head look ready for their evening on the town. It made an exotic combination with Rogier’s chocolate brown skin. No matter what Paul’s family assumed, Rogier and he were friends. Good friends, but that was all. Paul’s lack of a steady relationship was so far down his own list of priorities, it didn’t even register.

For Rogier, it was a challenge. And with foreign stamps. Darlin’, what has Devil-Bro sent you? The antipathy between his brother and his best friend stretched back years.

Apart from a non-invite to my father’s funeral? Paul turned the enclosed envelope over. I haven’t a clue. The stamps and postmark proclaimed a Maltese origin, and its printed address label had an official look. It was thick as well, as if it held more than just a single sheet of paper. The date on the postmark told him it had been sent a day before his father’s demise.

Paul opened it and took out several pages and another envelope. This one bore just his name, written in Uncle Larry’s flowing old-fashioned script and with the Maltese spelling of his first name; Pawl Calleja. He smiled. Many years ago, the old man had refused to be called Great-Uncle Lawrenz. Said it made him feel antique. So from then on, Paul always called him Uncle Larry. Paul chuckled, then frowned. He hadn’t visited his great-uncle for a while and was due a visit in a couple of months. His leave was already booked.

He’d flown out to Malta twice every year and, in between times, sent the usual cards every Christmas and birthday, along with a box of the old man’s favorite cigars. Every so often he wrote long chatty letters, and never failed to call him on the first of every month. Not that the phone was answered every time, nor did every letter get a reply.

Uncle Larry’s memory was erratic at times, and if he was locked into one of his painting projects, the mighty walls of Valletta could fall and the old man wouldn’t notice. So it hadn’t bothered Paul that he hadn’t received a letter from him for a while. Several months, in fact. Now he remembered his great-uncle was in his eighties, something easily forgotten both in his presence or thousands of miles away.

Foreboding settled under Paul’s ribs. He grabbed the phone and keyed in Uncle Larry’s number. It rang for a long time before Paul gave up and ended the call.

The uncomfortable feeling intensified, and he opened Uncle Larry’s letter.

Dear Pawl,

I’ve asked Charlie Zammit to send this along with the official papers when the time comes. All I ask is that before you make any decision about the apartment, you come to Malta and live here for a full year. There are no other conditions, no codicils. Everything is straight-forward and as uncomplicated as I can make it.

I never had a son but always wanted one, and then you were born, right here in Valletta. You became that son. No matter where your life takes you, know that I love you and I am so proud of you. I haven’t told you of this illness, because I want you to remember me as I was, not the drugged wreck I will soon be. My only regret is that you couldn’t visit more often.

Uncle Larry

Oh, shit, Paul whispered, and snatched up the loose sheets of paper. An imposing letterhead informed him they came from the offices of Zammit & Borg, Advocates, Republic Street, Valletta.

Dear Mr Calleja,

It is with deep regret that I inform you that Lawrenz Alexander Calleja has passed away. He was diagnosed with a particularly aggressive pancreatic cancer, and died peacefully in his sleep on January 11th at the Mater Dei Hospital, Msida.

Paul’s vision blurred for a few seconds, and he blinked to clear the moisture from his eyes.

As soon as his condition was diagnosed, he amended his will, appointing me as trustee. In that capacity I can inform you that you are the sole beneficiary of Mr Calleja’s estate. I enclose a brief list of his assets. I would ask that you contact me at your earliest convenience so we can finalize matters.

Yours sincerely

Charles Zammit

Bad news? Rogier asked quietly, resting his hand on Paul’s shoulder.

Yes. His voice sounded gruff. He coughed to clear his throat. Uncle Larry died.

I’m so sorry. I know how much the old guy meant to you.

I can’t go with you tonight. He pushed Uncle Larry’s letter into Rogier’s hands. They’re six hours ahead of us, so I can’t phone them yet. I have to make plans … And the last thing he wanted to do was be out among a noisy, happy crowd when grief and loss tore at his heart. In retrospect the missed phone call took on a painful significance. If he’d known, he could have been there, done something, even if it was simply holding the old man’s hand as he passed.

Not a problem, darlin’. Rogier pulled him into a hug and kissed his temple. We can continue with the Get Paul Laid program when you’re back.

Paul didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He leaned into Rogier’s embrace for a moment, then straightened.

Yeah, he said, and forced a smile. Maybe.

Nothing could be done until Paul had arranged vacation time, and negotiating that took all the diplomacy he could command. The death of a great-uncle, no matter how beloved, didn’t qualify for compassionate leave. While his boss was aware of Paul’s family circumstances and was largely sympathetic, he wasn’t prepared to bend the rules. But this early in the year meant Paul could take regular leave, if he could persuade his boss to sign off on it at such short notice. There was, after all, no urgency as far as the man was concerned. Lawrenz Calleja wouldn’t care if it took Paul a while to arrive in Malta.

True words, but it didn’t help Paul cope with the shock and grief that haunted him and robbed him of his sleep.

In the end, he was able to bring forward the week’s leave already booked, starting in four days. As soon as he got back to his desk, he booked a flight. Then he thought of another necessity; he needed somewhere to stay. He knew the hotel close to his uncle’s apartment on Battery Street, so he searched for the Castille Hotel, and booked in online.

That done, Paul sat there for another hour, wondering what else he’d forgotten, what else he needed to do. Then he called the number on the letterhead. A woman answered the phone with a few sentences in Maltese, and a repeat in English.

Good morning, Zammit & Borg Advocates, how may I help you? Her voice was pleasant, formal and friendly at the same time.

His Maltese was rusty, so he replied in English.

Hi, I’m Paul Calleja. Can I speak to Charles Zammit, please? He wrote to me recently about my uncle, Lawrenz Calleja.

One moment, I’ll see if he is free.

Paul had only to wait a few minutes before a man spoke. Mr Calleja, Charles Zammit speaking. I understand you are calling about the estate of Lawrenz Calleja?

No, he answered shortly, and managed to stop himself saying, Fuck the estate! I’m calling about my uncle. I didn’t know— He broke off, emotion and tiredness roughening his throat. I didn’t know he was sick.

Ah, I see, Zammit replied. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr Calleja. The trite formality was, nevertheless, warmly spoken and seemed sincere.

Your letter said pancreatic cancer, Paul said into a brief silence. Did he—I mean, it was fast, right?

Yes, very fast, the lawyer said gently. He wasn’t able to have surgery or chemotherapy, but he didn’t suffer much once he was in the hospital. The drugs, the morphine, made sure of that.

Thank God. Paul took a deep breath to master himself. I’ll be on my way to Malta on Sunday. I land at Luqa at four on Monday afternoon your time. Can you tell me where he’s buried? I’d like to pay him a visit.

It was his wish to be cremated. He told me you would know where to scatter his ashes. I have them here still.

Thank you, Paul said with heartfelt gratitude. Can I make an appointment to collect them?

Of course. Is Monday, at five-thirty, too soon for you? I’m tied up for the rest of the week.

No, it’s fine. Thank you. I’ll be there.

Paul flew out from JFK at nine Sunday evening. He reached London Gatwick at nine the next morning, and faced a wait for his connecting flight. Other than the small airline meal over the Atlantic, Paul hadn’t eaten anything. Nor did he feel like it now. The days following the letters’ arrival had been hectic, leaving him little time to absorb his loss. Rogier had driven like a crazy man through freezing rain to get him from Westbury to JFK in time for check-in and security clearance.

Now, with two more hours before the final stage of his flight, all Paul could think of was his great-uncle dying without any of his family around him. He’d outlived all but a few distant cousins on Malta, while the American branch had virtually cut the old man off since the deaths of Paul’s mother and Nana Julia.

Anger joined his grief, some of it directed at the dead man. There’d been no forewarning, no letter to say I’m sick, come and visit. Paul sighed and dragged his hands through his hair. He was sweaty, unshaven and weary to his bones.

Rogier had been great. If he hadn’t tucked the US and Maltese passports into Paul’s pocket, along with the print copy of the online booking, Paul would have left without them. As it was, he’d nearly forgotten his laptop and had shoved it into a backpack at the last minute. And if Rogier hadn’t remembered the envelope stuffed full of UK and Euro notes and coins, the residue from previous visits to Malta via London, stashed in the back of a kitchen drawer, he would have headed for the nearest bureau de change, not a coffee bar. Instead he was able to buy the much-needed coffees a hell of a lot sooner.

The coffee bar offered a WiFi hotspot to its patrons, so Paul took out his laptop and sent Rogier a quick e-mail. That done, Paul sat there for another hour, wondering what else he’d forgotten, what else he needed to do.

Paul’s flight was called, and he jerked out of a semi-trance. He detoured briefly to the restroom to lose some of the liquid he’d taken in, then trekked to the boarding gate. His head ached, his eyes felt as if they were bedded in sand, and his stomach churned queasily.

When he was a kid, Paul spent most of his vacations in Valletta. His mom saw to that. Maltese herself, Anna had wanted all her children to embrace their heritage, but he’d been the only one to take an interest. The only one to learn the language. After her death in a car accident when Paul was ten, his Nana Julia took over, making sure he stayed fluent in Maltese, and accompanying him to Valletta until he was old enough to fly alone.