Into the Tiger's Hour

Chapter Eleven

When the door to the church crashed open, several people looked up, startled at such a sacrilege. The man reeking like a bar floor, covered in a week's worth of cigarette ash and splotched with liquor stains, took no notice. His ebony skin had leached to a strange greyish tone and the whites of his eyes had gone yellow. He stumbled as he walked past the stoup and caught the broad stone edge to keep his balance. Fingertips touching the water, the man scowled at it and abruptly slapped the water's surface, sending droplets flying through the air.

A woman in the back pew gasped aloud, one hand clasping a rosary, the other flying to her mouth.

He took no notice, but stumbled a few steps away, weaving on his feet. And when he bent double, hands on his knees, the priest hurrying down the aisle began to run. It was clearly too late as the drunken man was retching onto the marble floor, a gout of alcohol and bile that splattered and stank. The few parishioners in the church at such a late hour all made horrified sounds; one man gagged as he put a hand over his mouth, joining in the general rush for the front of the church where the smell of incense covered the rank odor.

"My son, you're ill. Here, sit. I'll bring you water and we'll get this cleaned up," the priest said, hastily stepping around the puddle to lay a hand on the man's shoulder. He reeled back when the gentle hand was flung off. For all of his intoxication, the man was clearly not so drunk as to be unaware of where he was.

"Go fuck yourself, Father," the man spat, ignoring or unaware of the large man in the black t-shirt with a fading tan that was moving around behind him. "I don't fucking need your fucking help, and your God can go fuck himself with the Devil for all I fucking care."

The priest's expression had gone from compassionate to horrified to cold in moments, but he held a hand up, halting the approaching man in his tracks. "I can see you're in pain, my son. Drowning your sorrows in alcohol will not provide solutions. There's no surcease from sorrow in the bottle."

A sticky finger, so covered in ash and grime that the man's black skin was hard to see, was held up, flipping the priest off. "The fuck do you know, Father?" His voice was raising now, a hoarse screech that turned into violent coughing as he stumbled back once more, nearly slipping in the puddle of his own vomit. "The fuck do you know?!"

"I know that you're hurting yourself," the priest said calmly, his eyes remaining on the drunken man. Jonas Foster--who else, after all, would this be about?--bared teeth stained with tobacco, flecks of it still caught in his gums.

"You know who fucking hurt me? Your fucking God. Or maybe it was the fucking Devil. I don't fucking know anymore. Some cocksucker's responsible for this shit and I swear when I figure out who, I'm going to piss on Heaven's fucking gates before I go kick a demon in the balls."

At the front of the church, Betre lifted his head and turned it slightly to listen.

Faced with an angry drunken man, the priest made no attempt to lay a hand on him again. Nor did he step forward to Jonas's side. "My son, blaming God for your pain will not stop it. He can and will ease your suffering if you allow Him to sh-"

"Fuck you," Jonas snapped, moving abruptly to jab a finger in the priest's face. "She's gone. Don't you fucking realize that? She's gone so what the fuck do I have left?!"

The priest didn't bat an eyelash as he stared up at Jonas. "Your life."

Flecks of cigarette ash fell off of Jonas's coat as he jerked stiff before laughing. Both the priest and the parishioner that had come forward to help him stared in silence at the dark brown stains covering the thighs of his jeans, mottling the grey cotton of his sweat-stained t-shirt. Spilt liquor had left other markings, mingling with the grass stains ground into the knees of his jeans. He reeked of sour breath, alcohol, cigarettes, unwashed human and something that made the other odors even more bitter.