"George R. R. Martin - Portraits of His Children" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

Cantling stroked her hair, long slow steady motions, saying nothing.

"When I was little, you remember, whenever I fell down or got in a fight, I'd come running to you, all
teary, and show you my booboo. That's what I used to call it when I got hurt, remember, I'd say I had a
booboo."

"I remember," Cantling said.

"And you, you'd always hug me and you'd say, 'Show me where it hurts,' and I would and you'd kiss it
and make it better, you remember that? Show me where it hurts?"

Cantling nodded. "Yes," he said softly.

Michelle was crying quietly. He could feel the wetness soaking through the top of his pajamas. "I can't
take it back with me, Daddy. I want to show you where it hurts. Please. Please."
He kissed the top of her head. "Go on."

She started at the beginning, in a halting whisper.

When dawn light broke through the bedroom windows, she was still talking. They never slept. She cried
a lot, screamed once or twice, shivered frequently despite the weight of the blankets; Richard Cantling
never let go of her, not once, not for a single moment. She showed him where it hurt.

Barry Leighton sighed. "It was a far, far better thing you did than you had ever done," he said. "Now if
you'd only gone off to that far, far better rest right then and there, that very moment, everything would
have been fine." He shook his head. "You never did know when to write Thirty, Cantling."

"Why?" Cantling demanded. "You're a good man, Leighton, tell me. Why is this happening. Why?"

The reporter shrugged. He was beginning to fade now. "That was the W that always gave me the most
trouble," he said wearily. "Pick the story, and let me loose, and I could tell you the who and the what and
the when and the where and even the how. But the whyтАж ah, Cantling, you're the novelist, the whys are
your province, not mine. The only Y that I ever really got on speaking terms with was the one goes with
MCA."

Like the Cheshire cat, his smile lingered long after the rest of him was gone. Richard Cantling sat staring
at the empty chair, at the abandoned tumbler, watching the whisky-soaked ice cubes melt slowly.

He did not remember falling asleep. He spent the night in the chair, and woke stiff and achy and cold. His
dreams had been dark and shapeless and full of fear. He had slept well into the afternoon; half the day
was gone. He made himself a tasteless breakfast in a kind of fog. He seemed distant from his own body,
and every motion was slow and clumsy. When the coffee was ready, he poured a cup, picked it up,
dropped it. The mug broke into a dozen pieces. Cantling stared down at it stupidly, watching rivulets of
hot brown liquid run between the tiles. He did not have the energy to clean it up. He got a fresh mug,
poured more coffee, managed to get down a few swallows.

The bacon was too salty; the eggs were runny, disgusting. Cantling pushed the meal away half-eaten, and
drank more of the black, bitter coffee. He felt hung-over, but he knew that booze was not the problem.

Today, he thought. It will end today, one way or the other. She will not go back. ByeLine was his eighth