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

novel, the next to last. Today the final portrait would arrive. A character from his ninth novel, his last
novel. And then it would be over.

Or maybe just beginning.

How much did Michelle hate him? How badly had he wronged her? Cantling's hand shook; coffee
slopped over the top of the mug, burning his fingers. He winced, cried out. Pain was so inarticulate.
Burning. He thought of smoldering cigarettes, their tips like small red eyes. His stomach heaved. Cantling
lurched to his feet, rushed to the bathroom. He got there just in time, gave his breakfast to the bowl.
Afterwards he was too weak to move. He lay slumped against the cold white porcelain, his head
swimming. He imagined somebody coming up behind him, taking him by the hair, forcing his face down
into the water, flushing, flushing, laughing all the while, saying dirty, dirty, I'll get you clean, you're so dirty,
flushing, flushing so the toilet ran and ran, holding his face down so the water and the vomit filled his
mouth, his nostrils, until he could hardly breathe, until the world was almost black, until it was almost
over, and then up again, laughing while he sucked in air, and then pushing him down again, flushing again,
and again and again and again. But it was only his imagination. There was no one there. No one. Cantling
was alone in the bathroom.
He forced himself to stand. In the mirror his face was gray and ancient, his hair filthy and unkempt.
Behind him, leering over his shoulder, was another face. A man's face, pale and drawn, with black hair
parted in the middle and slicked back. Behind a pair of small round glasses were eyes the color of dirty
ice, eyes that moved constantly, frenetically, wild animals caught in a trap. They would chew off their own
limbs to be free, those eyes. Cantling blinked and the face was gone. He turned on the cold tap, plunged
his cupped hands under the stream, splashed water on his face. He could feel the stubble of his beard.
He needed to shave. But there wasn't time, it wasn't important, he had toтАжhe had toтАж

He had to do something. Get out of there. Get away, get to someplace safe, somewhere his children
couldn't find him.

But there was nowhere safe, he knew.

He had to reach Michelle, talk to her, explain, plead. She loved him. She would forgive him, she had to.
She would call it off, she would tell him what to do.

Frantic, Cantling rushed back to the living room, snatched up the phone. He couldn't remember
Michelle's number. He searched around, found his address book, flipped through it wildly. There, there;
he punched in the numbers.

The phone rang four times. Then someone picked it up.

"MichelleтАФ" he started.

"Hi," she said. "This is Michelle Cantling, but I'm not in right now. If you'll leave your name and number
when you hear the tone, I'll get back to you, unless you're selling something."

The beep sounded. "Michelle, are you there?" Cantling said. "I know you hide behind the machine
sometimes, when you don't want to talk. It's me. Please pick up. Please."

Nothing.

"Call me back, then," he said. He wanted to get it all in; his words tumbled over each other in their haste