Sachar: переводы

→She didn’t know what to do. She’d felt helpless a lot in the past few hours, but this was worse, somehow, because Michael and Eve were nowhere to be seen, and she wasn’t sure if Shane would have wanted them to see him like this. Or if he wanted her to see him like this. Shane was all about the pride.

→He was on his side on the floor, shuddering, curled up into a ball. Claire slid down next to him and put her hands on his broad back. Under the thin T-shirt his skin was clammy, and his muscles were as tense as steel cable. He was making these sounds, agonizing gasps that weren’t quite sobs but weren’t quite not, either.

→“Bad night,’” Claire said.

→“And I remembered.’”

→“I started working, too. Mom…she just stayed in the motel. Wouldn’t do anything except eat, sleep, sometimes take a bath if we yelled at her long enough. I figured, you know, depression…but it was more than that. One day, out of nowhere, she grabs me by the arm and she says, ‘Shane, do you remember your sister?’ So I go, ‘Yeah, Mom, of course I do.’ And she says the weirdest thing. She says, ‘Do you remember the vampires?’ I didn’t remember, but it felt—like something in me was trying to. I got a bad headache, and I felt sick. And Mom…she just kept on talking, about how there was something wrong with us, something going wrong in our heads. About the vampires. About Lyssa dying in the fire.’”

→He fell silent, still rolling the beer bottle like some kind of magic talisman. Nobody moved.

→“I make two things: bacon and eggs. And sometimes sandwiches. I hate cooking. Cooking reminds me of my mother.’” Eve took another pot from the rack and banged it down onto the massive stove. “Here.’”

→“Well, you can, but it tastes better if you warm it up.’”

→“Do we do that? I mean, it’s in a jar, right? Can’t you just dump it over the pasta?’”

→“Yeah,’” Claire agreed, not because she thought they would, but because, well, it seemed like the thing to say. “Want me to warm up the sauce?’”

→“Pretty much,’” Michael sighed. “Yeah.’”

→Michael didn’t answer him. Maybe there was no answer to that, Claire thought. She scooted closer to Shane and stroked his ragged, shoulder-length fine hair. “Hey,’” she said. “It’s okay. We’re all okay.’”

→“I know my dad,’” Shane said grimly. “Michael, I want you to know, I wasn’t—I didn’t come here to do his dirty work. Not…not after the first week or so.’”

→“Oh hell.’” Shane collapsed back on the sofa and put his head in his hands. “God, man, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’”

→He said it so matter-of-factly that Claire felt a shiver. “Do you remember…you know, what they did to you?’”

→“I die all the time. It doesn’t really take.’” Michael gave him a half smile that looked more grim than amused. “I figured it was better to let your dad think he’d taken me out. Maybe he wouldn’t be so hard on the rest of you.’” His gaze swept over the bruises on Shane’s face. “Brilliant plan. I’m sorry, man. Once I was dead, I couldn’t do much until night came around again.’”

→Michael came off the couch like somebody had pushed him; he reached down, grabbed Shane by the T-shirt, and yanked him upright. “Don’t,’” he said, and gave him one hard shake. “Your father’s an asshole. It’s not a disease. You don’t have to catch it.’”

→For a good ten seconds after the police closed the front door—or closed it as much as was possible with a busted lock—there was silence, and then Shane turned to Michael and said, “You fucking bastard.’” Claire swallowed hard at the tight fury in his voice.

→That wasn’t the end of it, but it was the end of her discussions with them; the police poked around a little, took some pictures, and left the house a few minutes later without another word to any of them.

→“Play around town, do you?’”