flynn_gillian_gone_girl (1) (858987), страница 56
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I want Nick to tell us what the hell is going on, because this whole thingis starting to stink. I never, I never—I never felt so foolish in my life.” She began crying,swiping away the tears, clearly furious at herself for crying. “We trusted you with ourdaughter. We trusted you, Nick. Just tell us the truth!” She put a quivering index ngerunder my nose.
“Is it true? Did you not want the baby? Did you not love Amy anymore?Did you hurt her?”I wanted to smack her. Marybeth and Rand had raised Amy. She was literally theirwork product. They had created her. I wanted to say the words Your daughter is themonster here, but I couldn’t—not until we’d told the police—and so I remaineddumbfounded, trying to think of what I could say. But I looked like I was stonewalling.“Marybeth, I would never—”“I would never, I could never, that’s all I hear from your goddamn mouth. You know, Ihate even looking at you anymore. I really do.
There’s something wrong with you.There’s something missing inside you, to act the way you’ve been acting. Even if it turnsout you’re totally blameless, I will never forgive you for how casually you’ve taken all ofthis. You’d think you mislaid a damn umbrella! After all Amy gave up for you, after allshe did for you, and this is what she gets in return. It— You— I don’t believe you, Nick.That’s what I came here to let you know.
I don’t believe in you. Not anymore.”She began sobbing, turned away, and ung herself out the front door as the thrilledcameramen lmed her. She got in the car, and two reporters pressed against thewindow, knocking on it, trying to get her to say something. In the living room, we couldhear them repeating and repeating her name. Marybeth—Marybeth—Rand remained, hands in his pockets, trying to gure out what role to play.
Tanner’svoice—we have to keep the Elliotts on our side—was Greek-chorusing in my ear.Rand opened his mouth, and I headed him off. “Rand, tell me what I can do.”“Just say it, Nick.”“Say what?”“I don’t want to ask, and you don’t want to answer. I get that. But I need to hear yousay it. You didn’t kill our daughter.”He laughed and teared up at the same time. “Jesus Christ, I can’t keep my headstraight,” Rand said.
He was turning pink, ushed, a nuclear sunburn. “I can’t gure outhow this is happening. I can’t gure it out!” He was still smiling. A tear dribbled on hischin and fell to his shirt collar. “Just say it, Nick.”“Rand, I did not kill Amy or hurt her in any way.” He kept his eyes on me. “Do youbelieve me, that I didn’t physically harm her?”Rand laughed again. “You know what I was about to say? I was about to say I don’tknow what to believe anymore. And then I thought, that’s someone else’s line.
That’s aline from a movie, not something I should be saying, and I wonder for a second, am I ina movie? Can I stop being in this movie? Then I know I can’t. But for a second, youthink, I’ll say something different, and this will all change. But it won’t, will it?”With one quick Jack Russell headshake, he turned and followed his wife to the car.Instead of feeling sad, I felt alarmed. Before the Elliotts were even out of mydriveway, I was thinking: We need to go to the cops quickly, soon. Before the Elliottsstarted discussing their loss of faith in public. I needed to prove my wife was not whoshe pretended to be.
Not Amazing Amy: Avenging Amy. I ashed to Tommy O’Hara—theguy who called the tip line three times, the guy Amy had accused of raping her. Tannerhad gotten some background on him: He wasn’t the macho Irishman I’d pictured fromhis name, not a re ghter or cop. He wrote for a humor website based in Brooklyn, adecent one, and his contributor photo revealed him to be a scrawny guy with darkframed glasses and an uncomfortable amount of thick black hair, wearing a wry grinand a T-shirt for a band called the Bingos.He picked up on the first ring.
“Yeah?”“This is Nick Dunne. You called me about my wife. Amy Dunne. Amy Elliott. I haveto talk with you.”I heard a pause, waited for him to hang up on me like Hilary Handy.“Call me back in ten minutes.”I did. The background was a bar, I knew the sound well enough: the murmur ofdrinkers, the clatter of ice cubes, the strange pops of noise as people called for drinks orhailed friends.
I had a burst of homesickness for my own place.“Okay, thanks,” he said. “Had to get to a bar. Seemed like a Scotch conversation.” Hisvoice got progressively closer, thicker: I could picture him huddling protectively over adrink, cupping his mouth to the phone.“So,” I began, “I got your messages.”“Right. She’s still missing, right? Amy?”“Yes.”“Can I ask you what you think has happened?” he said. “To Amy?”Fuck it, I wanted a drink. I went into my kitchen—next best thing to my bar—andpoured myself one. I’d been trying to be more careful about the booze, but it felt sogood: the tang of a Scotch, a dark room with the blinding sun right outside.“Can I ask you why you called?” I replied.“I’ve been watching the coverage,” he said.
“You’re fucked.”“I am. I wanted to talk to you because I thought it was … interesting that you’d try toget in touch. Considering. The rape charge.”“Ah, you know about that,” he said.“I know there was a rape charge, but I don’t necessarily believe you’re a rapist. Iwanted to hear what you had to say.”“Yeah.” I heard him take a gulp of his Scotch, kill it, shake the ice cubes around. “Icaught the story on the news one night. Your story. Amy’s.
I was in bed, eating Thai.Minding my own business. Totally fucked me in the head. Her after all these years.” Hecalled to the bartender for another. “So my lawyer said no way I should talk to you,but … what can I say? I’m too fucking nice. I can’t let you twist. God, I wish you couldstill smoke in bars. This is a Scotch and cigarette conversation.”“Tell me,” I said. “About the assault charge. The rape.”“Like I said, man, I’ve seen the coverage, the media is shitting all over you. I mean,you’re the guy. So I should leave well enough alone—I don’t need that girl back in mylife. Even, like, tangentially.
But shit. I wish someone had done me the favor.”“So do me the favor,” I said.“First of all, she dropped the charges—you know that, right?”“I know. Did you do it?”“Fuck you. Of course I didn’t do it. Did you do it?”“No.”“Well.”Tommy called again for his Scotch. “Let me ask: Your marriage was good? Amy washappy?”I stayed silent.“You don’t have to answer, but I’m going to guess no. Amy was not happy. Forwhatever reason. I’m not even going to ask. I can guess, but I’m not going to ask.
But Iknow you must know this: Amy likes to play God when she’s not happy. Old TestamentGod.”“Meaning?”“She doles out punishment,” Tommy said. “Hard.” He laughed into the phone. “Imean, you should see me,” he said. “I do not look like some alpha-male rapist. I looklike a twerp. I am a twerp. My go-to karaoke song is ‘Sister Christian,’ for crying outloud. I weep during Godfather II.
Every time.” He coughed after a swallow. Seemed like amoment to loosen him up.“Fredo?” I asked.“Fredo, man, yeah. Poor Fredo.”“Stepped over.”Most men have sports as the lingua-franca of dudes. This was the lm-geekequivalent to discussing some great play in a famous football game. We both knew theline, and the fact that we both knew it eliminated a good day’s worth of are we copaceticsmall talk.He took another drink. “It was so fucking absurd.”“Tell me.”“You’re not taping this or anything, right? No one’s listening in? Because I don’twant that.”“Just us. I’m on your side.”“So I meet Amy at a party—this is, like, seven years ago now—and she’s so damncool. Just hilarious and weird and … cool.
We just clicked, you know, and I don’t clickwith a lot of girls, at least not girls who look like Amy. So I’m thinking … well, rst I’mthinking I’m being punked. Where’s the catch, you know? But we start dating, and wedate a few months, two, three months, and then I nd out the catch: She’s not the girl Ithought I was dating. She can quote funny things, but she doesn’t actually like funnythings. She’d rather not laugh, anyway.
In fact, she’d rather that I not laugh either, or befunny, which is awkward since it’s my job, but to her, it’s all a waste of time. I mean, Ican’t even gure out why she started dating me in the rst place, because it seemspretty clear that she doesn’t even like me. Does that make sense?”I nodded, swallowed a gulp of Scotch. “Yeah. It does.”“So, I start making excuses not to hang out so much. I don’t call it o , because I’m anidiot, and she’s gorgeous. I’m hoping it might turn around. But you know, I’m makingexcuses fairly regularly: I’m stuck at work, I’m on deadline, I have a friend in town, mymonkey is sick, whatever. And I start seeing this other girl, kinda sorta seeing her, verycasual, no big deal.
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