flynn_gillian_gone_girl (1) (858987), страница 74
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I was just afraid.”This means nothing, but I know it will get him hard.I kiss him again, and then I ask him if he will take me into our bedroom.In the bedroom, he begins undressing me slowly, kissing parts of my body that havenothing to do with sex—my shoulder, my ear—while I delicately guide him away frommy wrists and ankles. Just fuck me, for Christ’s sake. Ten minutes in and I grab his handand thrust it between my legs.“Are you sure?” he says, pulling back from me, ushed, a loop of his hair falling overhis forehead, just like in high school. We could be back in my dorm room, for all theprogress Desi has made.“Yes, darling,” I say, and I reach modestly for his cock.Another ten minutes and he’s nally between my legs, pumping gently, slowly,slowly, making love.
Pausing for kisses and caresses until I grab him by the buttocks andbegin pushing him. “Fuck me,” I whisper, “fuck me hard.”He stops. “It doesn’t have to be like that, Amy. I’m not Nick.”Very true. “I know, darling, I just want you to … to fill me. I feel so empty.”That gets him. I grimace over his shoulder as he thrusts a few more times and comes,me realizing it almost too late—Oh, this is his pathetic cum-sound—and faking quick oohsand ahhs, gentle kittenish noises. I try to work up some tears because I know heimagines me crying with him the first time.“Darling, you’re crying,” he says as he slips out of me.
He kisses a tear.“I’m just happy,” I say. Because that’s what those kinds of women say.I have mixed up some martinis, I announce—Desi loves a decadent afternoon drink—and when he makes a move to put on his shirt and fetch them, I insist he stay in bed.“I want to do something for you for a change,” I say.So I scamper into the kitchen and get two big martini glasses, and into mine I putgin and a single olive.
Into his I put three olives, gin, olive juice, vermouth, and the lastof my sleeping pills, three of them, crushed.I bring the martinis, and there is snuggling and nuzzling, and I slurp my gin whilethis happens. I have an edge that must be dulled.“Don’t you like my martini?” I ask when he has only a sip. “I always pictured beingyour wife and making you martinis. I know that’s silly.”I begin a pout.“Oh, darling, not silly at all.
I was just taking my time, enjoying. But—” He guzzlesthe whole thing down. “If it makes you feel better!”He is giddy, triumphant. His cock is slick with conquest. He is, basically, like all men.Soon he is sleepy, and after that he is snoring.And I can begin.part threeBOY GETS GIRL BACK (OR VICE VERSA)NICK DUNNEFORTY DAYS GONEOut on bond, awaiting trial. I’d been processed and released—the depersonalized inand-outing of jail, the bond hearing, the ngerprints and photos, the rotating and theshu ing and the handling; it didn’t make me feel like an animal, it made me feel like aproduct, something created on an assembly line. What they were creating was NickDunne, Killer.
It would be months until we’d begin my trial (my trial: the word stillthreatened to undo me completely, turn me into a high-pitched giggler, a madman). Iwas supposed to feel privileged to be out on bond: I had stayed put even when it wasclear I was going to be arrested, so I was deemed no ight risk. Boney might have put ina good word for me too.
So I got to be in my own home for a few more months before Iwas carted off to prison and killed by the state.Yes, I was a lucky, lucky man.It was mid-August, which I found continually strange: It’s still summer, I’d think. Howcan so much have happened and it’s not even autumn? It was brutally warm. Shirtsleeveweather, was how my mom would have described it, forever more concerned with herchildren’s comfort than the actual Fahrenheit. Shirtsleeve weather, jacket weather,overcoat weather, parka weather—the Year in Outerwear.
For me this year, it would behandcu weather, then possibly prison-jumpsuit weather. Or funeral-suit weather,because I didn’t plan on going to prison. I’d kill myself first.Tanner had a team of ve detectives trying to track Amy down. So far, nothing. Liketrying to catch water. Every day for weeks, I’d done my little shitty part: videotape amessage to Amy and post it on young Rebecca’s Whodunnit blog. (Rebecca, at least, hadremained loyal.) In the videos, I wore clothes Amy had bought me, and I brushed myhair the way she liked, and I tried to read her mind.
My anger toward her was likeheated wire.The camera crews parked themselves on my lawn most mornings. We were like rivalsoldiers, rooted in shooting distance for months, eyeing each other across no-man’s-land,achieving some sort of perverted fraternity. There was one guy with a voice like acartoon strongman whom I’d become attached to, sight unseen. He was dating a girl hereally, really liked. Every morning his voice boomed in through my windows as heanalyzed their dates; things seemed to be going very well. I wanted to hear how thestory ended.I nished my evening taping to Amy. I was wearing a green shirt she liked on me,and I’d been telling her the story of how we rst met, the party in Brooklyn, my awfulopening line, just one olive, that embarrassed me every time Amy mentioned it.
I talkedabout our exit from the oversteamed apartment out into the crackling cold, with herhand in mine, the kiss in the cloud of sugar. It was one of the few stories we told thesame way. I said it all in the cadence of a bedtime tale: soothing and familiar andrepetitive. Always ending with Come home to me, Amy.I turned o the camera and sat back on the couch (I always lmed while sitting onthe couch under her pernicious, unpredictable cuckoo clock, because I knew if I didn’tshow her cuckoo clock, she’d wonder whether I had nally gotten rid of her cuckooclock, and then she’d stop wondering whether I had nally gotten rid of her cuckooclock and simply come to believe it was true, and then no matter what sweet wordscame out of my mouth, she’d silently counter with: “and yet he tossed out my cuckooclock”).
The cuckoo was, in fact, soon to pop out, its grinding windup beginning overmy head—a sound that inevitably made my jaw tense—when the camera crews outsideemitted a loud, collective, oceanic wushing. Somebody was here. I heard the seagullcries of a few female news anchors.Something is wrong, I thought.The doorbell rang three times in a row: Nick-nick! Nick-nick! Nick-nick!I didn’t hesitate. I had stopped hesitating over the past month: Bring on the troubleposthaste.I opened the door.It was my wife.Back.Amy Elliott Dunne stood barefoot on my doorstep in a thin pink dress that clung toher as if it were wet. Her ankles were ringed in dark violet. From one limp wristdangled a piece of twine.
Her hair was short and frayed at the ends, as if it had beencarelessly chopped by dull scissors. Her face was bruised, her lips swollen. She wassobbing.When she ung her arms out toward me, I could see her entire midsection wasstained with dried blood. She tried to speak; her mouth opened, once, twice, silent, amermaid washed ashore.“Nick!” she nally keened—a wail that echoed against all the empty houses—and fellinto my arms.I wanted to kill her.Had we been alone, my hands might have found their place around her neck, myngers locating perfect grooves in her esh.
To feel that strong pulse under myngers … but we weren’t alone, we were in front of cameras, and they were realizingwho this strange woman was, they were coming to life as sure as the cuckoo clockinside, a few clicks, a few questions, then an avalanche of noise and light. The cameraswere blasting us, the reporters closing in with microphones, everyone yelling Amy’sname, screaming, literally screaming. So I did the right thing, I held her to me andhowled her name right back: “Amy! My God! My God! My darling!” and buried my facein her neck, my arms wrapped tight around her, and let the cameras get their fteenseconds, and I whispered deep inside her ear, “You fucking bitch.” Then I stroked herhair, I cupped her face in my two loving hands, and I yanked her inside.Outside our door, a rock concert was demanding its encore: Amy! Amy! Amy!Someone threw a scattering of pebbles at our window.
Amy! Amy! Amy!My wife took it all as her due, uttering a dismissive hand toward the rabble outside.She turned to me with a worn but triumphant smile—the smile on the rape victim, theabuse survivor, the bed burner in the old TV movies, the smile where the bastard hasnally received due justice and we know our heroine will be able to move on with life!Freeze frame.I gestured to the twine, the hacked hair, the dried blood. “So, what’s your story,wife?”“I’m back,” she whimpered. “I made it back to you.” She moved to put her armsaround me.
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