Gerald's Game - Stephen King [35]
'It's a jungle out there, baby,' Jessie said in her dusty, croaky voice, and realized she was now doing more than just thinking in Ruth Neary's voice; she actually sounded like Ruth, who in their college days would have lived on a diet of nothing but Dewar's and Marlboros, if left to her own devices.
That tough no-bullshit voice spoke up then, as if Jessie had rubbed a magic lamp. Remember that Nick Lowe song you heard on WBLM when you were coming home from your pottery class one day last winter? The one that made you laugh?
She did. She didn't want to, but she did. It had been a Nick Lowe tune she believed had been titled 'She Used to Be a Winner (Now She's just the Doggy's Dinner)', a cynically amusing pop meditation on loneliness set to an incongruously sunny beat. Amusing as hell last winter, yes, Ruth was right about that, but not so amusing now.
'Stop it, Ruth,' she croaked. 'If you're going to freeload in my head, at least have the decency to quit teasing me.'
Teasing you? Jesus, tootsie, I'm not teasing you; I'm trying to wake you up!
'I am awake!' she said querulously. On the take the loon cried out again, as if to back her up on that. 'Partly thanks to you!'
No, you're not. You haven't been awake — really awake — for a long time. When something bad happens, Jess, do you know what you do? You tell yourself, 'Oh, this is nothing to worry about, this is just a bad dream, I get them every now and then, they're no big deal, and as soon as I roll over on my back again I'll be fine.' And that's what you do, you poor sap. That's just what you do.
Jessie opened her mouth to reply — such canards should not go unanswered, dry mouth and sore throat or not — but Goodwife Burlingame had mounted the ramparts before Jessie herself could do more than begin to organize her thoughts.
How can you say such awful things? You're horrible! Go away!
Ruth's no-bullshit voice uttered its cynical bark of laughter again, and Jessie thought how disquieting — how horribly disquieting — it was to hear part of your mind laughing in the make-believe voice of an old acquaintance who was long gone to God knew where.
Go away? You'd like that, wouldn't you? Tootsie-Wootsie, Puddin' 'n' Pie, Daddy's little girl. Any time the truth gets too close, any time you start to suspect the dream is maybe not just a dream, you run away.
That's ridiculous.
It is? Then what happened to Nora Callighan?
For a moment that shocked Goody's voice — and her own, the one that usually spoke both aloud and in her mind as 'I' — to silence, but in that silence a strange, familiar image formed: a circle of laughing, pointing people — mostly women — standing around a young girl with her head and hands in stocks. She was hard to see because it was very dark — it should still have been full daylight but was for some reason very dark, just the same but the girl's face would have been hidden even if the day had been bright. Her hair hung over it like a penitent's shroud, although it was hard to believe she could have done anything too horrible; she was clearly no more than twelve or so. Whatever it was she was being punished for, it couldn't be for hurting her husband. This particular daughter of Eve was too young to have even begun her monthly courses, let alone have a husband.
No, that's not true, a voice from the deeper ranges of her mind suddenly spoke up. This voice was both musical yet frighteningly powerful, like the cry of a whale. She started when she was only ten and a half. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he smelled blood, just like that dog out in the entry. Maybe it made him frantic.
Shut up! Jessie cried. She felt suddenly frantic herself Shut up, we don't talk about that!
And speaking of smells, what's that other one? Ruth asked. Now the mental voice was harsh and eager . . . the voice of a