Night Train by Martin Amis Page A

the connection here, I wonder. Exposure to the natural processes of death, disease, and decay, maybe. Or just exposure to suffering—often dumb suffering. And availability of means. The studies talk about 'role strain.' But police have role strain too. And although we're prone to suicide, we're nothing like these fucking kamikazes in their sky-blue smocks. Retirement time sees all of us most at risk. I think it's to do with power. With the daily exercise of power and what happens to you when it's taken away.
           I looked up from my notes. Something shifted in Tulkinghorn's focus. He contemplated me. I was no longer his interrogator. I was Detective Mike Hoolihan, whom he knew: A police and an alcoholic. And a patient. His washed eyes now regarded me with approval, but a cold approval, one that gave no lift to the spirit. To his or to mine.
           'You've kept yourself in shape, Detective.'
           'Yes, sir.'
           'No recurrences of that nonsense.'
           'None.'
           'Good. You've seen just about everything too, haven't you?'
           'Just about. Yes, sir, I believe I have.'
           When I got back home I dug out the list I'd compiled on my return from the funeral. Briskly, boldly, this list is headed, Stressors and Precipitants. But what follows now seems vague as rain: 1. Significant Other? Trader. Things he didn't see?
           2. Money?
           3. Job?
           4. Physical Health?
           5. Mental Health? Nature of disorder: a. psychological? b. ideational/organic? c. metaphysical?
           6. 'Deep' Secret? Trauma? Childhood?
           7. 'Other' Significant Other?
           Now I cross out 4. Which leaves me wondering what I mean by 5 c). And thinking about 7. Is Mr. Seven her lithium connect?
     
     
     
    A SENSE OF AN ENDING
     
    Death scenes are as delicate as orchids. Like death chemistry itself, they seem committed to the business of deterioration and decay. But my death scene has eternal youth. It still has the sash on the door. Do Not Cross. I cross.
           The blood on the bedroom wall looks black now, with just the faintest undercoat of rust. At the top of the splatter, near the ceiling, the smallest drops gather like tadpoles, their tails pointing away from the site of the wound. A rectangular section of the wall has been removed by the science team, right in the middle of the base smear, where the bullet hole was. Then the downward swipe from the wedged towel.
           I think of Trader, and find that I am contemplating the scene as largely an interior-decoration problem. I want to get out the mop and make a start on it myself. When he returns, will he be able to sleep in this room? How many licks of paint will he want? Surprisingly, I think I am finding a friend in Trader Faulkner. Barely a week after I tried my level best to flake him into the lethal injection, I am finding a friend in Trader Faulkner. I talked with him at the wake at the Rockwells'. It is his key I hold in my hand. He has told me where to look for everything.
           Jennifer kept all her personal papers in a locked blue trunk in the living area, and I have a key for that too. But first I quickly cover the apartment from room to room, just to get a feel: Post-its on the mirror above the telephone, magnetic Scrabble pieces on the fridge door (saying MILK and FILTERS), a bathroom cabinet containing cosmetics and shampoos and a few patented medicines. In the bedroom closet her sweaters are stacked in plastic covers. Her underwear drawer is a galaxy—star-bright...
           It used to be said, not so long ago, that every suicide gave Satan special pleasure. I don't think that's true—unless it isn't true either that the Devil is a gentleman. If the Devil has no class at all, then okay, I agree: He gets a bang out of suicide. Because suicide is a mess. As a subject for study, suicide is perhaps uniquely incoherent. And the