by Craig Cabell
His first stab at a poetry competition won him second prize. The poem was called Euthanasia, a dark subject to say the least. He was 17. He didn’t publicise his success to his friends and family. He kept his hobby secret, an unrequited love affair, which he knew would be vehemently rejected by his friends, as he explains: ‘Growing up in a rough mining town I couldn’t say to my friends that I sat in my room writing poetry, song lyrics for non-existent bands and short stories. They would have smacked me in the mouth and called me a poof.’10
Rankin could have kept the whole thing a secret if he hadn’t been so successful! Suddenly he won both a poetry competition and a short story competition and found himself mentioned in the local newspapers, where he finally had to admit his secret passion for words. It was a shock to both friends and family alike. However, this small-minded mentality wasn’t shared by his English teacher, Mr Gillespie, who recognised his writing talents and encouraged him. Rankin pushed on, writing a story set in his own school, where a poster of Mick Jagger took on satanic powers and sent the children on a blood-curdling rampage (something he would later admit had more than a passing influence from Lord of the Flies). So Ian Rankin was a horror writer? Well, no, but the darkness in life has always interested him and, let us remind ourselves of the title of that award-winning poem, Euthanasia, and appreciate that death is not the end for Ian Rankin; it’s simply the part where the analysis of the dead by the living begins!
It was partially Mr Gillespie’s encouragement that inspired Rankin to go on to higher education. This was where tutors and academics began to advise him to great effect, a process that seemed to shape his literary growth throughout his education, especially at university, where there were more older, wiser teachers and writers to guide him.
Rankin always listened to the older literary voice (even those ghosts that whispered from bookshelves) and it stood him in good stead too. This isn’t a new concept: authors such as Campbell Armstrong, James Herbert and Clive Barker experienced similar support; and it’s good to see young talent being spotted by teachers at all levels, people who can detect the shining diamonds. It doesn’t have to be subjects like English or art – sport and the sciences have their child stars too.
So Ian Rankin went to university at the age of 18 and pursued a literary career? Not quite. New Wave beckoned first! Around 1979/80 (aged 19/20) Rankin became a member of a punk rock band: ‘I have always liked music but never had the patience – or skill – to learn an instrument. I used my poetry as song lyrics. We recorded five songs for a demo tape, but got nowhere. We only played six or seven times.’11
Music is a constant in Rankin’s books and it seems logical that he would try his hand along the way. In fact, quite recently, Rankin has teamed up with Aidan Moffat and St Jude’s Infirmary to write songs and he has also toured with Jackie Leven – albeit reciting a short story, not contributing song lyrics!12 He’s also a self-confessed vinyl junkie, who constantly scans the record shops for more obscure albums to satiate his eclectic tastes.
His love of music and books settled him down to university life, but it was here that his personal life took a serious knock-back: his mother fell gravely ill. Her slow death made things very challenging for the young man, as he explained in a very tender interview with Andrew Preston for Night & Day:‘I was busy as a student during the week and then going home on a Friday night to see my mum. It was a terrible situation because I hated to go home and see her slowly deteriorate. One day I was sitting on her bed and she said she wished she was dead. How do you respond to that?’
Simply, Rankin responded by working his socks off and giving his mother – or her lasting memory – something to be proud of.13 He no longer had to be a closet academic: he was with like-minded people at university and his future path was clear. ‘When I went to university in Edinburgh it became a great release. Suddenly there were groups of people writing. I went to pubs and I’d see a famous poet.’ This thrilled the young man and inspired him to travel onwards; however, he did become slightly despondent at the lack of novelists in Edinburgh, as he stated:‘There were not so many famous novelists in Edinburgh, which was a little frustrating for me. There were some in Glasgow but not Edinburgh.’14
This is a very important point. The urge to be a novelist was there as soon as he went to university and he was frustrated that having ‘come out’ as a writer, he didn’t find any kindred spirits. There were other people writing and talking about books but no fellow would-be novelists. So he found one – a hero – somebody to emulate, focus on, aspire to. ‘William Mcllvanney was my great influence. He wrote three crime novels but he was a serious literary writer. He had won the Whitbread Prize and I thought, If it’s good enough for him then it’s good enough for me.’15
Again, Rankin’s single-minded determination is clear. Already we are talking crime fiction here and he finds an academic crime writer to have as a major influence, to justify his passion for his chosen pursuit. No surprise then that he would study English Literature and English Language at Edinburgh University. All the eggs were going into one basket and his passion paid off when he graduated in 1982.
It wasn’t all plain sailing from then on. It may look easy when laid down in a book where we all know the final outcome, but that period was tough for Rankin – not just the death of his mother and his studies, but the lack of money and the Edinburgh cold too. In his book Rebus’s Scotland, he described the bitter mornings where he walked into the freezing Edinburgh wind to attend lectures and lessons. Initially he lived a 15-minute walk away at Marchmont; but the student life is a maverick one at the best of times and he moved around a lot from there.
Having little money and living in small flats gives students perception and independence and Rankin found time to think more about his hobby of writing. He moved into Edinburgh’s New Town, but the weather was still miserable and he still needed to walk up the big hill into the Old Town to attend lectures every day.
‘… that bitter and biting wind which whipped across the streets of Edinburgh in summer as well as winter.’
Wolfman
These early years left a vivid impression on the young man. When, much later, a novelist and living in the relative warmth of the south of France (for six years), Rankin could still summon vivid images of Edinburgh’s tough winters: they were ingrained in his mind. They were strong memories of his university days, of walking the characteristic streets, and those streets forged the writer we know today: a man passionate about location and that location is quite often – but not always – Edinburgh, his spiritual home, the place that shaped him into the person he was destined to be, a best-selling novelist. It was a place where he truly came of age or, more accurately, fulfilled his potential; a place he calls his hometown nowadays – and that is important to understand. Rankin will always tell you that he is from the Kingdom of Fife but his hometown is Edinburgh, the home of many of Scotland’s literary greats. And he takes great comfort from their spiritual presence.
‘Rebus turned and found himself confronting a statue of Sir Walter Scott… Scott looked as though he’d heard every word but wasn’t about to pass judgement.
“Keep it that way,” Rebus warned, not caring who might hear.’
Mortal Causes
Between 1983 and 1986 Rankin worked on a PhD thesis on the work of Muriel Spark. It was at this point that he became heavily involved in his own writing, which did cause him some concern. ‘I’d gone through university, done my MA in American Literature, a PhD on the novels of Muriel Spark and I was going to be an academic. I was sitting in a library all day poring over books. And to write a crime novel was a bit of a problem in as much as it was working below the level I was currently working at. How could I go to university professors and say, “I write crime novels”? I thought they’d just laugh at me. But when William Mcllvanney did it, I suddenly thought that it was OK to do it.’16
Yes, Rankin did question his dream but again found a kindred spirit in an older, wiser academic,
not just his favourite author. ‘There was a writer in residence. A lovely guy called Allan Massie, who was a serious novelist and I would take things along for him to look at. I told him that I thought I should be writing for my peers but I found that I was writing for a bigger audience. He agreed with me, saying that I may not get the kudos but I’d certainly get the cash!’17
So Rankin quickly learned that it was important to get paid and make a living. This is an important point because without money coming in after his academic studies, his dream would fail. The practicalities of life were merged with his dream of literary pursuit and fitted well; it justified becoming a crime writer. This explains why Rankin had a series of different jobs after university. They were there to pay for his literary dream, even when he started writing the Rebus series – indeed he worked as a grape-picker and swineherd during his six years in France – but before then he was an alcohol researcher, taxman, college secretary. He was also a Literature tutor at the University of Edinburgh, where he retains an involvement with the James Tait Black Memorial Prize to this day.
When Rankin talks about these episodes in his life, they are always light-hearted. For example, alcohol researcher? Well, not so strange perhaps: this was a serious academic study. ‘Being an alcohol researcher was the closest I ever became to being a private eye! It was a study at Edinburgh University and they got these 13-year-olds and questioned them on their drinking habits. Three years later, they went back to interview the kids again to see how they had changed. And I was on the second stage of this. I was given a list of names and addresses and I couldn’t find these folk. So I had to track them down, get them on their own, without their parents around, so I could get some decent answers out of them. And I would be asking the same set of questions as they were asked previously. I got paid for each one.’18
So the job of alcohol researcher was a very serious one; Rankin wasn’t just sitting in a pub drinking. But what did he find out from the study? ‘I think what we ultimately found out was that 13-year-olds lie an awful lot about how much they drink! I could see it in their eyes when I asked them, “How much did you drink last night?” The answer would be, “Oh, 15, maybe 16 pints.” So then I would ask them how much money they took out with them, to which the answer was invariably about five quid!’19
It was his experiences in and around the end of his university days that helped him with his Rebus series. The thought of Rankin sitting down with a 16-year-old lad questioning him on his drinking habits of the night before is so typically Rebus in pursuit of evidence to solve a major crime. That said, his brief experiences with adolescent drinking habits, intermixed with the antics of his own group of friends growing up in Cardenden, could have given him the grounding for a career as a social worker, but then again, some policemen feel like glorified social workers anyway!
‘People say the Krays had a deprived upbringing and that this could have been what turned them to crime, but I reckon there was more money coming into their house than into ours.’
The Man Who Nicked the Krays Nipper Read
Let us analyse all of this information for a moment, substituting Rankin for Rebus. Let’s see how much of Rankin was Rebus before the detective was even a twinkle in his creator’s eye. There’s the tough Fife upbringing, the street-wise perception and the promise that physically he could handle himself. Then there is the independence and training that university life would offer Rankin – that would be the Armed Forces and Police Force for Rebus. And the questioning of youths on their drinking habits? That’s the social conscience of both Rebus and Rankin going to work; although Rebus would incur greater attitude in the ‘interview room’ than Rankin, especially as he got older!
The worldly wise aspect for Rankin was developed quite young. He had even experienced the death of a parent.
So we know what formed the writer and we appreciate where death touched his own life; but what brought all these threads together and created Rebus?
It wasn’t a person. It was a city: Edinburgh, that cradle of Scottish fiction.
“Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, And grace my fears relieved.’
Amazing Grace
CHAPTER TWO
EDINBURGH, A TOWN CALLED JEKYLL AND HYDE
Craig Cabell: Sum up Edinburgh in one word? Ian Rankin: Villagey.
Author interview, 26 July 2009
Some tourists emerge from Waverley station, deep in the heart of Edinburgh, and catch their breath: the ancient castle perched on the rocky hillside, the distinctive architecture of the tall buildings amidst the glitzy new shops on Princes Street, the sound of bagpipes emanating from the busy thoroughfare… These immediate images are strong, forceful, thrilling and fulfil the expectation of the average tourist, but there are other people who emerge from the station and see nothing but derelict souls in the dark, washed-out facades of the old buildings and ominous shadows slumbering beside the high-street shops.
‘… the castle balanced solidly atop… crenellated building bricks. The orange street lamps are crumpled toffee-wrappers glued to lollipop sticks.’
Dead Souls
Waverley station and Princes Street Gardens are the central locations that separate the Old Town of Edinburgh from the New Town and, the power of looking left at one thing and then right at another is a spectacle that leaves an indelible impression on many a tourist. The old and the new, the dark and the light, the Jekyll and Hyde; Edinburgh very quickly works its dark magic on the impressionable and is conjured in my mind by a passage from Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Slaying of Támanteá: ‘For fear inhabits the palace and grudging grows in the land.’ There’s almost a tangible fear embedded in Edinburgh’s ancient countenance. It’s conjured by the antique architecture of the city against the backdrop of the older – unspoilt – hinterland. That’s the ‘grudging’ Stevenson alludes to, as if the preservation of such things allows these ancient emotions to linger – fester– for the sensitive to receive if they dare. Stevenson warns us in the same poem: ‘And woe to him that comes short, and woe to him that delayed!’
Not everyone will detect the power of the yin and yang of Edinburgh: it’s something that falls to a certain type of person with a certain turn of imagination. For hundreds of years Scottish writers have been writing about it and perhaps it’s to them that Edinburgh offers the most intrigue and spectacle. Some may argue that Stevenson’s poem has nothing to do with Edinburgh, but I see much of Stevenson discussing his hometown in the broader canvas of his work than he is given credit for. (Even though Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde is set in London, it is about Edinburgh…)
‘But I had other matters on my hand more pressing. Here I was in this old, black city, which was for all the world like a rabbit-warren, not only by the number of its indwellers, but the complication of its passages and holes. It was indeed a place where no stranger had a chance to find a friend, let be another stranger. Suppose him even to hit on the right close, people dwelt so thronged in these tall houses, he might very well seek a day before he chanced on the right door.’
Robert Louis Stevenson, Catriona
Not all writers are as harsh as Stevenson. Muriel Spark sums up the city’s cry for help in one poignant sentence:
‘Sandy was bored, it did not seem necessary that the world should be saved, only that the poor people in the streets and slums of Edinburgh should be relieved.’
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
From the ancient writer to the most modern, these men and women have tried to lay open the heart of Edinburgh, to get under its skin, to touch its soul, to understand it, to unlock its secrets and let the ancient corruptions pour out. For example, Edinburgh Castle, an active garrison to this day, has a dark, murky past, full of bloodshed and dark adventure, but it’s also a catalyst for pride, patriotism and the perceived euphoria we all get from Robert Burns’ Auld Lang Syne. Edinburgh, in that respect, is a mass of contradictions, as dark and ominous as the ancient passageways in both the Old and the New Towns.
Some people do not choose to see beneath the veneer of the city. They shy away from the little dark alleys that are nothing but slits split between buildings. They pull children along, travelling by main road only, and choose only that highway for the rest of their lives. But the washed-out recesses are rich pockets of possibility for a writer – and criminal! – where something sinister must have happened in the distant past or will happen very soon! Edinburgh provokes those with a dark imagination, as Rankin enthuses: ‘There were no Ripper murders in Edinburgh… plenty of other grim stuff was happening though!’20 He almost says this with glee, overwhelmed by the myriad possibilities for his Edinburgh-based crime fiction.
Scotland has bred incredible literary giants: Burns, Scott, Stevenson, Conan Doyle, all of whom cut a nook out of the ancient city stone and spoke their minds of its influence. But one doesn’t have to travel back to Victorian times to feel the presence of great literary influence. Contemporary writers such as Muriel Spark and Ian Rankin have carved a devilish niche in the ancient castle cliff-side all of their own. One astute reviewer mentioned that Rankin had not endeared himself to the Scottish Tourist Board after his first few Inspector Rebus novels, and that is probably quite true, because Rankin is a very keen observer of the darkness that slumbers below the surface of the shortbread and Royal Mile Whisky and he has refused to shy away from confronting it.
Rankin is aware of the ancient evils of his adopted city and, more importantly, the new crimes that fester in its arms today. But that higher state of awareness concerning his surroundings has always been there along with the author’s natural leaning towards social issues and their effects on people’s lives. Back in his youth, in Mr Gillespie’s English class, when given the line ‘Dark they were and golden-eyed’, as a phrase to base a short story upon, Rankin chose: ‘worried parents searching a busy squat for their drug-addict son.’21 So there is the proof of that deep-rooted sensitivity to people’s emotions that Rankin was born with, or at least understood, from a very early age.
