Time Nebula
We're in the Time Nebula, the period between midnight and two in the morning that, once each twice a year, expands or contracts, depending on the season. Tonight, it will contract: 2:00 AM will instantly become 3:00 AM. You could call this "expansion," but the fact is that an entire hour will be erased from the records. I had so much trouble with the time change until I memorized "Spring Forward, Fall Back." The phone rang a little while ago; it was Kathleen, saying that she was going to bed. She'll fly home tomorrow. The phone also rang a little before that; Caller ID told me that it was M le Neveu, but when I picked up, all I heard were the party sounds at the other end. I happened to know that the young 'uns would be at a party this evening, so that didn't surprise me, but presently I realized that M le Neveu had sat on his phone in a funny way, or reached into his pocket for something else, and was in any case utterly unaware of calling me. I did the only thing I could think of: I called Ms NOLA's cell phone to advise her of the situation. I had to leave a message, because Ms NOLA either rightly decided that she could talk to me some other time or had her phone off. Having just finished Fleshmarket Close, Ian Rankin's latest, I'm inclined to doubt my own understanding of what happened. Maybe the call wasn't really an unintended error.
What to say about Ian Rankin? In a word, "wrong question." What to say about John Rebus and Siobhan Clarke? Here's what: will they ever get married? They've been edging toward for books and books, and Fleshmarket Close ends with the door more ajar than ever. Here's my call: John Rebus is about to retire. So he can marry Siobhan without the major competitive issues that would transform their current cooperation into a rivalry. Siobhan can have the career that John never had, because she's far better behaved, and also, being a woman, a better listener. Undeterred by legal restraints, Rebus could take even crazier risks than he already does. One thing is sure, I expect: there will be no Rebus kiddies. No more Rebus kiddies, that is. Siobhan Clarke would marry John Rebus because he would be the only man who wouldn't expect her to bear his children.
Looking over the preceding, I see that it assumes a familiarity with Mr Rankin's series of Edinburgh polars. I could make the tenor of these novels instantly evident by taking the easy route of naming the actors who have impersonated Rebus and Clarke in my mind from the get-go. But that would plant a virile seed in the minds of new readers, while exciting all sorts of outrage from fans. If you really want to know whom I see as "playing" these detectives, you'll have to write to me and ask. Even if you ask me, though, I'm not going to mention the "issue" that distinguishes Fleshmarket Close, because even though Mr Rankin handles it with cunning adroitness, it's hardly a come-on.
Which reminds me: it's high time I re-read Nine Tailors.
