So I'm in Tesco (Big Huge version) in
Glasgow's Maryhill, shopping, as ever during visits to the various
offspring and grand-offspring, for cheap socks and to see if there's a
discount on Duvel Golden Ale.
Now I know it's morally wrong to buy
books in supermarkets. You should buy them in quaint independent
stores where the charmingly irascible owner sits knitting, you get bad
free instant coffee and the shelves are collapsible climbing hazards
for toddlers. And a new lump of hardback fiction costs £18.99.
But the Rankin and the Boyd (and it's
very much a Boyd) under consideration here were £9 apiece in the Big
T. Less than half RRP. I'm sorry, but that's paperback pricing and,
for an itinerant bibliophile suffering a late allergic reaction to
Kindles of all shades, irresistible. So, no cheap Duvel, but I exited
with hosiery and fictive skulduggery.
Boyd first, and Solo is the latest in
the Fleming Estate's commissions of fresh Bondage by established
contemporary authors. Step forward with a riddy, Sebastian Faulks. It
is by some considerable distance the best post-Fleming Bond, and is
arguably better than some of Fleming's own efforts. Faultless, no,
but a splendid read nevertheless. And I admit that I was biased, in
that Boyd's Any Human Heart is among my favourite novels of the past
two decades and his Restless one of the slickest lit-thrillers I've
read.
We find Bond in 1969, ageing but still
indulging himself in booze, cars, fags and sex to a mordantly
entertaining degree. At first I thought he was going to die of throat
cancer by the last chapter. But no, that's just one of Boyd's little
teases. He has Fleming's approach to Literary (not filmic) Bondworld
nailed down with the exactitude of the real fan - all the brand
names, gun-tech, anal-retentive car love and curiously coy randiness.
But while it comes close to pastiche, this is no tedious tribute.
Boyd's own deep affection for and knowledge of Africa provides the
main setting and a degree of political insight which is both relevant
to today and truly tough-minded. This Bond is much more socially
engaged than Fleming's ever was, sympathetic and merciful, concerned
and generous. And strangely vulnerable, even weak on occasion. Yes,
the book has a truly horrible supervillain, and two women offering
varieties of voluptuous charm. Bond has a form of very violent
revenge but his triumph is questionable.
It's a compulsive read, but it's cool,
not cold as Fleming's near-psychopathic creature was. It's on
reflection after completion that the little references and resonances
surface: The Jensen FF/Interceptor conundrum – a fly nod to Simon
Dutton in The Saint and Robert Vaughan's The Protectors, and the car
Bond never drove either on the page or in a movie. The eerie
non-assassination's hints of both Deeley Plaza and (curiously out of print) The Day of theJackal. The CIA agent called Brigham, the wee tip of the hat to Puppet on a Chain by the great Alistair Maclean, and others I will leave you to find for
yourself. Plot is where it falls down slightly, the explanation at
the end by Felix Leiter just a bit too clunky to be meant ironically.
But Solo is very good, bibulous company.
And so to Edinburgh, where Bond was of
course educated (and there's loads of Caledonian references in Solo) and a somewhat earthier approach to drink.
Ian Rankin's Saints of the Shadow Bible uses a Jackie Leven quote as
its title, as opposed to a misheard Leven lyric as the name of
Rebus's previous outing, Standing In Another Man's Grave.
I thought SIAMG was a great read, and
seemed looser and more playful than previous Rankins, with its
whimsical road movie/whisky tour elements. It shared with his other books, though, one of
Rankin's major strengths, which is more than an ability to evoke a sense of place. His
books are properly located, not just in their excellent capturing of
geography - the sights, smells, sounds and people – but in time, too.
Saints of the Shadow Bible is set in today's Scotland, and both
police reorganisation and the referendum debate inform and enliven the plot, giving it depth and edge.
There are clever TV references as
well as the usual musical ones (the late Rory Gallagher's Sinner Boy
at one point, providing synergy with the Rankin/Gallagher project
Kickback City). Life on Mars is 'a documentary' when it comes to 70s policing. Rebus seems to be heading for an alcohol crisis (but
when wasn't he?), and there are hints that healthy living may be
staring him in his broken-veined face: Soda water and lime? Jings! Am
I detecting a wee wink at Psycho, too? To say more would give too
much away.
The book has one of the best-engineered
plots of recent Rankins, and the bringing together of Rebus with Fox,
his in-house adversary and main protagonist of the Complaints books,
works brilliantly, paving the way I'd guess for future collaborations
between the two. But as with Boyd's Bond, the use of branded detail
is note-perfect (particularly good on using cars to define
characters: eg a wonderfully awful white Range Rover Evoque) and
there are some very funny moments.
Some people swear that Black and Blue
is Rankin at the top of his form, but I prefer the assured delicacy
of touch, complexity, humour and casual verve you find here. By now
we know all the central characters – Rebus, Fox, Clarke – their
quirks, foibles and annoying tics. And crucially, we care what
happens to them.
Enough to pay nine quid for the next hardback...