Creative Writing - Rebus: Standing in another man's grave

At my creative writing class I was asked to pick a book from the library, open it at a random page and then read out the first couple of sentences from the top of the page. I of course chose Ian Rankin, being my favourite writer. As a follow up, I have been asked to continue for 750 of my own words to develop the story further. The page began with:

Edinburgh again. Long tailbacks into the city. A forty mile per hour limit enforced by average speed cameras. Bloody roadworks. And then, as he entered the city itself, signs warning him about the tram project with its diversions and road closures.

Rebus gritted his teeth as he contemplated how much he had to do before he’d be sat in his usual spot nursing a pint of his favourite IPA. The tram project was supposed to liberate the city’s travellers and open up the city, benefiting local residents and tourists alike. This serene utopia seemed a distant dream as he rolled up to the lights at the top of Leith Walk and cast his eye down to see a snarl of traffic and what seemed like endless muddled roadworks.

It was now 2:30pm and he was already late for a meeting with some leaders of the local muslim community, who had had the misfortune of being witness to the previous evenings grisly happenings. The relationship between the community and the police were already strained, and Rebus thought to himself that him turning up an hour late, alcohol still sweating out of his pores may not alleviate those relations. Rebus spent a moment flashing back to the previous evenings depravity, which included activities beyond even the most liberal of job descriptions. Rebus reasoned it was the job that drove him to such behaviour and if he could just make it these last six months, he could collapse into a world of retirement, relief and peace. “Aye that’ll be right”, he verbalised as he exchanged sustained horn beeping with multiple other frustrated commuters.

Ever since the Westminster government decided to house the majority of asylum seekers in the North of England and Scotland, there had been some form of conflict between those born in the UK and those who had moved there. Add to this there had always been incidences of hate crime towards the Muslim minorities in Edinburgh, with the events of 9/11 and the subsequent involvement in wars in the middle east providing the spark for a tinder box. Rebus held no so such structured prejudices, he just found people disagreeable overall. The events of the past week went far past isolated incidents and resembled more of an organised campaign of terror. There had been the fire bombing of the packaging plant on Leith Docks, where the vast majority of staff were from ethnic minorities and where illegal labour and employment had been rife. Prominent Muslim leaders had also been the recipient of targeted hate, their places of work daubed with horrific graffiti and paint, their children systematically harangued by thugs on their way in and out of school.

There had been a whole raft of other similar crimes committed along the same lines over the past fortnight, and it was clear that these were all part of coordinated effort to stir up hatred and cause as much pain as possible. At first Rebus thought this was simply the work of one of the sporadic and short term far right groups which came and went with consistent regularity. The activities so far had seemed like the work of low level criminal, not involving too much planning or brain power, “It’ll be they mindless fascist numpties, heed’s all zipped up the wrong way” was how Rebus recalled his description to officers down the station. But the events of the previous evening proved to Rebus that there were much darker forces at work here, with more sophisticated methods and a handle on how to exploit technology to their twisted intention. Rebus contented himself that, in his opinion, the best way to fight darkness was with ye more darkness. "I'm not short in that department" Rebus muttered as he pultled finally pulled into the car park.

The next morning Rebus woke to a sharp beam of light shining into his living room and into his bleary eyes. He'd fallen asleep on his sofa again and the needle was now scratching around the tired vinyl. A confused rebus stumbled towards the kitchen for refreshment, almost tripping on the empty whiskey bottle which led to his current jumbled predicament. A wee dram of Jameson was often part of his evening routine, as was an empty bottle and a blinding hangover of a morning. Still, Rebus resolved, it was a beautiful day, lets leave the car and walk into the station today. As Rebus happily strode down towards the meadows, he noticed his phone ping with a text message. It was from the Chief Super, simply stating "my office, now!" in capital letters. "Oh well, start as you mean to go on" Rebus vocalised as he continued his morning walk...