Neil Randall's Blog

 Neil Randall is delighted to announce that his new short story The Proposal has just been published by literary journal Literary Yard. The tale of a twisted relationship between a mother and son, it has echoes of Kafka's Amerika and the way in which people will go to extreme lengths to avoid any change or upheaval in their lives.

    The Proposal is included in Randall's latest short story collection A Fancy Dress Party at a Russian Lunatic Asylum. 

Here's the opening scene:

Over the last few weeksLuka had been having the strangest dreams about Arthur, his mother Darjia’sfiancé. In one dream, Arthur had gone off to fight in the war in Ukraine. Inanother, he was killed in a car accident. Then there was the dream where Arthurwas an evil character in one of Luka’s computer games.

      When Darija mentioned this to hertherapist, she didn’t seem particularly alarmed.

     “I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s justsymbolic of the changes that’ve taken place ever since you introduced Arthurinto Luka’s life.”

    “I understand that. I’m just a bitconcerned that Arthur always dies or gets hurt in these dreams. I’d hate forLuka to be unconsciously wishing that he was no longer around.”

     “Dreams can mean a lot of different things– often not what you’d readily interpret. From what you’ve told me, Luka hasaccepted the situation in a mature and responsive way. I wouldn’t be lookingfor problems where there aren’t any.”

     Regardless,Darija wanted to find out if something was troubling her son.

     “Why don’t you take him to that new aquapark for the weekend?” Arthur suggested. “In a more relaxed environment, it mightbe easier to talk about things.”

     “Yeah. Great idea. He’ll absolutely loveit there.”

      When they arrived on the Friday evening,they dropped their bags off at the hotel and decided to go and have a meal at anearby restaurant. Darija had googled the small town and found a nice-lookingItalian place that served excellent food at reasonable prices.

      Having not booked in advance, they werelucky to get a small table tucked away in a corner at the back of the packedestablishment, right next to a swarthy-looking foreigner, a tanned, handsomeman with hair greying at the sides, who was savouring an espresso and smoking acigarette.

      “Good evening, signora and signore,” hesaid to them in English. “Do not worry. I will be leaving soon. You can spreadout your things and not be crammed in like sardines, no.”

     He smiled good-naturedly, pulled a funnyface, and hunched his shoulders, imitating the small fish encased in a tin. Allof which reduced Luka to a fit of laughter.

      “Thank you,” said Darija. “That’s verykind.”

      “Not at all.” He scrunched out hiscigarette into the ashtray and signalled to the waiter. “Enjoy your meal. Ifyou want one tip. The cannelloni and crème brûlée are to die for here. And thatis coming from an Italian.”

     Once the kindly stranger had gone, Lukainsisted that they take his advice.

     “After all, it’s not every day that youget tips from a genuine Italian about food in an Italian restaurant.”

     “Why not,” said Darija. “You can havewhatever you want.”

      Next day at the aqua park, they rentedtwo loungers right in front of the main pool, changed into their bathing suits,and went off to explore the complex. Luka was in his element, so excited heliterally hopped from one foot to the other as he saw the different slides onoffer. Grabbing giant inflatables, they waited patiently in line (or not so patientlyin Luka’s case), before jettisoning themselves down one slide after another,Luka at the front and Darija hanging on for dear life at the rear. It was somuch fun, being spun around and pitched and tossed into a pool of water at theend. Luka couldn’t stop giggling and clapping his hands. It’d been years sinceshe’d seen him so happy and carefree.

      “No more for me,” panted Darija. “I mustrest for a little while now. Why don’t you go and have a swim? We can get abite to eat in an hour or so. Okay?”

     “Yes, but rest well,” he said over hisshoulder as he dashed off into the water. “We have many more slides to trylater.”

     Darija went back to their sun-loungers,stretched out and relaxed. It felt good to be out of the city for a change,away from the bad air, constant traffic, and daily work grind. Moreimportantly, she knew this was likely to be the last time she and Luka would goaway on their own ever again. And she told herself to enjoy every moment. In afew months, after she married Arthur, they’d take holidays together, the threeof them, and everything would be different.

     As she mulled this over in her mind, shewas aware of a presence blocking out the light. Opening her eyes, she saw thesame man they’d met at the restaurant last night, the Italian, looking down ather with a disarmingly effusive smile on his face. His lean, tanned body wasdripping with water, he wore a pair of brilliant-white trunks, and a had atowel wedged under his arm.

      “We meet again.”

If you want to read on, the story can be read in full by clicking this link.

If you'd like to purchase A Fancy Dress Party at a Russian Lunatic Asylum, follow this link.

 Neil Randall is delighted to announce the release of his latest novel I Kill Dogs (Therefore I am...). The story is about a seriously disturbed young boy called Niall Campbell, traumatised by how a new dog usurps his place in his family's affections. This triggers a lifelong aversion to the canine and many acts of violence against both animals and humans that take Niall from the Norfolk coast to New York and, ultimately, the length and breadth of Australia.

Increasingly, he is appalled at the way people in modern life treat their animals better than they do their own family and friends. As he puts it in his eventual political manifesto:

I have taken this dog’s life to highlight how atrociouslywe as a collective race of people treat each other in society today. I havetaken this dog’s life to highlight the lack of warmth, love, understanding,compassion, and kindness that defines our everyday lives. I have taken thisdog’s life to appeal to every man, woman, and child – not just in New York Citybut around the world. Be kinder to your fellow citizens. No longer be driven bygreed and self-interest. Offer a helping hand when it is needed. If you treat ahuman being with the same love, respect, and devotion you bestow upon youdomestic animals, this world would be a far better place.

Here's a spoken word taste of the novel read by the author herself:

If you'd like to purchase the book, click on this link

 

#CoverReveal I Kill Dogs (Therefore I am...) the new novel by Neil Randall #coming soonI have taken this dog’s life to highlight how atrociously we as a collective race of people treat each other in society today. I have taken this dog’s life to highlight the lack of warmth, love, understanding, compassion, and kindness that defines our everyday lives. I have taken this dog’s life to appeal to every man, woman, and child – not just in New York City but around the world. Be kinder to your fellow citizens. No longer be driven by greed and self-interest. Offer a helping hand when it is needed. If you treat a human being with the same love, respect, and devotion you bestow upon you domestic animals, this world would be a far better place.

 

To celebrate the release of his new short story collection, A Fancy Dress Party at a Russian Lunatic Asylum, Neil Randall has made one of the stand-out stories - The Mirijevksi Venac Affair - available to read for free of writing website Wattpad. 

     An absurdist tale of three secret agents deployed to a Belgrade suburb without any operational instructions, the story draws heavily from Paul Auster and will be of interest to any fans of the late, great author of The New York Trilogy. 

      Here are the opening pages of the story:

Due to the unpredictablesituation on the ground, Gray faced a long wait before receiving fulloperational instructions. Until that time, he was told to keep a low profile,and only leave the apartment to exercise and purchase basic provisions. Not inany circumstances should he do or say anything that might bring unwantedattention to himself.

      As instructed, he bought a SIM card at oneof the many kiosks situated on different street corners, and made brief contactwith his superiors.

      “Nothing to report. I await your orders.”

     Nobody responded; a brief silence ensuedbefore the call was terminated. After that, he only turned the untraceabledisposal cell phone on at prearranged times of the day to check his inbox, andhad no further contact with the outside world.

       Every morning just before first light, Grayperformed a set routine of vigorous stretching exercises, meditation, and yoga,before embarking on a ten-kilometre run along the city streets. During the run,he familiarised himself with the local area. Traffic was always heavy at thistime of day. If he had to suddenly vacate the apartment during a rush-hourperiod, it would pay to know his way around the back streets and rat runs whichmight enable him to disappear as quickly and stealthily as possible.

      On the main bulevar, he encountered adull parade of faces, the poor and destitute, gypsies, beggars, and drunks sprawledon benches surrounded by mangy street dogs. The people had a beaten, wearyquality about them. On occasion he was harassed for money by dirty-faced streeturchins. But he didn’t lose his composure and curse in his own language; hesimply moved on without saying a word.

      After returning to the apartment, heshowered, dressed, ate a light breakfast, made some coffee, and then sat on thesmall terrace overlooking a children’s play area. With no television, literature,or portable devices, boredom set in quickly and was hard to overcome. The onlyconcession had been a basic book of grammar to help him pick up the languagefaster. But after completing a few exercises, the difficulty level increasedsignificantly, and he found it almost impossible to assimilate the necessary informationto proceed to the next module. Rather than waste time, he jotted down words fromthe glossary and married them up to different objects and pieces of furniturein the apartment: window, chair, table, cup, cooker, and so on. But despiterepeating those words many times over, it only diverted his attention for afurther hour or so before he lost interest.

    To break up the day, he performed sets ofone hundred press-ups and one hundred sit-ups at regular intervals.

     As he’d been instructed to remainobservant at all times, he returned to the terrace and surveilled the mainstreet, locally known as the Mirijevski Venac, studying the patrons whooccupied the outside seating section of a nearby café, and those who walked orexercised their dogs in the adjoining park. With a notebook and pencil meantsolely for his language assimilation endeavours, he made detailed records ofall potentially suspicious persons. Undoubtedly, other nations hostile to theirgeopolitical goals would’ve deployed operatives with similar missionobjectives.

     One man in particular soon caught hisattention. Early to mid-thirties, with a tanned, muscular physique, he used theexercise equipment situated next to the play area at the same time everymorning – a time which corresponded with Gray sitting down on the terrace anddrinking his morning coffee. Like Gray himself, he performed a set routine ofstretching exercises, sat cross-legged on the grass in a classic meditativepose, and then clambered upon the cross-trainers for a vigorous high-octanecardio session. After a brief rest period and a few sips of water from a nearbyfountain, he approached a high metal bar and did fifty impressive chin-ups,slow and methodical. He then mounted an exercise bike, and pedalled at a steadyrate for forty-five minutes. Tellingly, he listened to no music norinterrogated the rucksack he brought along with him for a phone or portabledevice – something considered almost compulsory in today’s technological world,and something which heightened Gray’s suspicions. Was he an enemy operativehiding in plain sight? Was the fact he exercised in front of Gray’s apartmentsignificant? Neither of which Gray could answer with any certainty at thisearly stage of the operation. All he could do was continue to monitor thesubject’s activities.

     For the time being, he became moreinterested in the snippets of conversation that he overheard through thepaper-thin apartment walls. These ranged from blazing arguments, young mothers’comforting babies, the odd drunken gathering complete with boozy, bawdy singinginto the early hours of the morning, to a gravelly voiced old man conductinglong meandering telephone calls from the terrace directly above Gray’s own.

    In this manner, he slipped into a dull, repetitiveroutine. At the supermarket each day, he made only standard purchases: bread,milk, eggs – and prepared basic meals which left him satiated for the rest of theevening. He ran every morning, tried to assimilate as many new words from thelanguage book as he possibly could, before settling down on the terrace, and observingthe now familiar comings and goings on the Mirijevski Venac.

If you've liked what you've read so far, you can read the whole story here.

And if you'd like to get your hands on the full short story collection click here.

 

Neil Randall is delighted to announce the release of two very special titles. Firstly, a new version of his acclaimed debut short story collection 'Tales of Ordinary Sadness' or, as it is known in some circles 'the unluckiest book in literary history'. 

      Why?

     Randall's debut collection went out of print before it was officially released. The publisher, who will remain unnamed, went out of business before the book's release date. Even though Randall held a number of events - signings and readings - 'Tales...' was never properly unleashed on an unsuspecting reading public.

    Here are a few of the early reviews/ratings:

***** – David Willis, Beatdom Magazine

 

Randall '…isan intriguing writer who kept me entranced from start to finish. His writingstyle is bold, intense, disturbing, thought provoking, and very descriptive,with strong imagery.’                                                                                    

                                                                                                                -Cindy Taylor, AllBooks Review

 

'Tales of Ordinary Sadness' is a fantastic collection of stories thatwill shock, challenge and delight. The writing is so perceptive it's almostunnerving. 5 out of 5 stars from me

                                -Rowena Wiseman, Author of The ReplacementWife, Harper Collins

Secondly, 'A Fancy Dress Party at a Russian Lunatic Asylum'. Some of these stories were written during the COVID lockdown, others when the author moved to Belgrade. A wild mix of themes and emotional territory covered, the collection contains some of Randall's most memorable characters and very finest writing.

Both title feature the author's original artwork. 

To try and beat amazon at their own game, Randall has published the books through books.by, a new initiative to help writers get a bigger percentage of their royalties. As such, both books are available for just $9.99.

Click on this link to pick up your copy today. 

 

Click on this link to buy the book today!

 

To give readers an exclusive sneak preview of Neil Randall's latest novel The Belgrade School Shootings, Alien Buddha Press have made the opening chapters available on their blog. 

    Here's the opening scene, to whet your appetite:

ON THE THIRDof May 2024, my former partner Issak Lazarevic, an award-winning novelist and lecturer,shot dead ten of his students. Why, no one who knew him on a personal or professionallevel had any idea whatsoever. Issak was a popular and well-respected figure inSerbian society. His short- and long-form fictional works were considered thefinest in the country’s contemporary literary cannon. His students absolutelyidolised him – there was a four-year waiting list for his creative writingprogramme. Colleagues who spoke to Issak earlier that morning detected nothingout of the ordinary, in either his general demeanour or outward behaviour. Inthe staff room, not half an hour before he opened fire on a group ofdefenceless teenagers, he acted perfectly normally – or as normally as anyoneso intense and preoccupied with his own thoughts typically acted. He exchangedgood morning greetings with everyone he encountered, and even went so far as toconfirm his attendance at a colleague’s retirement party. ‘Of course I’ll bethere,’ he told Ivana Lubic, one of the secretaries. ‘Radovan is a fine man.I’ve always had the greatest respect for him. I’ll be sure to pop out atlunchtime and grab him a bottle of something special. Forty years in theprofession is a huge achievement’.

     Hardly the words or sentiments of somebodycarrying CZ-75 Shadow 2 and Ruger .22 LR variant pistols in his briefcase.

      In CCTV footage that would feature onnews bulletins not just in Serbia but all across the world, Issak can clearlybe seen walking across the faculty car park, with the same briefcase in hishand. If you didn’t know him personally, or weren’t aware of his literarypedigree, he would’ve appeared completely unassuming – medium height,middle-aged, unremarkably dressed (the same corduroy blazer, stripedbutton-down shirt, and slacks combination he’d been wearing to lectures foryears) – a face worthy of any crowd. In the immediate aftermath of theshootings, I remember replaying that footage time and again on my laptop, whatwere the last moments of the old Issak Lazarevic – a man I once genuinely lovedwith all my heart – before he became someone and -thing I would never haverecognised: a maniac and monster rolled into one.

      And it’s curious how we can piecetogether a person’s movements like this – from the security camera images tothe eyewitness accounts, to the moment armed police burst into the classroomand found him sat at his desk calmly reading from a well-thumbed copy of TheProfessional Mourner, what many consider his masterpiece, while surroundedby ten fresh corpses. But we can never tell what’s going on in their heads, orwhy they acted in the way they did, what motivated them to do something sodespicable and so out of character.

       As for the actual murders, the crimescene specialists were able to ascertain a concrete and chilling chain ofevents. From the entry point of each bullet, the blood spatter, to the way theyoung bodies had crumpled to the classroom floor and the desks and chairs beenupturned, it was evident that Issak had opened fire on the children withoutmuch, if any warning. This was corroborated to a certain extent by thelecturers and students in adjoining classrooms, as they heard no raised voicesor anything out of the ordinary before the first shot rang out. Each studenthad been targeted twice, with the first bullet either killing them outright orincapacitating them. The second bullet, a headshot, was uncanny in its accuracy:direct through the middle of the forehead. When questioned following theattack, one of the ballistics experts made the following comments: ‘It was thekind of thing you’d see an experienced hunter do after they’d clipped theirprey. What you’d probably call a “humane gesture”, putting the beast out of itsmisery as quickly and expediently as possible. That, or a mafiosi-stylecontract killing’.

      And it’s here that the case presented itsfirst serious anomaly – of what would be many in the coming weeks, months, andbeyond.

      Only a skilled, experienced marksmancould’ve discharged shots of that accuracy in what was an incredibly shortspace of time. By all reckoning, barely a minute passed between the firstreported gunshot and the last. But to the best of anybody’s knowledge –certainly mine, or any of Issak’s close friends, fellow writers, or colleaguesat the institute – he’d never fired a gun before in his life. 

To read on, click on this link.

 

Grab your credit card, borrow money from a friend, or stealfrom a casual acquaintance – but please don’t mug any old ladies in the street. Well...

    Neil Randall’s latest novel The Belgrade School Shootings is releasedtoday!

    The first part of TheBelgrade Trilogy, written in a frenzy of literary activity in the darkdepths of everyone’s least favourite year 2024, is a hard book to define. Someearly reviewers have called it ‘a razor-sharp literary thriller’, others ‘abook about obsession, and the perilous intersection between fiction andreality’. Whereas the author himself always saw the novel as a ‘love letter to the act of reading’. But stopped short of aligning himself with the protagonist’schilling warning: ‘If the younger generation isn’t prepared to read and arrestthe alarming intellectual decline, then they should be put against a wall andshot.’

     The plot?

    Serbia’s mostacclaimed novelist Issak Lazarevic guns down 10 of his students in a seemingact of madness. But as veteran journalist (and Lazarevic’s formerfiancée) soon discovers – there is so much about the killings that don’t aid up– the way the children were shot in an execution-style manner (Lazarevic hadnever fired a gun in his life), uncanny Lazarevic lookalikes popping up all over the city,and most bizarre of all, the emergence of a novel written months before theschool shootings, clearly written by Lazarevic, which predict events thathadn’t even happened yet.

    Lazarevic’s most acclaimedpiece of work? – The Professional Mourner.

      Here is a shortsample from the novel to whet your appetite. At this point in the story,Lazarevic has just been arrested for the shootings, and the policeinvestigation is just getting underway.

 

When police raided Issak’s apartment in Dedinje, they madesome curious, if not disturbing discoveries. Most peculiar of all, it looked asif the same two people were living in the one same space. And I articulate thatin somewhat obscure terms knowingly and intentionally. In the only bedroom,there were two identical futon-style beds. The two wardrobes that stood facingeach other on either side of the room contained the exact same clothes. And notjust in style – the blazers, shirts, and slacks I’ve already mentioned – but inthe exact same number: seven blazers, seven shirts, seven pairs of slacks. Theymade a similar discovery in the two underwear drawers: seven pairs of boxershorts and seven pairs of socks in each one.

      In the bathroom:two toothbrushes, two tubes of toothpaste, two bottles of mouthwash, two cansof deodorant, two razors, two cans of shaving foam, two shampoos, two showergels, and two towels hanging from the back of the door (both black and bothstill slightly damp). Even more freakishly and bizarre, when the officersexamined the toiletries in question, either visually or by giving eachindividual receptacle a shake, the exact same amount of toothpaste, mouthwash,deodorant, shaving foam, even the number of cotton buds in their respectiveplastic containers appeared to be inside.

     All of whichsuggested that two people were choreographing and copycatting their everydayexistence down to their oral hygiene and facial grooming routine. And the onlyway that that would’ve been possible (and I thought about this so much over thedays immediately following the shootings, it made my head hurt) was for oneperson to have painstakingly and with a degree of precision you’d associatewith a highly advanced form of artificial intelligence, to, not so much performeach individual ablution twice, but, for example, pour out two exact measuresof mouthwash, use one, throw the other away, or spray deodorant under each arm,then discharge two phantom sprays into the air, and so on.

    None of which madeany sense. To be that precise about everything that was discovered in theapartment would’ve taken a disproportionally huge amount of time out of Issak’sday. And this was a man who valued every single second, who knew how precioushis time was, and who wanted to do nothing but channel that time into hisartistic and educational activities. The Issak I knew could never have wastedeven one valuable second on such everyday inconsequentialities. It would’vebeen far too painful for him; it would’ve made his artistic soul squirm.

    In the kitchencupboards and drawers, where you’d expect to find many plates, bowls, cups,knives, forks, spoons, et cetera – there were only two of each. And two placesset at the table.

      In the frontroom, two identical leather armchairs with retractable footrests had beenturned around to face the wall, rather than the rest of the space (as if allthe occupants of those chairs ever did was stare at that wall from absurdlyclose proximity). But the room contained nothing else. No TV. No coffee table.Not even any bookcases – which seemed wildly amiss to me, a former resident ofthe same apartment, as Issak had one of the most extensive personal librariesof anyone I’d ever known. Cherished volumes, signed first editions, rare,collector item tomes we’d discovered in book fairs on our travels. But whenpolice made inquiries, they never found out where these books had gone (and tohave removed hundreds, if not thousands of books from an apartment would’vetaken hours and a whole removal team. Activities that would most certainly havecome to the attention of near-neighbours and the building superintendent).

      On the terrace,two wicker chairs were placed at corresponding angles with the best views outover the city.

       But none of theresidents in neighbouring apartments or any of Issak’s close inner circle hadseen, heard, or knew of anyone else living at the apartment. As far as theywere aware, Issak resided alone and considered his apartment his own personalwriting den, the place he sat and wrote stories which had touched people allover the world and been translated into fifty-plus languages.

      All of whichsegues into the most glaring anomaly of all: Issak’s work. His laptop. Memorysticks. The printouts of his early drafts. Copies of his works-in-progress.Folders and files. Notebooks. Where were they? Nothing was found at theapartment, nor his office at the institute. What had he done with his entirelife’s work, the new short story he’d been discussing with a fellow writer inthe days before the shootings, the big, sprawling novel he’d often referencedin interviews and on which he’d been working solidly for the last two years?

      Then there werehis three main email accounts – one for everything writing-related, one for histeaching activities, and a personal account he used to keep in touch withfriends and family. Not only were all the inboxes empty, but a little diggingaround in the cyberworld revealed a mass deletion the night before theshootings and, even more confusingly, a whole swathe of cancelled services andsubscriptions, ranging from his internet provider, to the utilities for theapartment, and memberships to around half a dozen literary organisations he’dbeen affiliated with for over twenty years. ‘It’s the kind of behaviour you’dexpect from someone who’s had a fatal prognosis from their doctor,’ said one ofthe more senior officers who examined the scene, ‘someone who wants to tie upany loose ends before they pass away’.

     It was a similarstory with his phone records. On the night before the shootings, Issak had aseries of lengthy telephone conversations – all to the same number, and alllasting over ninety minutes. Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible for theauthorities to follow up on this information as the number in question wasgovernment-affiliated.

     “What’s a‘government-affiliated’ number?” I asked Vladimir’s source.

     “It belongs tothe highest office in the Serbian government.”

     “The PrimeMinister? Bukic, you mean?”

     “I didn’t saythat – I said the highest office in the Serbian government.”

 

If you like what you’ve read so far, you can buy the book here.

And if you’d like to learn more about the author’s otherpublished work, take a look at his amazon page.

 

Today sees the release of Neil Randall's eagerly anticipated new novel The Professional Mourner. The first book in The Yugoslav Trilogy that also includes Flags from the Old Regime and The Dead Crows of Velika Plana, it tells the story of a baby who wouldn't stop crying and who goes on to hold the fate of not just the old Yugoslavia but the rest of the world in her hands.

Here are the opening scenes of the book:

Ona rainy overcast Wednesday in the small town of a baby girl was born to Dragan and Nevena Stanković. Seen very muchas a miracle – the proud parents were in their mid-forties and had almost givenup hope of ever conceiving a child – it would be no exaggeration to say thatlittle Milica (as she was soon to be called) came kicking and screaming into thisworld. A perfectly natural state of affairs, many would assume. Only she didn’tstop screaming. Not from the moment she was safely delivered into her mother’sarms, to the moment Dragan and Nevena left the local hospital the following morning.Nothing seemed to pacify her. No amount of shushing or cradling or rocking. Evenwhen her exhausted mother, in the hours immediately following the birth itself,presented the baby with a teat, she somehow managed to both greedily suck themilky goodness from Nevena’s swollen breast and continue to cry, sob, wrigglearound, and prostrate herself in a manner the midwife (a veteran of over tenthousand deliveries) or any of the physicians on duty that day had ever seenbefore.

     “It’s the most curious thing,” observed DrIvanović. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say the infant actually enjoysbeing in a state of utmost distress.”

*

Ontheir return to the family home, a modest apartment in the working-classdistrict of town, the concerned parents did everything in their power to tryand settle the baby down – more shushing, cradling, rocking, and feeding. Theyeven let her suck on a wine-soaked finger (a now frowned upon but nonethelesseffective technique routinely deployed many years ago). And while their effortswere rewarded with brief periods of respite when Milica had literally screamed herselfto sleep – it didn’t last long. A matter of thirty or forty minutes at a time.  

      After two sleepless nights, they were nearingtheir wit’s end. 

     “Whatever are we going to do?” askedNevena, red-eyed and haggard through exhaustion. “I know all babies cry. Butthis isn’t natural. It’s as if God has blessed and cursed us in equal measure,as if He has given us the one thing we most wanted in life, only for that greatgift to be the most onerous of burdens.”

      “I don’t rightly know,” Dragan replied.“But you can cut out all that superstitious nonsense. Milica is a perfectlyhealthy baby. You heard the doctors say so yourself. This is probably just a tetchyperiod of adjustment. I’m sure she’ll be right as rain soon.”

      But that didn’t prove to be the case, andit caused untold problems in town.

*     

Bythe end of the first week of constant bawling all through the night and earlyhours of the morning, not to mention the vast majority of the day, theneighbours started to complain. Not just about the noise, you must understand –if many a resident did bang a piece of wood against their radiators time andagain when the crying fit reached a feverish late-night or crack of dawn pitch.But because these were still a deeply superstitious people, regardless of theincredible technological advances made in recent decades. They saw somethingstrange and worrying, portentous of evil spirits and bad omens in an infant whosimply wouldn’t stop crying.

     “Mark my words,” they said. “This don’tbode well for any of us. That there little girl is possessed by dark forces. Shebe cursed. If we don’t watch out, she’ll bring bad luck upon every decent man,woman, and child in the region.”

If you like what you've read so far, the book can now be purchased in both paperback and kindle in the UK and US.      

 

Neil Randall is delighted to announce the launch of his new social media channel 'Randall Reads...' Having spent the last lifetime or two reading the great works of world literature, the author thought it was high time that he shared one of his big passions with others. More importantly, there has been a huge cultural chasm in so many people's lives following the BBC's catastrophic decision to move Top of the Pops to a Friday - which ultimately sounded the death knoll for the show.

    Fear not. Randall - twenty years too late, admittedly - is now fully prepared to fill the void. Part song and dance man, part tuneless meander, he will finally step up to the plate.

    Over the coming weeks and months, he will recommend a book which made a big impression on him over the years every week. A Thursday, of course. In addition there will be a few bonus episodes where the author will read exclusive samples from upcoming releases like The Professional Mourner. 

To get the latest episode direct to you inbox, why not follow Neil on YouTube or TikTok.