Neil Randall's Blog

 

Neil Randall is delighted to announce that his latest novel A DARK DAY IN THE WHITE CITY has finally landed. 

Here is the blurb from the back of the book:

A man with nothing left to lose.

Orlovi is one of the most feared men in Belgrade. In a fractured city, he hunts for a mysterious item; stolen by the woman who once meant everything to him.

Wherever he goes, death follows. The murders are ritualistic and deliberate, drawing detectives Kostic and Ristic into an investigation that makes Orlovi the obvious suspect. But things are not quite what they seem.

Soon, Orlovi’s obsession will lead him to a confrontation that will reveal long-buried secrets from his past.

A DARK DAY IN THE WHITE CITY is the first book in the Balkan Trilogy series of mystery novels by Neil Randall.

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

 

Keep November 2027 free in your diary. Why? Dark WinterPress will be publishing The Dead Crows of Velika Plana by Neil Randall.The sequel to 2025’s acclaimed The Professional Mourner and the secondpart of The Yugoslav Trilogy; it takes up the story of a much-changed MilicaStanković. Disillusioned by everything she has witnessed during the Balkanconflict, she no longer sees anything good or worthy in mankind anymore. Whentragedy strikes her hometown of Velika Plana, it triggers a bizarre and deadlychain of events that threatens not only the lives and well-being of everyone wholives there but the whole Balkan region – and beyond.

    Here is theopening chapter to whet your literary appetites:

 

Tragedy in the Park

The people of Velika Plana had got out of the habit ofpromenading on fine summer days. Whether the dire economic situation was toblame, the harsh sanctions following the war, mass unemployment, low wages, andrising prices, they tended to stay indoors in front of their televisions now.The tatty, litter-strewn streets and derelict buildings, the once thrivingbusinesses, now no more than boarded-up shells, were the exclusive province ofgangs of snarling street dogs. The near-empty cafes and bars on the mainstreet, home to morose drunks who did little more than puff on cheap cigarettesand stare into their empty glasses, willing them to miraculously replenishthemselves. The rundown bus station, a graveyard to rattling coaches thatspewed out black diesel fumes into the already tainted air of a town no oneever wanted to visit anymore.

     Why on such aswelteringly hot July day, when temperatures had touched forty degrees forthree consecutive weeks, some of the town’s more prominent families decided toput on their best clothes and take a stroll through the park could never besatisfactorily explained. There was certainly no special occasion, atraditional celebration, that would have justified such a rare foray outsidetheir homes. Still, the younger children raced around the designated play area,clambered upon the swings, slides, and roundabouts, their voices and laughtershrill and excited. Dogs barked. Crows cawed. The younger couples, the husbandsand wives or those soon to be married, walked hand in hand or with armsinterlinked. Some wafted fans to escape the desperate humidity, others hadtreated themselves to ice-creams. While the older people stopped in the shadeof the towering linden trees which dominated the leafy space and talkedcasually amongst themselves, just like they had in far happier times, when notjust Velika Plana but the whole nation was flourishing. Back then, small townfolk liked nothing better than to chat, gossip, put the world to rights withtheir own people, those who had known them all their lives. The passage oftime, the course of history, however, had not only eroded the fabric of thecommunity, but embittered people against each other. When you don’t have muchto look forward to, it’s easy, almost natural, to blame somebody else for yourpredicament.

      That’s what madethis July scene all the more intriguing.

     Those who didn’thold each other in particularly high esteem, warring in-laws who may not haveexchanged a word in anger for years, were amongst those who had decided to takea stroll through the park. Families like the Darkovićs and Mijatovićs, theBobans and Brozovićs occupied the same space for the first time in months. Butrather than show any outward antipathy towards each other, they exchangedpleasant greetings, shook hands, even embraced. If first-hand accounts are tobe believed (and they were corroborated by many sources), even the surly,tyrannical Lazar Darković, one of the town’s most respected figures, a man whohad built up a thriving auto repair business, was seen deep in conversationwith both Uroš Mijatović and Robert Boban, estranged best friends, men who hadbadly wronged each other in the past, men who had openly brawled in the street,and uttered the most hideous curses acted with the utmost cordiality, as ifnone of those poisonous, ugly scenes had ever taken place.

     “How’s business?”Uroš asked Lazar. “Every morning, I see you toiling away in your workshop.”

     “Never beenbetter. Much as it pains me, I’m having to turn custom away. Still, I work fromsix in the morning until seven in the evening. Barely time for a decent lunchand a cup of tea.”

     “You should easeup, Lazar,” said Robert. “You’ve worked hard all your life. You shouldn’t pushyourself so hard.”

     “Bah!” Hesmoothed his thick handlebar moustache down with one hand and waved the wordsaway with the other. “I’m as fit now at fifty-five as I was at seventeen.Besides, ever since Bojana’s passing, I like to keep myself busy.”

      On a nearbybench, in the shade of the trees, Uroš’ wife Tatijana was deep in conversationwith Ivana Brozović.

      “I just don’tknow what to do with him anymore,” said Ivana, with eyes downcast. “Ever sincehe returned from the war, he’s been like a ticking timebomb. We’ve triedeverything. We sent him to the best psychologists in Belgrade. We had him puton a course of pills to control his temper. We refused to let him drink alcoholunder our roof – but he can easily get hold of the stuff anywhere in town.Nothing has helped. Ten years and he’s still the same mixed-up ball ofconfusion he was when the army returned him to us. I know it’s shameful toadmit, and I hope God will forgive me, but I’m scared of my own son.”

    “You mustn’t giveup on Vladan.” Tatijana took hold of both of Ivana’s hands. “He served hiscountry like an honourable young man. He saw some truly horrendous things andit left a mark on him. True, he’s a troubled soul. It pains us all to see himso at odds with himself. Time will heal. God will see to that, don’t youworry.”

     The youngermembers of the families, the teenage boys and girls who used to play togetherat birthday celebrations and religious festivals and who were now forbiddenfrom spending much (or any) time in each other’s company, seized theopportunity to catch up. In particular, Jovana Darković and Ivan Brozović.Secret sweethearts since not long after they were out of swaddling clothes,everybody in Velika Plana knew of the extreme lengths they went to to see each otherwithout the express knowledge or permission of their parents. Common was thesight of the handsome, athletic, seventeen-year-old boy sneaking out of hisbedroom window and racing across town to be with his betrothed. Hiding behind aderelict kiosk abutting the park, the couple held hands and pressed theirforeheads close together.

      “Don’t worryabout a thing,” said Ivan. “In six months, I officially come of age. Already,Igor from the tennis club has promised me a coaching position. And not just forthe summer season, but all-year-round. Once I start earning a regular wage, wecan declare our intentions to our families.”

      “Declare outintentions!” Jovana spluttered, but not in a harsh or dismissive manner, evenif that was how Ivan initially took it. But because she was as scared as shewas excited by the prospect.

      “Why do youlaugh?” He was hurt and offended. “Everything I just told you is so close, wecan almost reach out and touch it.”

      Jovana lookedaway from him. There was a brief yet heavy silence.

      “You know whatour parents are like. They’ll never allow it. It’s pointless to try and foolourselves into believing anything else.”

      “Then we’ll runaway. I’ll get hold of some money. We’ll be together. I promise.”

     As for the moregrown-up of the younger people, the husbands and wives who had been enjoyingthe fine weather and the refreshments on offer, they all began to gravitate inone direction. A few weeks ago, Dusan and Sladana Mijatović, son of Uroš andTatijana, daughter of Nemanja and Ivana respectively, welcomed their firstchild into the world, a fine, healthy boy they had named Mihajlo, in honour ofa paternal grandfather who had distinguished himself in the Great War.Naturally, relatives and neighbours who hadn’t seen the child before crowdedaround the pram.

      “What abeautiful child!”

      “He has hisfather’s eyes.”

      “And hismother’s cute button nose.”

     Like all proudparents, the couple wanted nothing more than to talk about the new arrival, howhe was such a good baby, how he slept through the night, how he hardly evercried, and how he drank the last drop of his milk during every feeding time.

      “I know everynew mother says the same thing,” beamed Sladana, “but this gift from God hastruly made our lives complete. It was no secret that we’d been trying for ababy for a number years. Why we couldn’t conceive was as big a mystery to thespecialists in the city as it was to us. But despite all the painfuldisappointments we endured, I now know that we were fated to have our firstchild in just the way we had him. We’re so lucky and have got so much to lookforward to.”

      “You’re notwrong there, girl,” said the grandfather, Nemanja Brozović, “every seed knowsits time. We’ve truly been blessed as a family. I couldn’t be happier for thetwo of you. It’s about time we had some good news round these here parts.”     

     At this point inthe afternoon, the sun was hotter still. Even more local people, perhapsencouraged by the sight of the town’s notable families outside enjoying boththe fine weather and each other’s company, came and sat on benches, crackedopen a cold beer or dribbled a little rakija into a plastic cup, and chattedand reminisced with their neighbours or former school friends. Some set upchess boards on the picnic tables and dividing out some cheese and hunks ofbread, started to move the pieces across the board with as much deliberation ascontentment.

     A more pleasantor convivial scene, the most skilful artist in Serbia couldn’t have captured.

     But all of thatwas only moments away from being shattered forever more.

     As Dusan andSladana thanked Nevena Boban for a bag of baby clothes the kindly middle-agedwoman had just rushed home to fetch, the most savage, extraordinary, and tragicevent that had ever taken place in the history of Velika Plana destroyed boththe peacefulness of the summer’s day and the lives of so many of its residents.Without warning, one of the crows that nested in the trees high above, swoopeddown and began to attack the baby in its pram. Before the parents or anyone inclose proximity could react, before the first anguished howl of pain hadregistered from the infant himself, the bird had pecked away at the baby’sface, gouging both eyes from their sockets, stabbed deep into the child’s heartwith its beak, piercing both clothing and skin, reducing the innocent soul tono more than a bloody, barely recognisable pulp.

      “No!” Dusanrushed over and tried to grab the bird amidst this violent frenzy, only it wasfar too quick and simply flew up and away, back to its nest in the trees.

     Like a delayedreaction, a little girl and a hunched-over old pensioner nearby started toscream. Duly alerted, every man, woman, and child rushed over to see a pramawash with blood.

     “Whatever isgoing on?” Lazar Darković pushed his way to front of the crowd. “In God’sname,” he cried. “How did this happen?”

 

If you liked what you read so far, why not take a closerlook at the first book in the series – The Professional Mourner?

 

Neil Randall is delighted to announce that he has just signed a three-book deal with Next Chapter Books. The first novel from The Balkan Trilogy - A Dark Day in the White City - will be released later this year. Set in Belgrade during the recent protests and social unrest, the author goes on to predict the current geopolitical situation and the outbreak of wars all across the globe with chillingly accuracy.

Here is the back cover blurb:

A man with nothing left to lose.

Orlovi is one of the most feared men in Belgrade. In a fractured city, he huntsfor a mysterious item; stolen by the woman who once meant everything to him,

Wherever he goes, death follows. The murders are ritualistic and deliberate,drawing detectives Kostic and Ristic into an investigation that makes Orlovithe obvious suspect. But things are not quite what they seem.

Soon, Orlovi’s obsession will lead him to a confrontation that will reveallong-buried secrets from his past.

A DARK DAY IN THE WHITE CITY is the first book in the Balkan Trilogy series ofmystery novels by Neil Randall.

Watch this space for more details. 

If you'd like to learn more about Next Chapter Books, you can visit their website.

And if you'd like to learn more about Neil Randall's published work, head over to his amazon page.

 

Neil Randall isdelighted to announce that his latest short story The War Tourists hasbeen accepted for publication by the good people at Blood + Honey LiteraryMagazine.

     The story was inspired by a disturbingnews story that circulated a few months ago. According to reports, an inquiryis currently underway in Italy to ascertain if Italian nationals travelled toBosnia during the height of the Balkan conflict as war tourists.

    What is a war tourist, you (and every humanbeing worthy of the name) might rightly ask? If the stories are to be believedthose under investigation hunkered down in decimated buildings and tookpotshots at the displaced, desperate, war-torn civilians as they scatteredunder heavy enemy shelling, killing and wounding innocent men, women, andchildren.

     Sadistic thrill-seekers who should bedealt with by the courts accordingly.

     You need only to look at the devastationin Gaza and Ukraine to recognise that war is the very worst of this oftenterrible and cruel world has to offer – never a spectator sport or a playgroundfor sick bastards who place no value on human life.

 

Here are the openingscenes of the story:

 

The War Tourists

One ferry crossing inthe dead of night.

      Many furtive, darting eyes scrutinisedthem in the dark, cramped confines of a cargo hold. Alien bodies pressedtightly together, potent sweat, stale urine, fresh human waste. Whisperedwords, slow yet perceptible movement. Threatening, ever nearer. He held herclose to his chest, and told her not to worry.

      “Don’t worry.”

      Choppy waters. A raging storm. Thunderrumbled overhead. The flimsy vessel buffeted by high winds and powerful waves.The illegals struggled to keep their balance. Groping, clasping, filthy handsfell all over them, with despairing not malicious intent – or so they hoped.

     Ten hours later.

     They were herded off the boat. Pushing andshoving, the captain barked at them in different languages. A sliver of lightfrom a half-moon glinted off the barrel of a machine-gun. She gasped. Again, heheld her close, and told her not to worry.

     Their connection met them on the beach.

     “This way. The van is waiting for you.”

     Two border crossings in twelve hours.

     A bumpy, uncomfortable ride over rutted,uneven roads. Cold, shivering, huddled close together for warmth. Tepid waterfrom plastic bottles. Hard, stale bread. Sporadic sleep. Juddering awakenings.Raised voices. The van slowed to a stop. Broken English. The side door flewopen. Bright light from the morning sun dazzled their eyes.

     “Get out, get out,” demanded a tall,imposing border guard with a machine-gun hanging from his shoulder.

     They did as instructed.

     Feet scrunched against snow-coveredground. Eyes blinked and slowly adjusted to the startling daylight, the wintryscene, vast barren fields blanketed brilliant-white, far-off snow-dustedmountain ranges. Behind them, a long queue of vehicles. Exhaust fumes driftedon a light yet chilly breeze.

     “Passports.”

     The driver interceded, stepped forward.“No, no, these travellers do not need to show any documentation. Come, myfriend. I have something for you. A gift. From one brother to another.”

     A case of vodka. A brown envelope bulgingwith American dollars.

    Other guards strolled over. Opened abottle. Passed it around. Tangled breath cast cobwebby patterns in the air.Laughter. Long, hard. Cigarettes lighted. Impatient car horns honked. Guardscursed and flashed obscene gestures. Continued to drink, smoke, laugh, joke.

     Another long drive.

     Colder still. Sleep wouldn’t come easy.Drifting in and out of consciousness. Holding each other tight all over again.Flaky lips, dry mouths, rumbling stomachs.

     Another stop.

    More voices. No demands to exit the vehiclethis time around. The jingle of bottles clinking against each other. Morewords, conversational, convivial. Peals of laughter. Footsteps. The driver’sside door opened and slammed shut. The engine rumbled back into life.

    A much shorter drive.

    Twenty or thirty minutes, only over farrougher ground, even than before. Undulating. Steep ascents. The enginestruggled. Tubercular rasp followed by a clunking change of gear.

    The van rattled to a stop. The doors upfront clicked open and slammed shut. Padding footsteps. The side door easedopen.

     “Come, come,” said the driver, smiling andbeckoning them to disembark. “We arrive. We at camp now.”

     One overnight stay in a forest.

     Flickering flames from a campfire. Big potof food, simmering away. Delicious, meaty aromas. Other men patrolled theclearing on all sides. Armed. Statuesque. Off in the distance, the rumble andpounding of artillery shells. Every now and then, a massive explosion lit upthe night sky.

     “Ah, friends. You arrive at last.” A bigman approached them, bushy beard, open arms, dressed in military fatigues. “Itis, I, Tomaz, your tour guide. In a moment we will serve you some wholesomefood. I expect you are fatigued and ready for a good meal. Alas, the journeywas never going to be a pleasant one. You are, after all, embarking on a farfrom standard vacation.” He threw back his head and laughed. “Please, sit down,relax.”

 

If you would like toread the rest of the story, you can do so on the Blood + Honey website.

 

And if you would liketo learn more about Neil Randall’s published work, why not visit his amazonpage.

 

 

 

Neil Randall isdelighted to announce that his new short story Mirror, Mirror has justbeen published by God’s Cruel Joke literary magazine.

     A self-confessed technophobe and long-timeloather of the impertinent invasiveness associated with the telephone – fromthe ‘ring, ring, ring’ of the old-style landline device to the even moreirritating ‘bleep, bleep, bleep’ of instant messages and texts – Randall plansto start a campaign to eradicate the scourge of the mobile phone from modernlife altogether.

    Starting with his latest short storyrelease.

    On bus, train, tram, walking in the street,sitting in a kafana, either smoking the local hashish or devouring a litre ortwo of premium-strength rakija before breakfast, the barely feted author becameincreasingly repulsed by the ugly constipated way phone users gawped at theirscreens, scrunched up their faces or pouted trout-like when taking theubiquitous and truly reprehensible selfie. The oceans of wasted time scrollingthemselves to a slow, meaningless death.

    Mirror, Mirror is more than a reactionaryrant from an incredibly bitter man in short fiction form, it is a chilling warningfrom history. Read a book. Run a marathon. Make love. Just please put yourphones down.

 

Here are the openingpages of the story:

 

“Please, calm down,Casandra,” said Dr Kazmi. “And explain things to me one more time.”

      “Yesterday, I got the new ePhone 3.5 XLGenius Photo Matic Duo Enhanced handset. It’s the most modern, up-to-date phoneon the market.”

      “Yes, yes, I understood that partperfectly well. It’s the issues that you’ve been experiencing with the camerafunction that’s left me a little confused.”

     “That makes two of us. It’s been anabsolute nightmare. Whenever I take a selfie, the results are utterly horrible.I look completely deformed.”

      “But that’s probably no more than atechincal matter, due to the angle or lighting, or whether you were striking aparticularly good pose or not. I don’t think it’s anything to get upset about.”

      “But I’ve taken literally hundreds ofselfies, and all of them have made me look like a creature from the deep. Takea look if you don’t believe me.” She took the phone out of her Dolce andGabbana handbag and handed it to Kazmi. “You just need to swipe right.”

      While in his late fifties and aself-confessed technophobe, Kazmi had two grown-up daughters and knew how toscroll through photographs on a mobile device. What he wasn’t prepared for wasthe truly bizarre nature of the pictures themselves. The distortion ofCasandra’s facial features, the way her eyes appeared squinty, misaligned,almost demonic, her skin discoloured, her lips twisted into an ugly grimace,made it look as if the photographs had been tampered with, as if someone hadedited them to play a cruel practical joke on her.

      He looked up from the phone. “How odd. Itmust be some kind of malfunction with the device itself. Have you contactedcustomer support?”

      “Of course. I took the phone straightback to the store. They ran some checks. There’s absolutely nothing wrong withit. I made such a fuss, though, they gave me a replacement handset. But theresults are exactly the same.”

     “I – I see. Well, I don’t really know whatto say. Maybe it’s a case of trial and error. And you’ll just have to get usedto the new camera function.”

      Kazmi saw three other clients before theend of the day – a recovering sex addict, an unrepentant bulimic, and anoctogenarian kleptomaniac with a mild personality disorder – and although eachsession was productive, he felt distant and preoccupied throughout. He couldn’tseem to get the images captured on Casandra Gossett-Maxwell’s phone out of hismind.

     On the train home that evening, he took aseat in a busy carriage and began to discreetly people-watch. Observation hadalways been key to his methodology as a therapist. He paid close attention to aclient’s body language and mannerisms, regardless of whether it was thatall-important first session, or twenty or more sessions down the line, and italways provided certain indicators – not always red flags or causes for concern– but specific nuances nonetheless, which gave him a better insight into howtheir minds worked more than any in-depth questioning or standard psychologicalprobing.

      Almost immediately, he was drawn to ananimated conversation between a young couple sitting directly opposite him.

    “Let me see,” said the woman, trying towrest a mobile phone from, presumably, her boyfriend’s hand.

      “No, no, they’re terrible. Believe me. Welook hideous.”

     “What? They can’t be that bad. Let mesee.”

     He reluctantly gave in and handed her thephone.

      “Oh-my-God!” She chuckled as she scrolledthrough the images. “You weren’t kidding. How on earth did the pictures comeout like this? My eyes look evil. I’ve got loads of lines and wrinkles on myface. And – and your skin is green.”

     “Beats me.” The boyfriend shrugged. “Mustbe the light or something. Or maybe the camera don’t work so good if you jerkit around.”

     “No, no, it can’t be that. This is the new3.5 XL. It’s supposed to have the most advanced camera feature ever. Thesensors should compensate for any sudden movements. This looks more like aphotoshop job. Like the pictures have been put through some app or filter tomake us look as battered up as possible.”

    This struck Kazmi as almost suspiciouslycoincidental. Not just because two people were questioning the quality andintegrity of photos taken with the same model of phone as CasandraGossett-Maxwell, but that they’d come to the same conclusion he had in hisoffice earlier.

     Kazmi tried to dismiss the coincidencefrom his mind. But as he looked around the carriage, he couldn’t help butnotice that each and every commuter was staring into their phones, all furtiveand fidgety, with a vacant, gormless expression on their faces – eyes wide,tongues poking out of side of their mouths, brows furrowed, features twisted,almost pained – just like the pictures Casandra had showed him during theirsession.

If you would like toread the story in full, click on this link.

 

 

Neil Randall isdelighted to announce that his latest novel The Girl Left Behind will bepublished by Mestiza Books in the spring/summer of 2026.

      Written in the aftermath of thecoronavirus lockdown, the book is a study of identity, belonging, and theever-shifting nature of reality during such a perplexing period. For the firsttime in history, the very foundation of society was challenged in ways it hadnever been challenged before. Prior to the outbreak, citizens were led (perhapseven brainwashed) to believe that if they didn’t get up each morning and go totheir respective places of employ, the bottom would fall out of the world andeverything we had up until that moment in time known would grind to a disastroushalt.

     Only that didn’t happen.

     Working from home, furloughs,redundancies. Great swathes of the population remaining in their pyjamas all-daylong. Minimal if not zero interaction with other people. Social distancing.Grocery deliveries. Time to think, breathe, reflect.

     Some thrived, others faltered (in someextreme cases, with tragic consequences). Domestic violence. Suicide. Analarming rise in the rate alcohol consumption, alcohol-related incidents, andalcohol-related illnesses.

    Yet somehow that long year passed, and wecame out of the other side, only we’ve never really been the same since, orwill ever be again.

     Distrust of authority. Disillusionmentwith the illusory social structure that had kept people imprisoned, mentallyand physically, for their whole adult lives.

     As Leonard Cohen famously once wrote:“Everything is cracked, that’s how the light gets in.” But what happens whenpeople can’t bear to see what that crack of light reveals?

      The Girl Left Bhind answers that,and many more questions, without, ironically, arriving at any concreteresolution.

     To quote another peerless Americanwordsmith (if of a very different ilk): “When the going gets weird, the weirdturn pro.”

 

Here are the openingpages of the novel:

 

Day Two of theTrial

“BUT, MISS NEALE,” said the Chief Prosecutor, “when your rentalproperty in Norfolk was searched by the police, some hugely incriminatingevidence was found in a wardrobe. Namely, clothing belonging to the deceased,along with a wig that closely resembled the victim’s hairstyle in the lastknown photograph ever taken of her.

      “Now, the seriousness of the situationcannot be understated. We have three unexplained deaths, missing persons, afatal house fire that looks to have been started deliberately, and a whole hostof bizarre coincidences that simply don’t make any sense whatsoever. The onlycommon denominator, I’m afraid to say, is you. So, please, can you start fromthe beginning and tell the court exactly how you reconnected with Mrs NicolaPeterson after such a long time?”

     “Yes, yes, of course.” I took a series ofshort, shallow breaths to compose myself. “It was the first weekend after thelockdown ended. The first weekend non-essential shops could open andnon-essential travel was permitted. I took the train into King’s Lynn. I wantedto get out of the house, do a bit of shopping, nothing ground-breaking or tooadventurous, just something normal for a change…”

 

…AND EVERYTHING WAS going to plan. I made my way to the marketplace, where all the food stalls were set up, and took out my shopping list.That’s when I heard someone shout my name.

      “Zoe! Zoe! Is that you?”

      I didn’t immediately recognise either thevoice or the stylishly dressed woman zigzagging her way through the crowds,waving a hand high above her head. It wasn’t until she wrapped her arms aroundme and gave me a great big hug, that I realised I’d just bumped into someone Ihadn’t seen for over twenty years: my one-time best friend Nicola Peterson.

      “What are you doing here?” She took astep back and looked me up and down. “I knew it was you right away. You haven’tchanged a bit since college. So spill. What brings you back to our old stompingground?”

      “Well, I broke up with my partner inLondon and had to find somewhere else to stay. My sister Yvonne, who I’m sureyou remember, put me on to a short-term rental in a village a few miles away.I’ve lived back here for over a year now.”

      “But why on earth didn’t you look us up?Why didn’t you post something on Facebook? Every now and then I check your feedfor updates, but you’ve been quiet as a mouse for ages. Didn’t you see any ofmy messages?”

      I struggled to find an answer, certainlynot one that wouldn’t hurt her feelings – that I simply hadn’t wanted toreconnect with her and a part of my life that I didn’t feel any particularattachment to, a time, place, and people that I’d left behind long ago.

     “No, sorry. I don’t really pay that muchattention to social media. I’ve been a bit down in the dumps, a bit all overthe place since the end of my relationship. Then the virus broke out andeverything went completely crazy.”

      All of which sounded reasonable enough,and seemed to satisfy Nicola’s curiosity. She offered words of consolation andasked me all kinds of questions about the break-up itself – how long we’d beentogether, who ended things, how I’d been coping.

     “But I don’t want to bore you with all thedetails.,” I said, completely disingenuously – I’d just stood in the middle ofthe market place and described the whole anatomy of the break-up, and howhard-done-by I’d felt ever since. “What about you and Simon? You are stilltogether, right? How long’s it been now – twenty-five years or something?”

     Her face dropped. She lowered her eyes andshifted uncomfortably.

     “You haven’t heard? Si…Si’s dead.”

 

If you like whatyou’ve read so far, why not visit Neil Randall’s Amazon page and take a look athis published works to date.

 

 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.