Neil Randall is
delighted to announce that his latest novel The Girl Left Behind will be
published by Mestiza Books in the spring/summer of 2026.
Written in the aftermath of the
coronavirus lockdown, the book is a study of identity, belonging, and the
ever-shifting nature of reality during such a perplexing period. For the first
time in history, the very foundation of society was challenged in ways it had
never been challenged before. Prior to the outbreak, citizens were led (perhaps
even brainwashed) to believe that if they didn’t get up each morning and go to
their respective places of employ, the bottom would fall out of the world and
everything we had up until that moment in time known would grind to a disastrous
halt.
Only that didn’t happen.
Working from home, furloughs,
redundancies. Great swathes of the population remaining in their pyjamas all-day
long. Minimal if not zero interaction with other people. Social distancing.
Grocery deliveries. Time to think, breathe, reflect.
Some thrived, others faltered (in some
extreme cases, with tragic consequences). Domestic violence. Suicide. An
alarming rise in the rate alcohol consumption, alcohol-related incidents, and
alcohol-related illnesses.
Yet somehow that long year passed, and we
came out of the other side, only we’ve never really been the same since, or
will ever be again.
Distrust of authority. Disillusionment
with the illusory social structure that had kept people imprisoned, mentally
and 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 when
people 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 concrete
resolution.
To quote another peerless American
wordsmith (if of a very different ilk): “When the going gets weird, the weird
turn pro.”
Here are the opening
pages of the novel:
Day Two of the
Trial
“BUT, MISS NEALE,” said the Chief Prosecutor, “when your rental
property in Norfolk was searched by the police, some hugely incriminating
evidence was found in a wardrobe. Namely, clothing belonging to the deceased,
along with a wig that closely resembled the victim’s hairstyle in the last
known photograph ever taken of her.
“Now, the seriousness of the situation
cannot be understated. We have three unexplained deaths, missing persons, a
fatal house fire that looks to have been started deliberately, and a whole host
of bizarre coincidences that simply don’t make any sense whatsoever. The only
common denominator, I’m afraid to say, is you. So, please, can you start from
the beginning and tell the court exactly how you reconnected with Mrs Nicola
Peterson after such a long time?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” I took a series of
short, shallow breaths to compose myself. “It was the first weekend after the
lockdown ended. The first weekend non-essential shops could open and
non-essential travel was permitted. I took the train into King’s Lynn. I wanted
to get out of the house, do a bit of shopping, nothing ground-breaking or too
adventurous, just something normal for a change…”
…AND EVERYTHING WAS going to plan. I made my way to the market
place, 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 the
voice 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 around
me and gave me a great big hug, that I realised I’d just bumped into someone I
hadn’t seen for over twenty years: my one-time best friend Nicola Peterson.
“What are you doing here?” She took a
step back and looked me up and down. “I knew it was you right away. You haven’t
changed a bit since college. So spill. What brings you back to our old stomping
ground?”
“Well, I broke up with my partner in
London and had to find somewhere else to stay. My sister Yvonne, who I’m sure
you 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 feed
for updates, but you’ve been quiet as a mouse for ages. Didn’t you see any of
my messages?”
I struggled to find an answer, certainly
not one that wouldn’t hurt her feelings – that I simply hadn’t wanted to
reconnect with her and a part of my life that I didn’t feel any particular
attachment to, a time, place, and people that I’d left behind long ago.
“No, sorry. I don’t really pay that much
attention to social media. I’ve been a bit down in the dumps, a bit all over
the place since the end of my relationship. Then the virus broke out and
everything went completely crazy.”
All of which sounded reasonable enough,
and seemed to satisfy Nicola’s curiosity. She offered words of consolation and
asked me all kinds of questions about the break-up itself – how long we’d been
together, who ended things, how I’d been coping.
“But I don’t want to bore you with all the
details.,” I said, completely disingenuously – I’d just stood in the middle of
the market place and described the whole anatomy of the break-up, and how
hard-done-by I’d felt ever since. “What about you and Simon? You are still
together, right? How long’s it been now – twenty-five years or something?”
Her face dropped. She lowered her eyes and
shifted uncomfortably.
“You haven’t heard? Si…Si’s dead.”
If you like what
you’ve read so far, why not visit Neil Randall’s Amazon page and take a look at
his published works to date.
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