Dominic Brownlow

 

Dominic lives near Peterborough with his children. He worked in the music industry as a manager before setting up his own independent label.

 

His debut novel The Naseby Horses was published in December 2019. 

Dominic tweets @DominicBrownlow

Dom's favourite novel is Climbers by M John Harrison, and his favourite novella is Grief is the Thing with Feathers by Max Porter. His top poets are John Cooper Clarke and Nigel Blackwell.

The Naseby Horses

Dominic Brownlow

Published in hardback and ebook on 5 December 2019. The paperback will be published on 24th August 2020... but early signed copies are available on my website here

The audio book is on its way...

And please enjoy Dom's launch party almost rant about all things indie... ! And here he is on BBC Radio Lincolnshire on Thursday 11 June 2020. Listen from 1:13:50!

Page 100 of The Naseby Horses...

    Mum leans forward, towards the glass, seemingly oblivious to what I just said, her eyes narrowing as she

spots something on the windowsill. ‘Not if it’s a view from the house, no,’ she says impassively. ‘I think it’s always been here.’

         She takes a tissue from her sleeve, wipes a dead fly from the ledge and drops it into the bin beside the desk.

      I run my fingers over the rash on my neck. It feels hot and dry. ‘Do you know what it means?’ I say.

        ‘It’s just a painting, Simon,’ she tells me.

        ‘What happened to them?’ I ask. ‘To the family that used to live here?’

        She doesn’t answer, and together we spend the next few minutes looking out across the fields, our silence far more conspicuous than either of us would ever concede. The copse is now almost fully defined against the horizon, where a single fray of bright red cloud has floated up from the other side of the earth. A muntjac, gaunt and sandy brown, appears from behind a hedge at the top of the farm track, by the edge of the rape field. It stops dead, as though it has spotted something in the distance, or is, perhaps, aware that it has been spotted by us, and waits absolutely still for a few seconds, legs bandy and awkward, before darting off. Across the fields, pinkish in the quiet glow of dawn, birds are stirring over a distant wood, scarring the air as though the last remaining flakes of night.

      ‘He died,’ Mum says. ‘She was moved to the old people’s home eleven or twelve years ago, I think, but still owned the house. It came up for sale last year.’

      ‘The Home here in the village?’ I ask, even though I know the answer.